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Far from being disturbed, a rare, unfamiliar sense of calm envelops Daeron’s chest—a quiet shelter he has seldom known throughout his life. After all, who could ever live a peaceful existence under the guardianship of a man like his uncle?
It has always been this way. Walking on eggshells, carefully weighing every word—lest he earn a slap to the face or a rod across his knuckles for uttering the wrong thing, or simply crossing his caretaker’s fragile temper.
Is this the future his sweet mother would have wanted for him? Something tells him—in the stillness of his sleepless nights, tucked under the covers up to his chin—that it isn’t. His mother would have wished for something different, something sweeter and far less painful. Or at least, that’s what he tries to tell himself when the weight grows too heavy and madness creeps into his thoughts after a long, bitter day. He refuses to succumb to those Targaryen ways, as Ormund would call them. Vile and twisted. A madness woven into silver strands that, thankfully, never claimed his own hair. Daeron is everything a Hightower ought to be.
Yet it’s never enough.
Not for himself. Not for Ormund. Nor for Gwayne.
Whatever he says is always wrong. Flatter one, and he wounds the other. Join in Ormund’s game, and Gwayne ends up hurt. But align himself with Gwayne’s conspiratorial glances behind his Sire’s back, and the simmering rage in Ormund’s eyes pits itself directly against his own conscience.
The words they exchanged still echo in his mind.
He feels as though, even without saying it outright, Gwayne called him a coward to his face. A boy with a massive dragon—a sacred weapon resting in his hands—and yet entirely powerless before the iron grip of a Lord. He doesn’t know his brothers, but Daeron is certain they would laugh at the farce of an heir he has become.
King of nothing.
He’s merely Daeron Targaryen, more Hightower than the dragon blood flowing through his veins. Powerless against Ormund’s firm hand, which shapes him like a puppet to satisfy whatever fantasies he conceives. There is no rebellion in him, no boldness, nothing that could mend what he is. Nor is he the image of an honorable knight from the tales he loved as a child.
He’s far from it. He’s only a weak squire, crawling on his knees for a crumb of affection, of protection, of love amidst the cruelty of the man who raised him with more effort than he ever spared his own children.
Gwayne said it himself. Daeron is his treasure. He hates the way his heart throbs heavily at those words. Because it matters. He matters to someone in a world filled with abandonment. Everyone leaves, but Ormund has stayed. And Daeron is only…
His hands clench at his sides, forming fists that are simultaneously weak and unyielding—a contradiction born of a harsh upbringing warring against the softness of his nature. He has tried so hard to mold himself into the knight his uncle demands him to be, yet his efforts never seem to bear fruit.
Ormund waits for him on the other side of the room, right after Daeron finishes assisting his uncle Gwayne with his bath.
He returns to his guardian carrying the scent of herbs and flowers, acutely aware of the bitterness that will consume them both if a single aroma displeases his Sire. He hopes to be received with quiet approval, but as he steps into the room, he finds Ormund with his back turned, staring at trifles—as though Daeron were not even worthy of his gaze.
“Are you done assisting your uncle, Your Grace?”
He can’t fathom why Ormund uses the title—there is no one else in the room with them. There is no audience here, no reason to pretend.
“I am, My Lord,” Daeron replies, his voice steadying itself through sheer force of habit, catching on the subtle tremor he knows Ormund will hate. He keeps his head bowed just enough to show deference, his eyes fixed on the fine weave of the rug beneath his boots.
Ormund doesn’t turn immediately. The silence stretches between them. It’s a familiar cruelty—this calculated delay. A reminder that Daeron’s existence is defined entirely by when Ormund chooses to acknowledge him.
"He was... cooperative?" Ormund’s voice is measured, devoid of warmth, yet laced with that quiet, terrifying authority that always makes Daeron’s stomach knot into tight, painful loops.
"He was… tired," Daeron says carefully. "The bath eased his tension. He asked for nothing more."
A soft, dry hum escapes Ormund’s throat. Finally, he turns, his sharp, penetrating gaze sweeping over Daeron, taking in the posture, the scent of lavender and floral oils lingering on his clothes, the lingering hesitation in his hands.
"You smell of his bathwaters," Ormund observes, his tone turning cooler, a faint curl of disdain touching the corner of his lips, and he takes a step forward, closing the distance between them with slow strides until he stands directly in front of the boy. "You pamper him as if he were a delicate thing, Daeron. As if you were desperate to get away from my presence—running straight to his."
Daeron swallows hard, the accusation stinging more than it should. His knuckles turn white as he tightens his fists at his sides, fighting the urge to flinch. "I only meant to fulfill my duties, uncle. You told me—"
"Your duty is to me," Ormund cuts him off, and he doesn’t need to shout but to offer some lethal precision he always strikes with. He reaches out, his large, calloused hand coming to rest on Daeron’s shoulder. The touch is heavy. “Gwayne, as you must know by now, is a man of… disturbed inclinations. He is hardly the sort of example I wish to see near you. I have tolerated it over the years, but you are a small child no longer.”
Daeron swallows hard. He is no child, yet Ormund treats him like one whenever it serves his purpose.
It’s a contradiction Daeron will never truly understand.
“I know not what you mean, Sire.”
“Oh, but you do.” The words come accompanied by a delicate touch against his chin. Ormund cups his jaw as though handling something fragile—an innocent gesture of affection that Daeron knows carries the weight of an anvil. It isn’t the first time he has done so, yet Daeron’s heart never fails to race beneath the heavy burden of his uncle’s hands upon his skin. Fear bleeds into a desperate longing for love, giving birth to a tremor he can’t hide. Satisfaction dances in the Lord’s pale eyes.
“You always play the innocent when it suits you, my boy,” Ormund murmurs, his thumb brushing over the soft plane of Daeron’s cheekbone with a slow, agonizing pressure. It feels almost tender, if not for the underlying grip that holds Daeron’s head perfectly still, trapping his gaze. “It’s a dangerous habit. Innocence in a King makes no sense—it feels like deceit.”
Daeron swallows hard. He can feel the man’s breath like a feverish cascade against his skin, a promise that smothers every ember of rage stirring within him whenever the pain of his upbringing grows too heavy to bear. There is something that always draws him back to this shelter—in his own mind—and not even Gwayne’s sharp words can change that.
“I don’t lie, Sire—I swear it.”
“I would hate to see you curdle into a pathetic, lonely knight, seeking comfort in the beds and shadows of other men as he does. Surely that comes as no surprise to you?”
Daeron freezes just as his lungs lock against the weight of the insinuation. He knows what Ormund is speaking of—the whispers that follow Gwayne like a shadow, the quiet, cruel jokes shared behind closed doors in Oldtown about his uncle’s total lack of interest in women and the company he keeps when he thinks no one is watching.
Ormund’s thumb pauses against Daeron’s skin, resting over the rapid flutter of his pulse near his jaw. His gaze is sharp, analytical, watching the way color drains from the boy’s face.
"You knew," Ormund states softly. It isn’t a question—not really. "Or did you think his late nights and soft manners were merely the eccentricities of an unmarried son? Gwayne is a flawed creature, Daeron. Twisted by appetites that have no place in a true leader. A man who surrenders to such urges is a man who cannot govern himself."
The grip on his chin tightens just enough to enforce the silence, the blunt pressure anchoring Daeron to the spot.
"I have kept you away from his influence for a reason," Ormund continues, his voice dropping into that smooth, paternal hum that always makes Daeron feel stripped bare. "A boy of your nature... impressionable, soft-hearted, hungry for a father’s approval... you are easy prey for men like him. Men who wrap their perversions in sympathy and brotherhood."
Daeron tries to swallow the bile rising in his throat.
(He’s my uncle, he wants to scream.
He’s my mother’s brother.)
But the words die behind his teeth, suffocated by the terrifying conviction in Ormund’s eyes. Ormund isn't just warning him; he’s defining the world for him, painting Gwayne as a predator and himself as a sole protector.
It makes no sense—especially not when Ormund’s hand tightens around his neck like the venomous grip of a serpent. It cuts off his breath, leaving him limp in his arms like some helpless damsel, rather than the King he wishes him to be. The blood drains from his face, leaving him pale.
Ormund’s dilated pupils match his own.
His breath is warm, mingling with Daeron's.
“He would never…”
“So, that’s why I ask, my boy. Did you merely assist Gwayne with a simple bath—or did something else occur that I ought to know about?”
Daeron’s mind stalls, a terrifying numbness spreading outward from the iron grip around his throat. He wants to pull air into his lungs, but the squeeze is right there—not enough to crush his windpipe, but just enough to remind him that his breath belongs to Ormund. Always Ormund.
His eyes widen, searching his uncle’s face, searching for a trace of the guardian who raised him, only to find a dark, unyielding... obsession. One that might mirror his own, if he were to stare at himself in the mirror. Obsession for the tenderness and appreciation he might receive from the only man he knows to love him—unguardedly, unyielding, infinite.
“N-Nothing happened,” Daeron chokes out, the words thin and raspy as they scrape past his constricted throat. His hands hover near Ormund’s wrist, instincts screaming at him to pry the fingers off, but something holds him back. To fight back would be rebellion. To fight back would prove he’s the wild, unruled dragon Ormund always warned him against becoming. “I swear it, Sire... I only... I only poured the water.”
Ormund doesn’t release him. Instead, his thumb shifts to press against the pulse jumping frantically beneath Daeron’s skin, feeling the frantic rhythm of the boy’s heart. He tilts his head, studying Daeron’s distress with the cool, sickening satisfaction of a master testing the limits of a blade.
“You swear it?” Ormund’s voice drops to a lethal whisper, his face so close that Daeron can feel the dry heat radiating from his lips. “Because men like Gwayne—broken, hollow men—feed on innocence like yours. They see a boy starving for a gentle word and they twist it. They make you think their sickness is affection. Is that what he did, Daeron? Did he offer you affection?”
A hot tear slips down Daeron’s cheek, cutting a path through the pale, bloodless skin of his face. He shakes his head as best he can within the vice of his uncle’s grip.
(Gwayne called me a coward. Gwayne called me your treasure. Gwayne told me I was weak.)
But he can’t say those things to Ormund. To speak Gwayne’s words would be to admit that the veil has been lifted, that he knows what he truly is in this house: a puppet dressed in Hightower green and Targaryen blood.
“He only spoke of the war, My Lord,” Daeron says, his voice trembling violently. Then… the truth comes out: “He said... he said I was your treasure.”
The grip around his neck vanishes so suddenly that Daeron stumbles forward, gasping greedily for air as his knees give out. He catches himself on the edge of the dark oak table, his breath coming in jagged, desperate hitches. His throat aches where Ormund’s fingers had held him fast, a dull, throbbing reminder of how easily his life could be snuffed out.
Above him, Ormund’s expression softens into that terrifying, paternal warmth—the sudden shift in mood that always leaves Daeron dizzy with whiplash. The Lord steps forward, reaching down to gently pat Daeron’s shoulder, brushing away the tear on his cheek with the back of his hand as if he hadn't just been choking him a second before.
“And so you are,” Ormund says smoothly, his voice filled with a sickening tenderness. “My finest creation. That’s why I protect you so fiercely, my boy. Why I must guard you from the rot that infects the rest of your family.”
Daeron nods, because what else can he do? Gwayne might call it fawning—but it’s all he’s ever known. It’s how he survives. How he receives the love he yearns for in the wickedness of the world.
His world. Ormund, for better or for worse.
He does not let him go. Daeron’s hands, whether by instinct or something far more twisted, cling to the fabric of his uncle’s doublet like a puppy nipping at its mother. He anchors himself to him with the desperation of a drowning man, yet there is no time for regret. Only a vulnerability bordering on madness, trapping him in the role of the puppet he so deeply hates being—the only shell he has ever truly known.
“He will leave, won’t he? I asked him to stay…” He shakes his head weakly. The words taste bitter against his tongue.
It’s a humiliating truth to bear, yet a quiet, desperate part of him hungers to prove to Ormund that Gwayne’s words hold no sway over him—that no poison could ever turn him against his guardian. It isn’t because Daeron remains blind to the danger in Ormund’s touch, nor because his heart lacked honesty when he pleaded with Gwayne moments ago. But he can’t turn his back on the only place he has ever known. He can’t bear to lose the single man who has stayed.
“I’m sorry I asked him, Sire. I’m sorry,” Daeron breathes, his voice barely a whisper, raw with an aching desire for something. “I don’t need him… I only need you to tell me I am doing this right.”
(Lies. It’s all lies.)
Because Daeron knows. He knows Ormund’s plans make no sense—that they are pure madness. Daeron will never be king, and more likely than not, they will all end up dead beneath the wrath of his wrathful half-sister. But a part of him longs to believe that only he and Ormund exist in this room, in this single moment, within this nest built in the Hightower and now in Tumbleton. Only the two of them.
Daeron has wished for things to be different—that his mother had never sent him away, that he hadn't been alienatingly severed from his own family. Yet he resents and loves Ormund in equal measure. He wonders if that makes him just as twisted as the man himself.
Ormund only smiles. It’s a gesture Daeron recognizes, though he could never associate it with joy as anyone else might. When his uncle smiles, something dangerous stirs in the shift of his features, in the gleam of his eyes. Daeron analyzes every micro-expression—the only map he possesses to tell him whether he’s safe or not.
“You are doing it right, my boy,” Ormund whispers, his thumb tracing the sharp contour of Daeron’s jaw once more—a slow, possessive stroke that feels almost like a reward. The sharp edge in his eyes softens just enough to offer the illusion of safety. “You are doing precisely what is required of a King who must rise above the weakness of his blood.”
He shifts closer, leaning down until his shadow completely swallows Daeron, his voice dipping into that low, intoxicating resonance reserved only for moments of absolute control. Despite his height, Daeron feels completely encompassed—swallowed whole by Ormund’s presence.
“Gwayne is far gone in the battlefield, Daeron. He wanders now looking for a reason to surrender, trying to drag you down into the mire with him. But you… you were made for more than that.”
Ormund reaches up, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair away from Daeron’s forehead with deliberate, agonizing gentleness—a touch so warm and quiet it makes the boy’s chest ache with that bitter, conflicting love. “You were made
for me to see you crowned. Beautiful. A Hightower King.”
The sound of it makes him want to vomit. Yet he doesn’t release his grip on his uncle, his fingers clutching the fabric of the man’s clothes with the lingering vestige of a submission beaten into him—both figuratively and literally.
“I’m not meant to be King, uncle.”
He awaits a reprimand. He’s indeed such a fool, unable to keep the words to himself even in a moment this intimate—one he worked so hard to build.
Yet far from turning angry, Ormund’s face remains serene. And with that serenity, he rests his forehead against Daeron's, his eyes closed as they share the same breath. Daeron feels himself pressed tighter against the wood behind him with every passing second, but for the first time, he notices his uncle’s arm wrapping around his waist—a hold almost as possessive as the hand cupping his jaw.
“None of us are meant for the burden we carry, Daeron,” Ormund breathes against his skin, his voice a low, reverent murmur. The arm around Daeron’s waist tightens just a fraction, anchoring him completely, leaving no space for air—or doubt—between them. “Crowns are not given to those who ask for them. They are placed upon those who are worthy of being shaped.”
He doesn’t open his eyes immediately, savoring the shuddering rhythm of Daeron’s breath against his chest, the helpless stillness of a boy completely trapped within his orbit. When Ormund finally opens his eyes, his pale gaze is unyielding.
“Do not confuse your modesty with incompetence, my boy. You were not born to wander in the shadows like Gwayne, nor to burn in the madness of your brothers. You were given to me so I might refine you. So I might make you what the Realm truly needs.”
Ormund’s hand slides slowly from his jaw to the nape of his neck, his thumb pressing firmly against the base of Daeron’s skull—a touch that demands absolute alignment, tilting the boy’s face up just enough to ensure there is no escape from his words.
“You don’t have to desire it. You only have to obey me,” Ormund whispers, his lips brushing the shell of Daeron’s ear with a dark, suffocating affection. “Let me carry the weight of our vision. You only need to be my King.”
Daeron freezes, the words catching in his throat, yet he nods. Ormund remains entirely blind—or perhaps utterly indifferent—to the monster staring back at him in the mirror, so perhaps Daeron ought to be too. If only to survive another day.
“Yes, Sire.”
“And stay away from Gwayne,” Ormund adds, his tone smooth yet laced with that lethal warning. “I detest the scent of him on you.”
The hold breaks, and he’s released—for real this time. Cold air immediately rushes into the space between them, filling the void his uncle leaves behind. As Ormund turns his back to him, stepping away as though nothing had happened, Daeron can only close his eyes and silently pray to the Father and the Mother to have mercy on his soul.