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The man slumps to the ground, the life already gone from his eyes before his limp body hits the stony floor of the sept. Daeron thinks he might collapse himself, unable to draw a breath and with the sharp taste of bile rising in his throat.
He feels the urge to let go of the sword, but his fingers refuse to obey, gripping the hilt as though it were the only thing keeping him upright.
Vigilance is a beautiful weapon, a true work of art, crafted from Valyrian steel and ivory. When Daeron was younger and still full of dreams about chivalry and tourneys and the illusion that battles meant nothing but glory, he used to beg Lord Ormund to let him polish the ancestral sword of House Hightower, perfectly willing to take over a squire’s duty just to be able to get a closer look at the masterful engravings. Back during those warm Oldtown summers, when the golden sunlight flooded the training yard and made blades and armour glint, Daeron, like most noble boys, had excitedly awaited the day when he himself would be allowed to exchange his wooden training sword for a real one.
Now, in the small sept in Tumbleton, with a gruelling march behind them and open war looming ahead, Vigilance feels heavier than ever.
Daeron is ripped out of his memories by movement that makes the flames flicker, followed by Tessarion’s low growl, and he expects the gentle touch on his cheek before he actually feels it. Ormund’s hands are as clean as ever, nails impeccably trimmed and skin deceptively soft.
Surely you do not wish to disappoint me, he had said in that fatherly voice he is a master of, as he had put the sword in Daeron’s hands.
Daeron doesn’t need to look up at his guardian’s face to be certain he has passed Ormund’s test. He can tell by the way a thumb gently brushes away a stray tear, by the fact that he is allowed to stand there in silence and stare at nothing, at anything but the dead man on the floor.
“You have proven yourself a man capable of dispensing justice when needed,” Ormund’s voice finally breaks the silence, and again it’s that soft, warm tone that almost makes Daeron believe the honeyed words, against his better judgement. The same voice that he’d heard dispense countless teachings over the years, the voice that praised him for doing well in his studies and calmly explained to him why he would need to be punished for his failings.
“Today you have shown me that you are ready to assume the role the Gods have planned for you,” Ormund tells him, and finally Daeron raises his eyes to look into a face that desperately makes him want to believe it. The lord’s angular features are softened by the altar’s candlelight and there is true, honest pride in his eyes – the kind that would make Daeron’s heart beat faster if it wasn’t for the weight of the blade still in his grip and on his mind.
As if reading his ward’s thoughts, Ormund takes Daeron’s hand and gently pries the white-knuckled fist open, taking Vigilance back. The physical weight lifts, but a different sort of heaviness lingers.
Without a conscious thought, Daeron crosses his empty hands behind his back, squares his shoulders and lowers his gaze, easily falling back into the posture that had been thoroughly beaten into him a long time ago.
“You have proven yourself worthy of being made a knight. The next step on your path to glory.” Ormund sounds as if this brings him tremendous satisfaction, as if it were his grand victory rather than the young prince’s; his own greatest achievement.
Nothing about all of this has been glorious so far, Daeron thinks, but as always he keeps his mouth shut.
Ormund’s hand wanders from Daeron’s cheek to his shoulder, applying just the faintest hint of pressure, but it’s enough for Daeron to understand what his lord wants before he says it.
“Kneel,” Ormund prompts, and it’s the kindest that word had ever sounded from his lips.
Pliant as ever, Daeron sinks to his knees, shifting at the last moment to avoid soaking his breeches in the rivulets of blood flowing from the dead man.
In a way, the familiarity of kneeling before an altar of the Seven feels comforting. Ever since Uncle Gwayne had told Daeron that his mother was an exceptionally pious woman, he made it a priority to visit the sept regularly and to always say his prayers before bedtime. Maybe Queen Alicent would hear about her youngest boy’s devotion to the Seven and hopefully it would please her.
Behind Daeron, Tessarion hisses and pulls on her chains. She doesn’t know anything about the rituals of knighthood, doesn’t understand that this is a great honour. All she sees is her rider on his knees and his lord looming over him with a blade drawn.
Daeron twists around and holds his hands up. “Lykirī,” he tells her. Be calm. Daeron’s own heart races and the dragon’s nostrils flare nervously. Her golden eyes, illuminated by the light of the candles, dart back and forth between the two figures in front of her. He desperately wishes to cross the distance between them and touch her, feel the roughness of her scales dig into his palms and let her know that nothing is wrong. That this is what is supposed to happen. Because it is, isn’t it? The will of the Gods, Ormund had said.
Against his will, Daeron’s head turns towards the dead body, half hidden from his sight by Ormund’s legs. Against all irrational, childish hope, it is still there, still dead and still leaking red onto the floor of the sept.
Tessarion moves again, and the sounds she makes are those of pure anguish. Ormund flinches, and across the room, Jon Roxton, half hidden in the shadows, shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
“Tessarion, dohaerās,” Daeron tries again, more assertive this time. Or as assertive as is possible when he’s kneeling on a cold stone floor and his hands still haven’t stopped shaking. “Lykirī! Umbās!” Be calm. Stay where you are.
Every fibre of his being craves to be alone with her, to be able to throw his arms around her neck and curl up against her unnatural warmth without Ormund’s disapproving stare boring into him and without any snide comments about how his clothes will stink of sulphur.
Surely Tessarion must feel her rider’s distress, but she obeys his command, smart enough to know that defiance will only make the situation worse.
Clever girl, Daeron thinks, a tiny spark of pride in his chest, I’ve trained her well.
He turns away from his dragon and steels himself to face Ormund again.
The Lord of Oldtown stands over his ward, looking more imposing than usual while framed by shadow and candlelight. Daeron is almost the same height as his guardian now, and he hasn’t stopped growing yet. Now, however, staring up at Ormund from the floor, he feels like a child again, small and unimportant.
“Daeron Targaryen,” Ormund says, and Daeron is almost taken aback by how soft the name can sound from the lips of a man who usually uses Targaryen as an insult. “Do you swear before the eyes of Gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves?”
It seems a sacrilege to even ask that question, as rhetorical as it might be, when the corpse of a man who died by Daeron’s own hand for defending innocents is cooling only a few arm’s lengths away.
“To protect all women and children…”
Daeron thinks of all the women and children of Tumbleton, the hostages who are endangered by the Hightowers’ mere presence in this town, and only years of practice when it comes to schooling his features allow him to keep a neutral expression.
“…to obey your captains and your liege lord…”
It’s very much like Ormund to use these knightly vows to pull the leash tying Daeron to him even tighter. Not for the first time, Daeron wishes Uncle Gwayne was here. If Gwayne was the one bestowing this knighthood onto him, it actually might mean something. It might feel like an honour and not just like a farce, a mummer’s play meant to lure Daeron in.
But Gwayne is somewhere out there risking his life for Daeron, and the only people here are Ormund and his loyal dog, Roxton, a few soldiers who probably think him a spoiled princeling, a chained dragon and a dead man. Of course Ormund would never allow anyone else but himself the privilege of knighting his young prince.
“…to fight bravely whenever needed…”
When Daeron had been a child who could still afford to indulge in fantasies, he would imagine himself be knighted after performing some grand, heroic act of bravery. Saving a maiden from a monster. Defeating a cruel robber knight in a duel. Swooping in on his dragon and turning the tide of a hopeless battle. But they’ve been at war for months and he hasn’t done anything but stand a pace behind Ormund and let other people fight in his name, and the only blood he’s ever spilled is that of an innocent.
“…and to do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?”
Daeron swallows hard and thinks that this, at least, might be something he can do.
“I swear it,” he chokes out from between dry lips. He wonders if there has ever been a man in the history of the Seven Kingdoms who had to announce his own death sentence. If there was, he must’ve felt something like this.
Vigilance’s solid weight falls on Daeron’s shoulders. There is still blood on the blade and Daeron will have to remember to call for a servant to wash his tunic after this is over, or else Ormund will surely scold him for walking around in stained clothes.
“Then rise a knight,” Ormund orders, beaming with sickening pride, “Ser Daeron the Daring!”
With stiff legs, Daeron rises until he is face to face with Ormund again. The other man’s smile seems so incredibly genuine that Daeron is almost taken aback by it and, to his own bafflement, he finds himself smiling back. It’s all pretend, of course, and they both know it. Daeron the Daring… the most daring thing Daeron has ever done is sneak out of his quarters in Oldtown in the middle of the night to try riding Tessarion when she had first grown large enough to saddle, and he had been caught and punished so thoroughly that he’d never attempted to fly without permission again. Daeron the Chastised. Daeron the Obedient. Daeron the Meek. His cheeks burn with shame.
Ormund carefully sheaths his sword and then reaches for Daeron, and for a moment the newly dubbed knight thinks he is about to be pulled into a fatherly embrace. For an even shorter moment he wonders whether it would feel comforting being held like that. But the moment passes and the hand just ends up on Daeron’s chest, right over his heart.
“Go ahead,” Ormund whispers, and it’s so low that Daeron thinks these words must surely be meant for him, and not merely a part of the ceremony, “and light the way.”
Daeron is saved from having to react to this impossible charge by Tessarion growling again, but this time, it’s not a sound of agitation but of appetite. A sudden pang of worry flashes through Daeron – has she been getting enough food? They’ve lost all of their dragonkeepers and the regular guards avoid the dragon until explicitly ordered otherwise. She hasn’t been starving, chained up in this sept, has she?
Luckily, Lord Ormund appears to be in an uncommonly indulgent mood tonight, guiding Daeron to the side of the room and making way for an act he would usually call barbaric.
Tessarion doesn’t wait for an order from Daeron, which would worry him if he had any strength left for worry. She crawls forward, knocking several candles from the altar in the process, and this, too, should probably bother Daeron – something about the sheer sacrilege of bringing a beast born of dark blood magic into the sacred walls of a sept, but again, he is too tired to care.
Besides, I’ve desecrated this holy ground anyway by spilling blood, Daeron thinks as dragonfire illuminates the room. The sin is not Tessarion’s. She does not want to be here any more than her rider does.
Ormund’s hand never leaves Daeron’s shoulder as they watch the dragon devour the lump of charred flesh that, merely an hour ago, had been a brother, husband and father.
There in the small sept of Tumbleton, surrounded by the light of fire and the smell of blood, Ser Daeron the Daring silently begs the Gods for forgiveness.