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Often, Daeron wonders what would have happened had he stayed at his mother’s side. Had he been raised in the halls of dragons alongside his brothers and sister. Mostly he’s not thinking about royal titles or bloodlines or noble houses, when he lets his mind wander this way. He’s not thinking about a crown and who’s going to wear it, a throne and who’s going to sit it. Mostly, he’s thinking about what it would have been like to be raised with love.
Not that he’s lacking in it, per se. He has Tessarion, whom he loves above all things, no matter what Ormund says about that. He has Gwayne, upon occasion. Less, these days, but when he was younger his uncle would run around the yard with him, play pirates and put on shows and pretend they were something else. He has Ormund, too, he supposes, but his feelings on that have always been complicated.
Ormund does not like him. Does not like the Targaryen-ness of him. Regardless of whether or not he’s turned out like his brothers– half mad, Ormund calls them, one a stupid drunk and the other a bloodthirsty rogue– or his sister– Ormund does not speak of her at all– he is still a Targaryen. He is still, in his guardian’s eyes, as wrong as the rest of them. He is lucky that he has his mother’s hair, else Ormund would likely shave it off.
If Ormund had his way, Daeron is sure, every last bit of Targaryen in him would be gone. Once, when both he and Tessarion were much smaller, Ormund made a joke about drowning the dragon and being done with it there. It was not Tessarion that snapped at his hand when he reached for her, though; it was the first time Daeron had ever wielded a blade. Nothing more than a cutting knife for dinner, but still. Tessarion had trilled and Daeron, all of five years old, had not said a word. That was the last Ormund spoke of dead dragons, though he did his best to keep Daeron from growing too close.
As if such a thing were possible. As if he could be kept from the other half of himself by the words of a man who knew nothing of dragons. Ormund remained ignorant of the ways of Old Valyria, for the most part, and thus so did Daeron. But he does not need to be a learned scholar of the ancient texts to know the bond between dragon and rider is more sacred than any other.
When Aegon takes the throne, Ormund scoffs. “I give it a week,” he says, as if Daeron has not just learned of his father’s death. Not that Viserys was a father, really, Daeron could count on one hand the number of times he’s met the man. Still, it stings. Privately, he wonders whose doing it was, putting Aegon on the throne. Otto, maybe, who writes to Oldtown regularly but who Ormund rarely responds to. His mother, perhaps, if she’s anything like Ormund is. But perhaps not, if she’s anything like Gwayne. Either way, he knows what Aegon’s crowning means. Most likely, there will be war within the Targaryen house and the rest of the world will pay the price. Rhaenyra will not take kindly to the slight, many will die, someone will end up on the throne, Daeron doesn’t care who. It won’t be him.
Then Ormund puts a sword in his hands and tells him he will be king.
Daeron does not want to be king. Daeron doesn’t even want to be a prince, really. If he could, he’d get on Tessarion’s back and fly as far away as possible, away from courtly politics and occupied cities and Ormund Hightower. But he can’t do that, because while he lives in metaphorical chains, Tessarion lives in literal ones. Ormund has the only set of keys, and while Tessarion is likely strong enough to burn through the metal now, they’d have to fight their way through Tumbleton to make their escape. Daeron will not risk her life for that. He can live with this. He’s always lived with this.
He can see it coming, now. Shortly before Ormund decides he will be king, Daeron stands off to the side in his guardian’s chambers in the perfect rest position that’s been drilled into him. He watches Ormund unfurl the latest message and he can see it in the way Ormund goes still, what’s going to happen next. He has maybe half a minute to prevent the needless bloodshed that is all-too-common when Ormund gets upset.
“Get out,” he hisses to the serving boy. Get out get out get out because that’s what he wants to do, but he knows Ormund won’t actually swing at him with a sword, and he knows this boy will not be so lucky. He’s seen it happen before– Ormund doesn’t target them, maybe, but if they’re in the way it doesn’t matter. They’ll be taken to the maesters or taken to a grave. He doesn’t know which group is luckier. He tries to save them, if he can. Get out get out get out. Maybe it’s something in his eyes, the desperation in his voice, but the other boy runs as Ormund draws his sword. Slams it down into the table once, twice, on and on.
Daeron flinches even though he knows it’s coming. He hasn’t trained that reflex out of himself yet. Ormund yells at him for it, sometimes, when he sees. Most of the time he’s too far gone with whatever rage is coursing through him to notice anything else around him. And he calls Targaryens savages.
When he’s not wondering what it would have been like if he’d been raised a Targaryen, Daeron wonders what it would have been like if he’d been raised as Gwayne’s ward, not Ormund’s. Gwayne is the closest thing he has to his mother and probably the closest thing he has to a father. Ormund could paint himself fatherly, pretend he’s a mentor, but mostly when Daeron thinks of Ormund he thinks of a captor. Ormund is different, when Gwayne is around, on his best behavior because he knows Gwayne will write to Alicent and Alicent will raise all hells, even from afar. Daeron looks forward to Gwayne’s visits almost as much as he looks forward to flying. He’ll ask about his uncle and Ormund will hum, low and threatening, enough of a warning for Daeron to drop it for another few months.
Gwayne is not like Ormund. Gwayne is ferocious, yes, and clever, but he’s also kind. Ormund doesn’t have a drop of kindness in his blood. Daeron knows it, and knows better than to speak on it. Tessarion knows it, too, and while Tessarion can’t speak, she can growl. She can wrap her body around Daeron’s and her hums are lower than Ormund’s, more threatening than Ormund’s. Daeron never feels as safe as he does with Tessarion, the other half of his soul. She growls and snaps and he can see the fire building in her throat, when she looks at Ormund, and it’s only Daeron’s word that calms her, only Daeron’s word that keeps her from incinerating the lot of them.
She doesn’t like the other keepers. She doesn’t like anyone, really, except for Daeron. She’s loyal to him, she protects him. She darts toward Ormund, pulls on her chains, and Ormund steps back because no matter how much he hates her, he’s still scared of her. She would kill him if Daeron asked her to, or if she really thought Daeron were in danger. It’s enough to keep Ormund in line. It’s enough. It’s enough.
Someday Daeron will take to the skies on her back again. Maybe he’ll have the bravery to fly away. Maybe there will be a day when Ormund slams his sword down on a table and Daeron doesn’t flinch. Maybe there will be a day when Ormund puts a sword in his hand and he doesn’t swing it. Maybe there will be a day when he lets Tessarion protect him the way she wants to. Maybe there will be a day when he lets the Targaryen in him overwhelm everything else and then he will be free. Maybe. Maybe.
Maybe there will be a day when he will be king. He hopes not. In a basement lit by candles and not dragonfire, a man who should be free is shoved to his knees. Ormund puts the sword in Daeron’s hands and he lunges, and Tessarion finishes the job without Daeron having to say anything at all.