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Raising a young boy entering adolescence was nothing new for Ormund, any more than raising a motherless daughter was. His first wife’s death in childbirth had been one of the hardest trials he had ever faced, though not because of the love he had felt for her. Lord Hightower had respected her, of course. Their marriage had been arranged when both were still children. Children having children. The true hardship lay in being a widower and the sole father to four children. Despite having the entire court of High Tower at his disposal, Ormund was a man of faith, and family was one of its pillars. One cares for family; one protects family, and such care and protection entail education and upbringing.
So far, all his children were turning out well. They were well-mannered and knowledgeable on every subject, particularly history and literature. His eldest son was proficient in strategy and swordsmanship, the two younger boys still had time to catch up to their older brother, and his only daughter was growing into a beautiful and truly wonderful Lady of the Reach.
The problem was, between his sons and daughter, he also needed to raise not a child of his, but his cousin’s silver haired boy. Well, when he was bringed to him, his hair was barely grown. But those little lavender eyes told him that… Yes, that's Targaryen blood in his arms. He knew Alicent for a while. Family is a family, after all. And her brother, also a cousin of his, Gwayne, a childhood companion to him and bonded in co-parenting kind of thing… Problematic, but also quite helping out the lone father that Ormund was.
The strange family they had built at the High Tower, which stood guard over Oldtown, seemed to function well enough. Daeron was growing into a proper Hightower, for he was far from being a Targaryen. He lacked that madness in the eyes that had always terrified Gwayne when he looked into Daemon’s gaze during their duel in King’s Landing. He never found that look in his nephew’s violet eyes.
If not those damned silver hair, Ormund said one evening when he and Gwayne were at the balcony, looking at Daeron training with Lyonel, oldest son of Ormund’s. If not for that hair, the boy would be like a son to him. Damned the eyes, Dayne’s had violet too, heir to the House Hightower continued. But, as Gwayne noticed, Ormund always preferred to call them lavender, and he was indeed fond of them as he was of this flower. At least he loved one thing about Targaryens.
But Gwayne never expected to see that when he returned from King’s Landing. When he came in to look for Daeron, to let him know that he finally returned, he simply… didn’t recognise the boy that was sitting in Prince’s room. Hairstyle was the same, the way he did a little braid on the back of his head… But he was ginger now. Color similar to his mother’s.
Oh, Ormund, what have you done to our poor boy?
Daeron swore he liked it. That he wants to look like the real Hightower, but Gwayne knew Ormund too well to believe the boy got this idea in his small head all alone. But from this day, from his twelve name’s day, Daeron was known as a little ginger boy. And Ormund was happier than ever.
Then came adolescence. Ormund had been through this several times before, but this time… it was far worse. And not because Daeron had suddenly gone through a rebellious teenage phase and stopped seeking his uncles' attention and approval. No, absolutely not… He simply started to stink.
Ormund always had… a certain issue when it came to smells. That was why Gwayne remembered how long his cousin had struggled with horseback riding. Ormund always associated horses with filthy beasts that relieved themselves right where they stood, reeking of dung. Of course, he was wrong. It was simply that Gwayne liked to play little jokes on him; whenever Ormund’s father, Lord Horbert Hightower, wanted to take the boy for a ride, Gwayne would bring a wheelbarrow full of shit back to the stables. There was no end to the laughter or the retching for the other side.
So, when Daeron began to go through puberty and transform into a young man… his sweat took on a far more intense and acidic odor. It was truly pungent, even Gwayne could smell it, but if he could, what must it have been like for Ormund? The man wouldn't even go near Daeron’s training yard anymore, merely glancing down from the balcony; yet it seemed that even from there, he could catch a whiff of that "stench," as he called it.
Gwayne lost count of how many times Daeron had to wash himself daily. Before every meal, otherwise, Ormund couldn't gulp a thing while sitting at the same table.
At one point, the cousins met in their usual spot: the balcony. Ormund looked as displeased as ever, holding a perfume vial close to his nose. The scent of lavender wafted through the air the moment the bottle was opened. Before long, the perfume’s aroma began to bother Gwayne more than the smell of the sweat itself.
“Something has to be done, this can’t go on forever.” Ormund spoke indignantly, not even glancing at Gwayne. It was as if Gwayne ought to know what this was about and he did, though he preferred to toy with the situation a little longer.
“What exactly, cousin?” He sighed and looked at Ormund with a touch of pity... which only deepened the scowl on the face of the man soon to be Lord Hightower.
“That stench! Normal boys his age don’t sweat like that. None of my squires ever did! If this keeps up, I’ll stop training him. I can’t stand it anymore. My body and senses simply can’t take it.” The man spoke without holding back in the slightest.
“I wonder, then, how many times a day Ser Jon Roxton bathes...” Gwayne muttered under his breath, aiming to further touch his cousin with his playful tone.
“Three times, but that’s not the point.” Ormund glared at him for the mere attempt to change the subject. “This has to change, and fast. We need to summon a maester, this isn’t normal.”
“Ormund,” Gwayne said, trying to bring him to reason. “He lived only thirteen summers. There’s nothing wrong with him. He wields a sword brilliantly, he’s even starting to outpace Lyonel in history lessons...” He tried to frame it in a way that might appeal to Ormund’s senses other than his sense of smell.
“And yet he reeks like some peasant coming in from the fields after a long day, not a prince!”
When he said that, only then they saw that… Daeron came into the room. He stood in the doors with a guard behind him. Seven Gods be with us… Gwayne called in his head. He seemed so… small, even if he was taller than Gwayne already… and so sad. The young Prince left a room, and Gwayne looked again at Ormund who was rubbing his fingers against his temple, troubled by the situation.
“Go talk to him,” Ormund ordered. Gwayne glared at him, absolutely furious.
“I’ll do it, because you’d only make things worse with your damn selfishness. The whole world doesn’t revolve around you and your nose… Maybe call a maester for your problem? Maybe he can fix your nose and your head, because what you’re doing to Daeron is…” He knew the word. Monstrous, wicked, unfair, selfish… But Ormund knew it too, that was why he didn’t finish, simply walking out of the room instead.
Ser Gwayne intended to head toward Daeron’s chambers, expecting the Young Prince to be there, but he heard the sound of water from the bathing room. Peering through the gap in the half-open door, he saw the boy scrubbing his skin with soap, almost obsessively. His fair, pale skin was turning a sickly red, raw and abraded... Gwayne opened the door and stepped inside heavily, making his presence known.
Daeron turned his head, tear-streaked, his auburn hair plastered against wet cheeks. His movements grew even more frantic, as if he were in a rush. His uncle hurried over and seized him by the wrist.
"Stop. That won't help anyway," he said, agitated, trying to bring the boy to his senses as he struggled to break free.
"But I stink. Uncle Ormund won't even stand near me. He hates me," Daeron mumbled, gasping for breath as he began to sob openly. There was something about it, the hold that narcissistic piece of filth Ormund had over the young boy, who understood so little of the world, that infuriated Gwayne even more. "What if I smell because of Tessarion? What if I can't ride her anymore?" Daeron asked, though half his words were unintelligible to his uncle, who gazed at him, himself on the verge of tears at the sight of the Young Prince’s condition.
Gwayne simply pulled the boy close and embraced him. He held the boy’s head against his chest as the lad wept into it, all the while soothingly kissing the crown of his head.
“That won’t happen. I won’t let him. You and Tessarion are one… even if you do end up smelling like a dragon after spending time with her.” Gwayne chuckled softly to himself. Then, he took a clean towel and began to dry the young prince’s already irritated skin. Once he had finished with the boy’s shoulders, back, and underarms, he gently moved him back and wiped his face, still flushed from crying, his eyes still watery. “Uncle Ormund is… particular, and you know it well. He has his quirks, just like the rest of us.” He saw the question forming on Daeron’s face, but he continued. “But… those quirks don’t excuse him. He shouldn’t speak like that… And the guards should have let us know you were coming. But none of this is your fault… Sometimes the body behaves differently, sweating more, for instance. Uncle Ormund has a similar issue, but with his nose… He simply smells a bit… more. But neither of you is to blame for that. You are only responsible for how you react to it.” He slowly knelt on one knee, looking up at Daeron, to pick up the soap that had fallen.
“So… what should I do?” Daeron asked, his voice a little calmer as he fiddled with the wet towel in his hands.
“We’ll come up with something… together. And don’t take it to heart if… Uncle Ormund sometimes frowns. He loves you… like no one else. You’re his little treasure.” Gwayne stood up and smiled at the young boy, running his fingers through the lad’s red hair, and noticing… silver roots. A few stray hairs came away in his hand, but he didn’t let it show.
“Thank you… Uncle Gwayne.” Daeron smiled back at him, shyly, perhaps, but sincerely. Situation under control.
Even though Ormund had fervently insisted he would never get used to the smell of sweat, eventually... he became somewhat more immune to it or perhaps he was simply making an effort? Maybe... he simply cared about the boy? Gwayne couldn't say for sure. He knew his cousin, of course, but... he didn't always know if his belief that there was a spark of selflessness in Ormund was misplaced. He wanted to believe Ormund was good, because he once had been, back when they were younger. Sometimes, he saw his sister Alicent in him. She was good... wasn't she? He didn't want to dwell on that as he watched Ormund correct Daeron’s movements, fatherly, with care and precision. With that same fatherly sternness Gwayne himself had experienced from Otto. And he knew, he would have staked his life on it, that Otto loved him, perhaps not as much as his older sister... but still. He cared for him... he even tried... to respect, if that was the right word, his attraction to men. Enough not to marry him off to some wealthy Lady who would have enriched House Hightower.
He saw that same look in Ormund when he gazed at Daeron, but... for how long? Once the boy ceased to be a child and became a useful pawn on the political chessboard... would there still be room in Ormund’s heart for sentiment?
The redhead was snapped out of his thoughts by Daeron’s gaze, as if the young prince were making sure Gwayne was indeed watching his actions. He smiled back, masking his worried expression.
“Better than before. Perhaps you’ll be remembered as one of the greatest warriors of Westeros?” Gwayne quipped, stepping closer, which made Daeron roll his eyes. He knew his own abilities, after all, and his uncles had taught him not to overestimate them.
“He won’t need to be… He’d do better to learn how to command those who wield the sword,” Ormund interjected, evidently eager to add his own oh-so-necessary two cents to the conversation.
“I’d just like to fly Tessarion, not fight,” the boy said with a shrug, mimicking the movements Ormund had shown him from a short distance away.
The two men exchanged a thoughtful look. A Targaryen would never cease to be a Targaryen…