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Gwayne suspects there is nothing in the world Ormund loathes more than fire-breathing beasts, yet for such a self-avowed hater, his cousin is as volatile as fire, and truth be told, his mood swings may prove to be even more destructive. In short, no amount of training as a knight in the City Watch was ever enough to prepare him for what awaits him at home. 

It is under the watch of the Hightower and the light of the Seven that he arrives, just a little after sunset. Soldiers and servants alike surround him from the moment he enters, and it takes him a considerable time to finally dismiss them. Life in King’s Landing as a Ser is far from lacking in luxury, pampering, and coddling, especially as the Queen Consort’s brother and the son of the Hand of the King, but it pales in comparison to what it is like in Oldtown. 

He vastly prefers the former, as it affords him autonomy, privacy, and, well, room to breathe away from praying rooms. 

Just before the last maid disappears down the corridor back to her chores, Gwayne catches her attention with a whistle. 

“One last thing, my dear,” he says, taking a step forward, the sound of his boots echoing through the now-empty hall. “My nephew Daeron. Could you tell me where he is?”

It seems to catch the maid off guard. She stammers, nervously fidgeting with her fingertips.

“The young prince is already in his chambers by now, Ser. I…” She pauses to take a look around. “We were told not to disturb him until dawn. I believe Lord Hightower has just finished assisting him,” she adds, in a tone of suspicion.

She bows, turns, and runs off before he can say anything else. But then, even if he had had the time, he would not have known what to say. 

Gwayne blinks, somewhat confused. He is fairly certain that by ‘Lord Hightower’ the maid meant Ormund, but what a strange way to put it. What did Ormund assist him with? It is too late to train with swords, and he doubts that Ormund is the one who practices swordplay with the boy, so he dismisses the option right away. 

Ser Gwayne shakes his head, stifling a sigh, and moves toward his nephew’s room. 

It is too damn early in his visit to feel stressed, but Ormund has always had a way of making him more overwhelmed at home than at work. Now that he thinks better of it, Ormund has a knack for absolutely everything, and certainly, his guardianship of a Targaryen prince would be no exception. 

He remembers years ago, when Daeron barely reached his knees, and he chose which room would be his in Oldtown. That day, his eyes were still red from crying, and he was clutching Gwayne’s cloak so tightly that his little hand was trembling. Where will Tessarion sleep?, he had asked, loud enough only for his uncle to hear. It had been decided that the female dragon would be kept in the dungeon, properly chained, and not a single Hightower or septon in Oldtown wanted to hear a single word about it. 

The boy ended up choosing the room closest to his companion, obviously.

That was hardly the end of the matter, since Gwayne’s cousin is quite fond of complaining.

He knocks on the door and waits. 

He hears a rustling inside, followed by rapid footsteps. 

A beat later, a thin, apprehensive voice answers.

“Y-Yes?” Comes the boy’s voice, as shy as on the last day he saw him. 

The knight smiles, placing his hands on his hips.

“It is your uncle Gwayne, my prince. Would you grant me the honor of your presence?” He puts on that courtly accent – a bit awkward, really, but he wants to sound nice, funny, whatever. It has been a long time since Gwayne was able to interact with his nephew – or anyone, as a matter of fact; the journey from King’s Landing to Oldtown is a long, long one, and on top of that very lonely. 

The very next second, the door is yanked open, and Gwayne staggers backward under the weight suddenly thrown against his body. Daeron wraps his arms around him, squeezing him tightly.

He returns the tight hug, running his still-gloved hand through the hair of his nephew, whose head is buried in his cloak. It stirs up old memories of a timid boy with a gentle voice and only gentler things to say. 

The candlelight inside Daeron’s room is the only source of light. Amidst laughter, he steals a glance into the young lad’s room without letting go of the hug. It is just as organized as every other time he visited, and just as Gwayne fixes his gaze on the short blade leaning against a wall, he is stopped by a shrill, muffled sound.

“Daeron?” He calls out, lowering his head to take a look at him. At this very instant, Ser Gwayne’s eyes widen. He runs his hands through Daeron’s hair again, unable to believe it. It is… auburn red, as if he had plunged his head into a bucket of honey. He calls the boy’s name again, but to no avail. He can hear it more clearly now, the sound of crying, albeit suppressed. “Come on, lad. It is alright,” he whispers, picking the boy up effortlessly. Even though he has grown since the last time they saw each other, he is still small, and Gwayne is strong. 

He carries him into the chambers, closing the door behind them with a simple kick. 

Daeron’s body is rigid in his grasp, and the moment Gwayne sets him down, the boy raises his hands to cover his face, muffling sobs that, though quiet, seem on the verge of spiraling out of control. 

At a loss as to what to do, Gwayne crouches beside him. 

He considers what Alicent would do in his place, what his sweetling of a younger sister would do to soothe her child in distress. Until he remembers Alicent. Queen Alicent. The woman who sent the boy away in the first place and ignored his screaming for her – I have my reasons, brother, she had said all those years ago, looking away, perhaps if you were a mother you would be able to understand why I do the things I do. The same woman who, at the mention of her children, lets her expression fall and shrugs. Alicent, whom he never saw lifting a finger to stop their father from slapping her eldest as much as he pleased.

Yeah, perhaps considering King’s Landing Alicent is the worst he could do in the situation at hand.

So instead, he recalls his Alicent.

“Hey, lad,” he says, low and gentle, in the same tone a young Alicent once used. He touches the boy’s arms slowly, attempting to lightly put them down. Gwayne catches a glimpse of Daeron’s pale blue eyes. Despite the fat tears, he is staring at him with a furrowed brow. Suspicious of him, then. “Do I look that awful?” Gwayne laughs, stroking his nephew’s arms. “I knew the trip had been hard on me, but to the point of being greeted like this by my favorite nephew? Why, I am at shame. Do I stink, my prince?”

His question lingers in the air. 

Daeron’s hands lower further, clearly revealing the young lad’s eyes now; he appears confused, though the weeping persists. When Gwayne repeats the question, he slowly shakes his head.

“I must be stained with the red of the nymph I met on the road, then!” He exclaims, laughing again. The crying subsides until it turns into very small sobs and sniffles. He is well aware that his nephew is no longer young to the point of falling for foolish tales, but it seems the absurdity of Gwayne’s attempt distracts him enough to calm him down. Daeron shakes his head once again. “You will tell me what happened to make you so sad to see me then?”

Daeron inhales and exhales deeply. A bit of snot escapes his nose, which he quickly wipes away with his sleeve. He swallows hard and finally nods.

“Forgive me, Ser,” Daeron says, far too firmly for his age, keeping his arms locked at his side. Now that Gwayne can see his face fully, he takes a good look at it. Except for his eyes, Daeron is the spitting image of his mother. The worried expression he wears now is the same to the one Alicent had whenever Otto was hovering nearby. It almost causes Gwayne to smile again. If not for the swollen red, almost purple, mark on the boy’s cheekbone, perhaps he would have. “I am not sad at all. I did not mean to unsettle you. I just… missed you. A lot,” the boy adds.

Training must be grueling for him, as it is for every young squire. Gwayne sure remembers what it is like to have his body covered in bruises from blows with wooden swords, yet he still thinks striking the lad on the face is a bit much. He cannot recall anything of the sort happening to him. It is a shame Daeron will never get to be his squire.

“Fair enough,” the knight says, rising. Standing in the light of the room, he can see the pale roots of Daeron’s hair. Gwayne swallows hard, restraining himself from touching the strands of hair. A good portion of them are vivid orange, almost the color of a freshly lit bonfire, while others are darker, like a tree trunk in autumn. Few still retain their original color, the whitish hue of Targaryen hair. “Decided to change your look?”

His question seems to leave Daeron confused. He raises an eyebrow – Gwayne takes note that both are still white. He opens his mouth, then something like realization flashes in his eyes and he goes quiet again, turning his head to side.

“One could say that,” he says, disheartened. 

It is difficult to deal with the youth.

Gwayne was once young; he recalls how hard it was to be so, and how harder his father Otto’s gaze could be. Today, he prays that some of that youth capable of resisting the censure of someone as powerful as Otto Hightower still remains within him. In case it is not, then there is ample room to question his oath as a knight.

It is safe for him to assume Daeron is going through that phenomenon dreaded by all sires: puberty. When it was Gwayne’s turn to go through it, he, too, had a desire of trying to change his appearance. Of course, back then, the most he could do was hand a pair of scissors to Alicent and ask the Seven that she would not leave him looking worse than he already felt – it turned out she was hardly the hairdresser. 

It seems Oldtown is now much further ahead when it comes to that, with the option to… change hair color. How revolutionary. 

Funny, Gwayne always thought that all Targaryens indulged in their sickening egocentrism, from showing off their dragons and chanting about their divine ancestry to, well, their silver hair, and that even his youngest nephew would be no different. 

“You look good,” he says, as cheerfully as he can. He also looks like a mess, but Gwayne doubts there is any need to point that out – the lad has looking glasses of his own, surely he does not need anyone to point out his misery. Cheering him up is the best he can do. “Different,” he says, and it is no lie. “But good,” a tiny lie, perhaps – ‘good’ is subjective to the viewer’s eye, is it not?

Gwayne catches him glancing at him skeptically. 

“I think I look stupid,” Daeron says, and his uncle cannot hold back a laugh. That is one way to put it, yeah. 

“Then why in the first place did you… What do you call that, anyway?”

“Uncle Ormund calls it dye,” Daeron replies, sighing.

“Why did you dye your hair then?” Gwayne asks, crossing his arms.

At first, Daeron simply shrugs. Like it is no big deal. Then, his expression seems to fall. 

“I do not wish to speak of it,” he says in a low voice. 

Gwayne nods.

Again, he knows what it is like to be that age. He also knows that pressuring him for an answer will only encourage silence, and that is about the last thing he wishes now. Daeron is already a quiet child without that kind of pressure. 

“All right. You do not have to,” he says calmly. “Was it your wish for some spots to remain silver?”

“No…” The boy answers, sounding a bit embarrassed. “We ran out of dye.”

We, he said. Ormund helped him, then. It aligns with what that maid told him. What a funny thing to imagine, especially since the man despises getting his hands dirty. 

“Now that is unfortunate,” Gwayne tilts his head to the side. “But it looks… cool.”

“Cool,” Daeron repeats, causing his uncle to let out another laugh. 

“Why, yes. Artsy, even,” Gwayne gestures extravagantly. 

The boy still looks a bit down, and with the corners of his eyes red from the earlier crying, but Gwayne finally gets a laugh out of him. Subdued and quiet, but a laugh nonetheless.

“Uncle, you are making fun of me!” Daeron exclaims, clasping his hands together.

“I am not,” Ser Gwayne says with a stern face which soon fades away into a chuckle. “Your hair is looking like quite the work of art. Like the paintings in King’s Landing. The sort your sister and mother enjoy.”

Daeron lowers his head, picking at his fingers hard enough to make the corners of his nails bleed a little. Gwayne stops himself from grimacing. It has been Alicent’s habit to do so since childhood, and apparently, somehow, it has become Daeron’s as well, even with them on opposite sides of Westeros.

“Helaena?” He says her name with a smile, but with a tone of longing. Part of Gwayne would like to know what exactly the boy misses, whether there is any memory of his siblings that he replays in his mind. “She wrote that she really likes embroidery. I still have that letter.”

Gwayne nods. Princess Helaena is frequently seen in her chambers, in seclusion, or out in the gardens, moving at a leisurely pace. Word is that she is always accompanied by her twins and her embroidery materials. It is one of the princess’ oldest habits, along with watching insects.

“Her work is splendid. She is quite the artist,” Gwayne supplies. “I would venture to say that all of your brother’s garments feature her embroidery. She is quite devoted. And he is proud to wear her work out and about, believe it or not.”

He soon regrets saying it. There is very little chance Daeron has any idea how his older brother acts to understand what Gwayne meant. 

“Aegon?” Daeron guesses. “They are married now, are they not? And have children of their own.”

The knight lets out a somewhat awkward sound. 

“Yeah…” Gwayne agrees, grimacing. The Targaryen way of life is nauseating, to say the least. “Have they not written to you about it?” He asks, fully aware of how the answer might disappoint him. 

Daeron nods.

“Mother did. When the twins were born, I mean,” he says, with the same despondency as before. There is no blaming him. He did not attend the royal wedding, nor does he have any idea what his younger nephews look like. By the Seven, Gwayne would even venture to say he has no idea what his own siblings look like, given how many years it has been since he last saw them – and the same goes for them. “Did you get to meet them? I have no idea if they are still babies or if they are already old enough to, uhm, play.”

Gwayne shakes his head. More or less. He has seen them more than once, that is for sure. He never had the chance to speak to them, let alone hold them. Not even Alicent held her own grandchildren, and he is fairly certain that Alicent wants it to stay that way, so it would have been out of the question for him to even ask.

“A little. I see them every now and then,” he finally answers. “They are very attached to Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena. The boy with the father and the girl with the mother. Your mother told me that the twins are very much like your sister, both in appearance and behavior. They are quiet children, but they… play. Your mother told me your brother is very intent on getting them worked up.”

“Aegon?” Daeron asks again, letting his curiosity slide in. Gwayne shakes his head yes. “I did not know he was playful.”

“He is not…” Ser Gwayne replies, running his tongue over his lips. Aegon is childish, yes, but not exactly playful. He is childish in a way that is almost depressing to witness. Even when he plays with his children, he seems to have no idea what to do, as if he had never done so before. Alicent’s eldest literally drank his childhood away, so it really is no surprise he does not know what to do. “He certainly tries.”

Daeron nods, and Gwayne prays that this is the end of the matter. He does not have what it takes to satisfy Daeron’s longing for his family or his curiosity about them. The only definite answers he can offer concern Alicent, with whom Gwayne has more freedom to spend time. But it seems she is not the person Daeron wants to talk about. Once again, he cannot be blamed for that. 

Gwayne is about to start saying more, thinking about improvising, when Daeron speaks first.

“How long do you plan to stay, Ser?” The boy asks bashfully, with big, shining eyes.

The knight in question glances away, biting the inside of his cheeks. 

“I will be heading west by tomorrow at the latest, before sunset,” he says, unable to bring himself to look the lad in the eye. “I was assigned a mission in Bandallon,” he continues, gesturing with his hand. “I made sure to come to Oldtown first to deliver a message to Lord Ormund and… see you.”

He attempts to spot Daeron out of the corner of his eye, and actually gets to see his apathetic expression. With his downcast gaze, Gwayne would have preferred him to be protesting, cursing him, or doing just about anything else. He assumes that any of those reactions would be better than silence. It only serves to make Gwayne more nervous. 

 “All right,” is all Daeron says next. 

By the sound of it, Gwayne doubts it is all right at all. 

The boy keeps picking at his fingernails.

The knight incessantly taps the belt holding his sword. A thousand and one thoughts race through his mind. A thousand and one ideas of what to say to Alicent when he at last returns to King’s Landing. A thousand and one questions to ask his cousin Ormund. Along with all this, the need to cast off the City Watch cloak and stand by his nephew’s side. It would make him a deserter, but it would mean he could watch Daeron grow up. 

Ser Gwayne swallows hard.

Daeron is not his to raise. If he belongs to anyone, it is to Ormund. Not King Viserys nor Queen Alicent. If the boy’s siblings are anything to go by, he is far better off growing up in Oldtown: no crowns, no Iron Throne, and no family gatherings that feel like anything but. Far away from Targaryens and their madness.

Yeah. That is a problem, too. Being far from his brothers and sister – blood of his blood, blood of the dragon – is just as bad as being raised right alongside them. Daeron could end up like Aegon, a prince at the mercy of alcohol. Or like Aemond, victim of the so-called divinity that accompanies the Targaryen, who will spend the rest of his life maimed, missing an eye. 

Gwayne sighs, defeated.

Daeron is not his to raise, and he is no one to make a difference. He may be here now, but that is hardly enough. 

That being the case, he…

“Have you ever explored Oldtown at night?” He asks, hands on his hips, a haughty look in his eyes, and a simple smile on his face. “You see… Your mother and I used to sneak out at night to enjoy it when even the Hightower is at ease. It is no King’s Landing, but it can be… fun.”

He is met by those eyes. They are completely different from Alicent’s, yet the sensation of being stared at by him is the same. They hold an apprehension tinged with curiosity, giving them a shy yet vivid gleam. They are young, as hers once were, but they also look as though they have already seen the worst the world has to offer. 

Both son and mother have been apart for so long, yet the mannerisms and small details of their behavior are so identical that Gwayne feels on the verge of nausea. Perhaps it is the fact that they are siblings that makes it so unbearable for him to remember what she once was – and what she would never be again. Who knows? It can even be his dissatisfaction with himself for being unable to prevent the same fate from befalling Daeron. 

He is different, Gwayne tells himself. They cannot reach him here. As long as he is far away from all that, he has a chance. And by the Seven, that chance is something Gwayne is willing to raise his sword for. 

“Ormund will want me around all day until I leave, I am sure. There is plenty of boring crap for us to discuss,” he says, the silence making him nervous. “You are more than welcome to join us, of course. But it will be fun. Tonight, I mean. I promise.”

“If he finds out…” Daeron trails off.

“You let me take care of that,” he promptly says. “He cannot punish us for an uncle wanting to spend time with his nephew. So. Uhm. What do you say? Want to rebel out for one night and forget your royalty?”

Gwayne laughs.

Daeron does not.

After another moment of silence, Gwayne is on the verge of dismissing the idea altogether, fearing he might quiet Daeron even further, but the boy gives his answer. 

“Yes,” he says in a restrained voice. “Yes. Please.”

“That will do,” Gwayne says, satisfied enough. He takes a good look at the boy’s disguise from head to toe. “Put on the hood,” he adds, bringing a hand to his chin. Daeron does as ordered, and in the blink of an eye, standing before him is not a Targaryen prince, but an ordinary, impressionable-looking kid from Oldtown who likely eats no more than one meal a day. “Seven, green really is our color, is it not?”

It draws a laugh from Daeron, who does his best to hide it by running his hand over his nose.

Uncle and nephew are wearing simpler clothes than they were just minutes ago. They are not exactly rags, but at least they lack the elaborate finery the two are accustomed to wearing. In short, these are the sorts of garments and tunics any citizen of Oldtown might wear without drawing undue attention. Over their attire, both wear a dark green hooded cloak. Daeron’s reaches his ankles, serving as a cape, and the hood conceals him further, completely covering the white roots of his hair. 

The boy adjusts his hoods with his hands, pulling it up a bit so it does not obscure his eyes quite so completely. With his hair dark, his light eyes become less striking. 

“Just be careful with your white streaks,” Gwayne warns him, adjusting his own disguise. It is not the comfortable cotton clothing he had dreamed of wearing upon arriving in Oldtown, but it is worth the sacrifice. “Do they sell your kind of dye on the street?”

He sees Daeron shrug slightly as he perfectly ties a knot in the cord of his cloak. 

“I am not sure where Uncle Ormund gets the dye; he never told me,” he explains. “But a maid mentioned to me one day that it comes from Tyrosh.”

“All the way from Tyrosh? How impressive,” Gwayne hums, offering a half-smile and tilting his head to the side. “So you just tell Ormund the color you want, and he gets it for you?”

It is a simple, harmless question, but he notices that it makes Daeron uneasy. He lowers his head, letting his hood fall forward again, and fidgets with his fingers.

“Yeah, kind of like that,” he answers.

Gwayne clears his throat, determined not to let the mood grow heavy. One of the very few advantages of having frequented court from a young age is that he has been able to develop countless techniques, both visual and verbal, for deflecting topics. As Alicent’s brother, he learned how to avoid them well. Both for her sake and his own. As a knight, he knows that words can be as sharp as a blade, and he does not want Daeron to end up cutting himself. 

“Well,” Gwayne begins, clapping his hands once. Rubbing them together, he continues. “For us to go out, you already understand that no one can know our true identities, right?” He waits for the boy to nod. If he is to be honest, it is far more about Daeron’s identity as a crown prince than his. Nobody gives a damn about Gwayne fucking Hightower, but Daeron fucking Targaryen? He does not want to jeopardize their odds in the slightest. Opposers can be found on any street corner, and so can nutcases willing to stab a member of the royal family. “Good. So, fake names.”

Daeron blinks.

Gwayne waits.

“Uhm, do you want me to come up with a fake name?” The boy asks shyly. Gwayne nods eagerly. He can practically hear his brain straining to think. He thought children ought to exude creativity for this sort of thing, but apparently that just is not the case with Daeron. “David?”

Gwayne blinks. Slowly.

“David,” he repeats.

“Derrick?” Daeron tries again.

“Derrick,” Gwayne tries out the name, making a face.

“Dawson…?” 

“Gods, no,” he hastens to reply. “That would make you a centenarian. Derrick is good. Common, but not as much as David. It sounds like a real name.”

“Well, it is a real name…” Daeron whispers.

“Alright, Derrick,” Gwayne claps once again. “How about me?” 

He figures it is good to indulge Daeron in these silly things, to let him use up his imagination. 

“Oh, I know!” He exclaims. “Gwendolyn!” Daeron sounds… jolly. “I got it from a book,” he adds. 

“Is it not a girl’s name?” Gwayne asks with a last shred of hope.

“Not really, no,” Daeron responds after a moment of pondering. “It suits you, Ser!”

Never had Gwayne regretted granting his dear nephew freedom so much before.

Leaving the castle was an easy enough task. They passed a few maids and other servants who, at a nod from Gwayne, went on their way as if they had seen nothing. That was the extent of action they encountered on their way out. No surprise encounters with Ormund or any other fun-hating Hightower. 

Daeron followed him in silence, close behind, one hand weakly clutching the fabric of Gwayne’s cloak.

They reach the streets of Oldtown in less than fifteen minutes. Gwayne stops, raising a hand to halt Daeron as well. He turns to look at him.

“I highly doubt it will come to that, but from now on, if anyone asks, you are Derrick, a stable boy from Uplands, got it?” 

Daeron looks at him with wide eyes, smiling.

“Yes, Ser,” he says, shaking his head. “I mean, Gwendolyn!”

Gwayne stifles a sigh. He had thought traveling across Westeros alone and on foot would be his all-time low, but Gwendolyn marks a whole new low.

He finds Oldtown more beautiful at night. 

In its own unique way, it is more lovely than King’s Landing, even during festive times. It is less crowded, and the poverty is less blatant. It evokes a naturalness that has not yet been disturbed by the doings of men. Only at night, while the starry sept repose and the gods breathe more deeply, does Gwayne feel the serenity Oldtown holds for the restless. 

Of course there are black brothels and criminal haunts alike – for any place occupied by the living becomes subject to sin – but they are so very far from dominant. Anyone wandering from corner to corner might be enchanted by the lights of the land and the sky, and smile with satisfaction, knowing they are neither alone in the dark nor swayed by what it conceals. 

The life that emerges in Oldtown as the sun bids farewell to the heavens is distinct for those who wish to observe it, and magical, much like a fragment of lost childhood, for those willing to take part in it until the horizon brightens once more and the mundane returns. 

It was in that world that Gwayne and Alicent were able to find comfort. Whenever he managed to convince her to join him, Alicent would cease to be Father’s lady and become one of the free spirits they grew used to praying for, quick to laugh and unburdened by a furrowed brow. Both would cast aside their House name, and thus they felt it: happiness. 

He can only hope that Daeron might feel that happiness too, if only for a little while, tonight. He certainly deserves it, just as his mother did when she was more of a sister to Gwayne than a daughter to their father.

“Are you enjoying the view?” He asks, smiling at the boy’s expression. His mouth is parted, curving into a smile of his own, and his eyes are finally bold and uncontainable, taking in every inch of the city before him. 

“Very much so,” the young prince replies breathlessly. 

“You thought Oldtown was just full of old men predicting the coming winter and making all sorts of other prophecies, aye?” Gwayne asks, letting out a laugh.

“N-No, not at all!” Daeron exclaims. He looks at his uncle, but it is evident that his eyes do not want to miss a single second of the little spectacles unfolding at every stall and shop along the street. Somewhat desperate, he adds, “I enjoy what the maesters have to share, and…”

Gwayne stops him, starting to walk slowly.

“Take it easy, kid,” he says. “I was born and raised here, remember? I know how dull it can be,” at times he remembers a bit too much. It gets hard to pray when his knees remember the pain of kneeling on corn kernels until reciting the verses correctly, one by one. Speaking of it… “Does Ormund make you practice your prayers?”

Daeron immediately looks down. His hands, previously hidden by his cloak, come into view as he begins to pick at the base of his fingernails. In an instant, he reverted to the behavior he displayed at the castle.

“Yes, sir,” he replies. For the sake of their disguise, Daeron has abandoned the ‘Ser’ and replaced it with sir. It sounds wrong, for that is not the sort of formality with which Gwayne would wish to be treated by his nephew. One step at a time, he supposes. “Every day.”

Gwayne grimaces.

“He is like your grandsire, then,” he muses, shaking his head. “Do you like it?”

Daeron stops following him.

Gwayne stops as soon as he realizes it, turning around with a raised eyebrow. 

Daeron is staring at him like someone haunted by a thousand and one thoughts.

“Is something the matter?” Gwayne asks, not masking his concern as well as he thinks. “Are you feeling unwell?”

It only seems to serve to contort Daeron’s face even further.

He slowly shakes his head.

“Yes…” He says, rather vaguely. “I-I mean, yes, I like it.”

For one reason or another, he does not think his nephew is being sincere.

“It would be fine if you did not,” he says calmly, gesturing for Daeron to follow him again. They resume walking toward the tents. “I did not. Like it, I mean. I doubt the Seven would make us pray for them. I am sure they appreciate it much more when we do it out of our own free will.”

The look on the lad’s face causes him to think of things that are not so good. Gwayne knows what it is to be raised as a Hightower, and just how conflicted one can become, torn between becoming exactly what the septons wish to mold one into, or something adjacent, yet still subservient to the laws and teachings of the Seven. He and Alicent themselves could be considered examples of such outcomes. 

Gwayne looks away from Daeron.

He keeps doing that.

Thinking of Alicent when he sees him.

It is hard not to.

At this age, and looking the way he does now, with his hair the shade it is now, he bears a striking resemblance to his mother just before she was sent to King’s Landing for the first time. The very same eyes – determined, but still sad and lost. The same perfect posture. Maybe the very same words are stuck in his throat, too. Gwayne had not been there to hear his sister, but he desperately wants to be here to hear her sister’s son.  

Daeron is not yours to raise. He is not even your squire.

“Come on,” he says, smiling again. “If I remember correctly, there is an old man around here who carves wooden sculptures on the spot. You will be delighted to see it.”

Said old man is easy to find, and as expected, he is even older than when he was back when Gwayne and Alicent were children. 

His stall is well-lit and displays many wooden toys of various shapes and sizes, ranging from the simplest to the most ingenious. Gwayne chuckles at the sight of it, recalling times long gone. He believes that by the time he came of age, he had owned two or three of these toys – knights and horses, given to him by his sister.

Daeron looks at each piece of carved wood with curiosity. His hands lean in to touch, but he pulls them back. It is amusing to see; with the hood swallowing him up completely, he looks even younger. 

“You can touch ‘em, boy,” says the old stall owner.

Daeron looks up in surprise, nodding in response to the old man, but before daring to touch anything, he turns his gaze towards Gwayne. His look is a silent request for permission. 

“Go on, kid,” Gwayne says, placing a hand on his hip and tilting his head forward.

Daeron offers a restrained smile, nodding again as he turns back to the pieces of wood. It takes him a few more seconds to actually touch anything, but when he does, he immediately picks up a carved wooden dragon. 

 The piece is slightly larger than his palm, with delicate and deep details, but without detracting from the rustic aspect of the sculpture. It is a somewhat caricurated representation of the actual beasts. The head is larger and the open jaw is chubby. The teeth are not necessarily sharp, nor are the wings menacing. Cute. A child’s toy, really. 

Daeron turns it in his hand, shakes it, and looks at it carefully. 

For the first time since Gwayne arrived, he looks exactly his age. 

“How much is it?” He asks the stall owner, unable to suppress his smile. 

The old man answers, and he is already taking the coin out of his pockets when he hears Daeron’s voice, frightened.

“I do not need it,” he whispers, looking at Gwayne with raised eyebrows.

“What,” Gwayne says, confused. “Do you not like it?”

Daeron babbles a lot of things he cannot understand, with no sentence fully forming. He glances at the toy in his hands, then at Gwayne, then at the old man, blinking in surprise at the whole situation, and so on. 

Gwayne raises a hand to touch his shoulder. When he does, Daeron shivers at the touch.

“I-I like it, it is very fine work,” the boy says, looking at the old man as if justifying himself. Turning his attention back to his uncle, he says in a lower tone, “Y-You don’t have to get it for me…”

Gwayne feels his brow furrow. His mouth opens in surprise, but no sound comes out. He glances away for a moment at the old carpenter, only to find him just as confused as he is. 

“Don’t you want this one?” He tries asking. Daeron bites his lower lip, shaking his head. “You can pick another one.”

He can see the boy’s knuckles turning white from the force with which he is gripping the wooden dragon. His lips are also trembling, and Gwayne fears another episode like the one when he got to Daeron’s room.

“Keep that one for us if you can, all right?” Gwayne says to the old man. He reaches out to take the toy from Daeron’s hand, and the boy immediately lets go of it. Gwayne hands it to the carpenter, who takes it, nods, and turns away. “We’ll be back to get it soon.”

He pulls Daeron into a side-hug, nudging him gently forward to start walking.

They walk to the end of the street, where there are much less people. 

Gwayne stops, holding Daeron by the shoulders. 

“Are you okay?”

There is no answer at first.

Daeron is looking down, his cheeks flushed. 

He gives his uncle a long nod.

Gwayne holds back a sigh. 

“Do you not like the wooden toys?” He asks. “You can be honest with me.”

Daeron remains silent.

“I cannot guess what is going through your head, nephew,” Gwayne admits, tired. “Whatever it is, you can speak to me.”

Daeron mumbles something.

“Can you repeat that for me?” Gwayne asks him.

“Uncle Ormund says I am too old for that,” is his plain answer. 

“Oh,” Gwayne lets out. He frowns, straightening his posture. He squeezes Daeron’s shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. “Well, fuck Ormund.”

Daeron looks up with wide eyes.

“Will all due respect, of course,” Gwayne clears his throat. “Too old for that, his greasy ass. How old are you? Twelve, no?” He waits for a nod and goes on as soon as he gets one. “And you always do your chores, no?” Nod. “And you say your prayers,” another nod. “Why the fuck not have a dragon sculpture then? Has he really said you are too old for playing?”

“He says I have other matters to dedicate myself to…”

“Maybe he should find some matters for himself,” he holds himself from cursing his cousin. Now that was some bullshit if he ever heard some. Too old for… Fuck, Daeron is a child, what did he want from him? “You want that wooden dragon? Be honest.”

It takes a while, but Daeron nods again.

“He does not like it when I…” He begins saying, but trails off.

“What?” 

“He does not like when I talk about dragons,” Daeron says, picking at his fingers. “Whenever I mention Tessarion, he…”

Gwayne waits, taking a deep breath. There is no use getting irritated now – not in front of Daeron. The best he can do is listen. He can listen now and then, when day breaks, have a conversation with Ormund that is clearly long overdue. What Daeron says now will determine Gwayne’s approach – how loudly he will curse, and how hard he will have to restrain himself from smashing Ormund’s pretty-boy face in.

“I am not allowed to fly. A-And I cannot see her. They keep her chained and alone. And I have to sneak in to make sure they are feeding her. It has been months since she last saw the sky. I told Lord Ormund I fear for her health, but…” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be… I’m being childish.”

“You will fly when morrow comes,” Gwayne states firmly. “I will make sure of it.”

“What? No, I cannot…!”

“Sure you can, you are a fucking Ta…” Gwayne stops himself right there. “It is in your blood to fly that giant lizard with wings, so you will. If that is what you want.”

“I want to. Desperately so.”

“It is settled then,” he lets go of the lad’s shoulders, hugging him from the side. “Now let your favorite uncle get you that wooden beast. Tessarion is blue, no? We can get some ink as well to paint it.”

“You’ve got quite the polite kid with you there, sir,” says the old man as Gwayne hands him the coins. “Wish my grandson was like that, but he keeps running around instead of helping me with the shop.”

Gwayne laughs, tapping Daeron’s shoulder fondly.

“Sometimes this one is too polite, aye?” He drops the coins into the old man’s hand, who does not even count them before putting them away in a dark cloth bag. “Is your grandson a carpenter as well?”

“He’s certainly trying to be!” 

They share another couple of laughs before Gwayne and Daeron walk away from the stall, following their way down the street.

Daeron is quiet again, but he seems pretty busy with the wooden dragon. A soft smile fills his face as he pets the toy. Something so small is more than enough to bring serenity to his face. If a palm-sized wooden dragon is capable of doing it, then how happy must he be when near Tessarion? And how could Ormund witness such a scene and stop him from seeing her? Gwayne is no dragon liker yet he cannot imagine depriving Daeron of such a bond. He cannot imagine depriving Daeron of anything that makes him happy. 

“Who helped you with your Valyrian?” He asks the lad, determined to find out what he can about what it really is like to live here. 

Daeron glances at him, clearly surprised by the sudden question, then turns his attention forward, hugging the toy dragon with one arm. 

“I read books whenever I can,” he replies, careful with his words.

Gwayne nods, clearing his throat. That answers practically nothing.

“Right,” he begins. “Good, that is good. I can tell you are dedicated to your studies. But…” He pauses, waving his hand in the air. “How about… a teacher?”

The silence that continues is, in itself, an answer.

“Uncle Ormund does not like Valyrian,” Daeron’s voice comes, a tone lower. “He asks me not to speak in it in his presence.”

Gwayne’s hands clench into fists, and he is quick to hide them within the folds of his cloak.

“Is that so?” As one might guess, his attempt to sound unbothered is very poor.

“There is no reason for me to practice in front of him; he is right,” he speaks in a somewhat downcast tone, but resolute. As if convinced of what he is saying. “The books are more than enough, really. He just cannot see them…”

“Wait, what?” Gwayne winces.

“He gets angry if he sees me studying Valyrian,” Daeron explains.

Angry, he said. Not annoyed. Angry.

Ormund really has not changed a thing. 

“You are very careful around him, are you not?” Gwayne asks.

“Everyone is…” The boy admits.

His uncle sighs.

“I’m sorry for that. You should not have to be.”

“It is fine,” Daeron insists.

“It is not,” Gwayne stops. He holds Daeron by the shoulders as he did before. He waits until the lad lifts his head to look him in the eye. “He is your guardian. He is your parent. He is supposed to protect you, not…” He cannot even bring himself to finish.

“He does,” Daeron intervenes, frowning. “He is a good man. He… He means well.”

It sounds wrong. All wrong. It is familiar. A face appears, and it is not Ormund’s. It is Otto’s. His and Alicent’s father. The man who made them who they are, who chose how everything about them is – and why. If not for Otto back then, they would have… And if not for Ormund now, what might become of Daeron?

“Sometimes that is not enough,” Gwayne murmurs, shaking his head. “It almost never is, when it comes to… Well, parenting,” of all the people in Daeron’s life, he should not be the one explaining this. “I’m sorry. You deserve better.”

And that is really all he can say.

He cannot say that things will change. He will certainly talk to Ormund about it – and even throw a punch or two if necessary. But that is the extent of what he can do. He can return to King’s Landing and tell his sister how her youngest son is being treated, and all she would do is nod. He could kneel before the king himself and say that one of his children is being denied his inheritance. He can picture the scene clearly in his mind: King Viserys I shrugging, and maybe even asking, so what?

It is difficult to say whose blood is truly tainted – the Targaryen’s or the Hightower’s. The common word refers to the former, but Gwayne has lived firsthand what it is like to be raised a Hightower, and has seen what is becoming of Alicent’s children. 

He has always told himself that he would be a good guardian for Daeron, just as he always tells himself that he is a good knight, but the odds seem to be against him. Perhaps he is neither better nor worse. They all share the same blood – he, Alicent, Ormund, Otto. The only difference is that, among them, he is the one with the least power to decide anything. Every man clamors for power after all, one way or another.

“Shall we go back?” He asks in a hoarse voice, lightly patting the boy on the shoulders. “I reckon you need rest. You are going to fly with Tessarion at daybreak, remember?”

He forces a smile.

A second later, Daeron is smiling too. 

Gwayne suspects that it is equally forced.

“Thank you, uncle,” the boy says, and it still sounds wrong. 

No child should have to be grateful for the bare minimum, Targaryen or not.

They walk together to Daeron’s chambers. 

They pass by some guards on duty who initially react to the hooded figures, but as soon as the boy lowers his hood and reveals his face, they apologize and go on their way. 

Neither of them say anything until they reach his room.

“Where will you sleep?” Daeron asks, removing his cloak and folding it carefully.

“I will find my way around,” Gwayne answers with a sigh. “Do not worry,” he smiles.

He nods.

And silence, once more.

Gwayne grunts.

“I hope you had fun today.”

“I did!” Daeron exclaims at the same moment, tightening his grip on his cloak. “Plenty of fun. Really. Thank you.”

“Do not worry about it,” Gwayne repeats, chuckling. He moves a hand to ruffle the kid’s hair, but Daeron tilts his head in surprise. A flinch. This wicked blood of theirs. “I would love to see Derrick again. Perhaps one day he and Gwendolyn can go to King’s Landing.”

Daeron’s eyes brighten.

“Really?”

“I will do my best to make it happen, nephew.”

Gwayne moves to leave. 

Goodbyes make him quite emotional, you see, so he always opts for a see you later, even if it is a lie. 

Daeron sits on the edge of his featherbed. His eyes meet his uncle’s, seeming to say far more than he has spoken all night.

Gwayne raises a hand to wave.

Daeron, too. The wooden dragon is in his hand, and he looks to be holding back a laugh as he makes it flap. 

Ser Gwayne closes the door with a soft, honest smile.