Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Darlin don't go

Don't leave me out here on my own

Now if I said I'd be the one to hold you in my arms and that I never saw the day where you would leave me behind I'd be lying

And maybe we'd make this a brook too broad for leaping

Or maybe I've made myself too difficult to believe in

And love has her ways 

Love has her terrible ways

-The Ballroom Thieves, For Mercy

Rhaena Targaryen knows that this is not how one arrives into the city of one’s betrothed, cloaked on a horse, having ditched the ship that you are supposed to be travelling on.

But in her defense—winter is arriving this year. Travel shall be harder by the sea, and she wanted to get a lie of the land. Her guards and retinue had protested her travelling by land, due to the cold, but not only is Rhaena the blood of the dragon, but she has a bit of a source of heat travelling with her.

Sure, there are no natural hot springs on the road between King’s Landing and Oldtown, but there is the dragon egg that finally hatched.

Because hidden beneath her cloak, perched on her shoulder, is a small pink dragon.

Rhaena's hair is plaited back in simple braids; she is wearing a gown that has seen its fair share of dirt on the road. To those that cannot see her dragon, Rhaena is nothing more than yet another serving girl.

And there is something liberating about it.

She is not the disappointing daughter of the Prince, the one Targaryen that took so, so long to find a dragon that they decided it would be worth more to the war and peace efforts to break her betrothal with Luke—there was already one child of Laena Velaryon engaged to the heir to the Iron Throne, why waste the other—and betroth her to Alicent Hightower’s youngest child than to wait for her to claim a dragon.

She is a traveler who carries no expectations, but she still has a way to defend herself, if anyone tries to cross her.

That isn’t something that a lot of people would have predicted when she was sent here, a peace offering to bring Daeron Targaryen back to court because Viserys declared it so, and even though he is just barely alive, he is still alive, and thus Alicent Hightower had to swallow down her pride and accept that at least she wasn't having to marry her daughter to a bastard, even if Daemon had to bite his tongue over the fact that his daughter had to marry one of "Alicent Hightower's brood—" though perhaps he was more okay with that than he appeared, considering the fact that she was his one child without a dragon. 

The war is over before it even began—and the peace struck with her own marriage to someone well out of the line of succession, because no one considers her important enough thanks to her lack of dragon

And to be completely honest, while Rhaena knows that she has to meet her prince, she wishes to get some measure of freedom before she has to bring him back to King's Landing to marry.

So yes, in the end, she snuck away from her retinue in order to arrive in Oldtown ahead of the winter winds and snow.

And thus, she arrives in the city just ahead of the first light snow of the year.

And she could head straight to the Hightower to get to know her betrothed, but she would prefer to get to know a bit about her future goodfamily ahead of time, from servants and smallfolk and the like. 

Rhaena doesn’t trust the Hightowers—or anyone else, for that matter. The only reason she’s here is because Viserys declared it so, and no one save Baela even really protested the match. Jace is happy with Baela, Luke is matched to a Baratheon, and her father didn’t even bother to say goodbye, just as he hasn't bothered with her thanks to her lack of dragon for so long.

So Rhaena heads into the markets—

And gets immediately run into by a boy racing past.

Somehow, he is the one that ends up on the ground, landing on his butt on the cobblestones, but when she reaches out a hand to help him up, she takes him in.

The boy clearly works in the Hightower household, going by the green of his garments, but he is like as not a squire or page or some other. Hells; he might even be a Hightower bastard, given the coppery shade of his hair.

Yet, despite that fact, he doesn’t have the sharp features of the Targaryens or so many Hightowers or other nobles—he seems a boy of his own, with round cheeks and bright eyes and snow silvering his hair.

“Garmund, my lady,” the boy says, and perhaps he isn’t a Hightower bastard, because when he smiles, it is too sweet a thing to be brought up in a house such as the Hightower, with the edges of its pointed stars carving its children into the shape of the Seven.

“Don’t worry,” Rhaena says, “I am not a lady.” At least—she isn’t, not now. She will be when her retinue arrives to the city, when she receives her gowns and handmaidens and the like, but as for now—she gets to just be a visitor. A stranger. Nothing more. “Just a visitor to Oldtown.”

“In that case—would you like to be shown around? I have to complete errands for the lord I work for, but if you’d like to see the markets, I can show you around," Garmund says, and his smile is painfully earnest in a way that scrapes at the inside of Rhaena's chest.

Rhaena doesn’t have to meet her betrothed until tomorrow. And for now—

A chance to explore. To discover.

And how can she say no?

---

So Garmund shows her around the Oldtown markets, picking up perfumes and an order from the smith.

Garmund is kind and polite with each of the people he meets, though he’s sure to introduce her as well, to show her how to haggle and even spares a copper to acquire her a pastry.

And while she’s had lords try to court her attention in the couple of years before she was engaged—and then not engaged—to Luke—she’s never had someone who didn’t know who she was just give her a fun time, especially not someone who didn’t have a reason to.

Though she must admit—when Morning pokes her head out from under the hood of Rhaena's cloak, Rhaena's heart plummets.

It shouldn't, of course; Rhaena loves Morning, her dragon, her reminder that she is bonded, that she has hope of a chance at something new.

But most people, when confronted with a dragon, would like as not cringe away or flinch in fear.

And she expects Garmund to be more of the same, especially as Morning decides to meet him right in the shadow of the Starry Sept, that famous hater of dragons and their ilk.

But instead, Garmund’s eyes go wide with delight. “You have a dragon?” he asks, “And you just—walk around with it?”

“I am a Targaryen,” Rhaena says, simple as that.

And Garmund’s brow furrows. “Are you here with the Lady Rhaena’s retinue, then?”

"Something like that," Rhaena agrees. He might assume her Lady Baela, might assume her anything other than Lady Rhaena herself, and Rhaena lets him do it, because if she can be unburdened by a duty she never asked for for just a few moments longer, she shall take it.

Garmund smiles and reaches out a hand, and Rhaena twitches to tell him not to, that for any non-Targaryen to reach for a dragon is just asking to be bitten or burned, and Morning might not have her flame yet, but she still has teeth, she can still be ferocious—

But instead, Garmund's hand opens, palm up, to reveal a piece of cooked meat pulled from his bag—quite the usual snack for a dragon, but not many would know.

Rhaena arches an eyebrow, delighted, curious. “How do you know what dragons like to eat?”

“I work in the Hightower. Sometimes spend time with the prince’s dragon,” Garmund admits, and there is something almost wistful in his voice as he says: “It’s been a long time since the Blue Queen was this size, but they do seem to like cooked lamb quite a lot regardless of size, do they not?”

And Rhaena thinks—you are a miracle, are you not?

---

Rhaena gets to pass a couple more hours in the market with Garmund before the bell on the clocktower rings and he has to leave for the Hightower, taking off at top speed with a quick bow to her.

Then she passes the night in an inn, even getting the chance to bathe and change into the one gown she brought with her in her saddlebag so that she could look presentable when meeting her betrothed, but when she arrives at the Hightower, a familiar perfume pervades the room, filling her nostrils with a sickly sweet scent as Lord Ormund Hightower and his cousin, Prince Daeron, her betrothed, enter the hall together.

"Lady Rhaena," Ormund Hightower says, "It is an honor to have you here in our halls," and it is hard to look at her future husband at first when Lord Ormund looms so large next to him, all broad shoulders and proud smirks and the sort of charisma that any Lord would wish to have—though there is something about him, despite the well manners he exhibits, that makes her skin itch.

Daeron, on the other hand—her future husband is a slip of a boy. The boy in front of Rhaena looks like he is not above the age of twelve. Maybe ten-and-three—not the ten-and-five years that she was promised. Clearly bonding with a dragon did not improve his health as it has so many riders before him.

He looks a Targaryen in coloring—narrow face, moon-pale hair, bright eyes—but there is a certain timidness to him. A boy—and a boy who would easily be influenced by the adult voices around him, if he is as shy and soft-spoken as he seems, barely able to shake her hand and seemingly completely unable of looking her in the eye as he quietly says, "Hello, Your Grace."

Still—Rhaena is here for a reason, to bring the boy that she is supposed to marry back to King’s Landing.

But it is hard to focus on her betrothed or even his uncle—the one she is exchanging pleasantries with—when her gaze catches on the face behind both of them.

Rhaena almost cannot stop herself from bursting into a smile when she sees him there—Garmund, of the sweet smiles and the dragon delight and the ease about the city.

But he isn’t smiling at her, because he isn’t looking up at her.

Those bright eyes that so interested her out on the streets of Oldtown she is barely able to see, because he is staring down at the ground, his hands proper behind his back, his posture rigid.

There are no sweet smiles. There is no bright light in his eyes.

There is nothing more than the way that his neck bows, the way that his spine bends, the way that he doesn’t speak a word until Lord Ormund orders, “If you would get the door for Lady Rhaena,” not even deigning to speak Garmund’s name. 

And Garmund says, “Yes, sire,” stepping forward with perfect deference to the Lord in question.

Rhaena nearly frowns. Gone is the boy with the bright, curious eyes who wanted to meet her dragon—in his place is a servant or a squire, obedient to the Lord of the tower.

But her gaze jerks from Garmund when Ormund says, "And perhaps along the way, your dragon might be chained—"

Rhaena laughs. “She is still growing. She shan't need to be contained until she's of the age when she can breathe fire, at the very least. She's supposed to stay with me in order to grow properly, sustained by the dragon bond.”

Ormund's mouth twists for one brief moment before smoothing itself in. “Then just…keep an eye on your dragon,” he says, but there is something in the way that he says dragon that almost sounds like he wishes to say pest instead.

Behind Ormund, Garmund winces.

---

That night, Rhaena cannot sleep.

And so she slides on her slippers and a decent cloak—even in the Reach, where the weather is far more temperate than back on Driftmark, the winter is still winter, and thus a chill must be accounted for—and heads for the kitchens.

Even with the winter arriving in the Reach, the grain and meat stores have been properly prepared. Meat has been salted, and there shall be plenty of pastries and sweets and other goods for a long while. If there is one region in the country other than the North and Dorne that shall be able to survive a winter easily, it is the breadbasket of the realm.

The kitchen should be empty this time of night, when the hour of the eel bleeds into the hour of ghosts.

And yet, there is a figure here, dressed in green, copper hair spilling across the back of his head, two single braids tied together in the back.

And Rhaena cannot help her smile, even with his lack of forthcoming information about working for the Lord of the Hightower earlier.

“You could have told me that you were Lord Hightower’s squire,” Rhaena says.

Garmund nearly jumps as he spins around, a pastry clutched in hand, and her smile only grows. She certainly knows a thing or two about sneaking down to the Pentoshi kitchens with her sister, and then eventually the Dragonstone ones with Baela, Luke, Jace, and even occasionally Joffrey, when he pulled on his brother’s cloaks enough to beg his way into late night pastries.

Garmund bows to her. “My lady,” he says, “Please forgive me, for how familiar I acted out in Oldtown—"

Rhaena shakes her head. “Do not bow to me. I told you, once—I am not a lady.”

“But you are, and you deserve respect as such. If I had known that you were the Lady Rhaena from the beginning,” Garmund says, “Then I would not have—I suppose I just—" Garmund swallows. His gaze flicks down, just as he did back when she was meeting her betrothed for the first time, and she aches to tell him that she is not someone to be afraid of. “I just wished for one afternoon to forget the life I live.”

Rhaena’s brow furrows. “Lord Ormund—is he a cruel master?”

Garmund won’t look her in the eye, and that tells her enough. Instead, he says, "Earlier, in the markets—I was gathering perfumes for Lord Ormund. He has a sensitivity to odors. That is why—" Garmund swallows, sighs, and admits the truth. “The Lord says I’m not supposed to speak with you.”

Rhaena supposes she understands—she is betrothed to another, after all.

“Well, then,” Rhaena says, “We shall just have to be friends in secret, will we not?”

Garmund’s face opens, light breaking across it. “You still wish to—?”

“As long as you call me Rhaena.”

Garmund’s cheeks turn a delightful shade of pink. “That would not be proper—"

Fuck proper, some voice in Rhaena’s head that sounds much like her father says, but aloud, she doesn’t speak as her father does; rather, she says, "If I steal a pastry as well, will the cook realize they are missing?”

Garmund finally offers her up that sun-bright smile she saw out in Oldtown. It is a shy thing, she sees now, but no less earnest. “Yet another of my secrets—we are friends, the cook and I. That is how I manage to sneak pastries under the Lord's nose.”

Rhaena grins in return. “Do you have a favorite?”

“Lord Ormund prefers the rose water, as he says that they are pure and representative of the heavens, but I like the strawberry," Garmund admits.

"Reach boy through and through, aren't you?" Rhaena asks.

Garmund shrugs, popping a bite of pastry into his mouth. "Raised here among the Flowers, yes," he says with a smile.

"And a prince," Rhaena pokes, because she cannot help herself, because she has at least a few drops of her father's blood in her.

And she nearly regrets it, when Garmund says, "He is a good lad. With a nice heart, no matter what Lord Ormund wishes to carve him into.”

“You sound so much older than your years,” Rhaena says.

Garmund’s smile is a thin, thready thing. “Sometimes it certainly feels like it. But I—he is my friend, as much as a prince can have friends. And I wish—I wish for him to be happy.”

And it is an honest thought, she can tell. An honest reckoning, one lowborn boy to a highborn one.

Rhaena knows a thing or two about how circumstances around a birth can separate out even those who should be the closest.

She aches for her sister. Misses Baela like a lost limb.

But Baela is to be a Queen someday, and Rhaena shall see her soon enough, when she introduces Baela to her future husband, a boy with bright eyes framed by strands of copper—

Silver. Long, silver-blonde strands, like a proper Targaryen, like her father, not like Garmund. Of course. Rhaena knows her duty. Knows how the story of Targaryen princesses goes.

But on this evening, here in the kitchens, Rhaena shares sweets with a boy whose hair is as bright as the fire in the fireplace here in the kitchens.

---

While at the Hightower, outside of the kitchens in the middle of the night, Rhaena shares meals with Daeron.

Her future husband is certainly polite, in the few words that he manages to exchange in between Lord Ormund's boasting about the Hightower and the Faith and the Citadel and every shining jewel that has been kept within the Hightower's banner for so long.

Rhaena tries to engage Daeron, it must be said, but Daeron's responses are all quiet, clipped. “Yes, milady,” he says, and his voice is soft, his eyes darting to Lord Ormund, as if looking for approval.

And Rhaena has to hold back a sigh. It is a good thing, in a way, not to have an arrogant husband.

But to have one without a single opinion of his own? To have one that will be nothing more than a faint ripple in the waves, too young and too nervous to do anything more?

There is a difference between gentleness and passivity. Between stubborn steadiness and being weathered away by the ocean.

---

Daeron, Garmund, and Ormund head for the sparring grounds, and Rhaena sticks around for just a glimpse of her future husband—

And some part of her is curious about her squire as well, and how he might do on the sparring grounds.

Garmund can fight. He is a squire; of course he can fight. 

But there is something about the way that he moves that conveys practice, instinct, an almost serpentine movement.

And he beats Daeron. Prince Daeron, who has the same silvered hair as Prince Aemond but none of his bite, none of his ferocity; the boy could be mistaken for not being a dragon at all if it weren't for the Blue Queen that everyone in King's Landing has heard of, that Garmund has confirmed the existence of.

Garmund reaches out a hand to Daeron at the end, to help him up off of the ground, and Daeron offers up a smile of gratitude to Garmund that has Rhaena smiling, in her own way.

But up at the railing, Ormund turns up his nose at the sight, and when both boys glance skyward to the Lord of the Hightower—

Both boys grimace, these twin expressions, mirrors of each other in copper and silver, the sort of ache that you learn from growing up next to each other.

Maybe she estimated an age wrong by a year or two. One boy hits a growth spurt early, the other does not.

He is my friend, as much as a prince can have friends. 

Both of them learning obedience, fear, reckoning, at the hands of a Lord who expected such things, she thinks.

At least—

She's pretty sure she understands.

There are things that Daemon Targaryen teaches a person, after all.

---

Ormund welcomes her to explore the “miracles of the Hightower," but there is something in the way that he looks at the dragon on her shoulder—pretty, pink, beautiful Morning, the source of Rhaena’s hope, the source of Rhaena’s delight—that makes her think that he would rather see the back of her. That it is less about introducing her to Oldtown than it is about getting her out of his sight—though instilling some sense of awe in the Hightower will certainly be a benefit, in his eyes.

Still—Rhaena is a curious soul, it must be said. It's why she headed into Oldtown ahead of her retinue. It's why she spent the day with Garmund in the market.

So Rhaena leaves to go the library, to explore the Hightower, and there are a many interesting tomes in there that she would be interested in trying out reading, that is for certain, but she has more of an interest in getting to know her future betrothed—maybe, if she catches him outside of his cousin’s grasp, he might speak more than a few words to her. He might even meet her eyes.

So she heads up to the floor that hosts the chambers of the Lords of the Hightower, and thus, both Ormund and Daeron's chambers.

But instead of finding Daeron, she finds Garmund and Ormund speaking in Ormund's chambers.

Or, to be more specific, she hears familiar voices, and she cannot help the truth—she has always been too curious for her own good.

So Rhaena peaks inside of the cracked door, and her cheeks heat as she sees it—Ormund Hightower, naked, getting out of the bath.

Garmund is there, to drape his tunic over his shoulders, to help him dress, and it is the sort of thing that any ordinary squire should do, but when he’s done, when Ormund is fully dressed and he turns around—

Despite their heights not being that dissimilar, there is something about Ormund Hightower’s presence that dominates a room.

There is something in Rhaena’s skin that crawls at the way that Ormund reaches out to Garmund, gripping Garmund’s chin tight in one hand, his other hand against Garmund’s chest, too close, too tight.

“I have raised you in the light of the Mother, and soon enough, that filth shall be gone from our halls. You shall be cleansed of this taint on your body and blood.”

Each word is sharp, digging shards beneath the skin, a reminder of something that is wrong with Garmund, and Garmund is shaking.

It is clear that he is trying not to, that his body is as still as can be, as at attention as can be.

Something in Rhaena’s chest shrivels tight.

She remembers how her father used to get in close with Rhaenyra. Remembers the way that fingers curled around a jaw, a neck, a shoulder, grasping, wanting, needing.

The way that at the end of the day, with her mother dead, with her uncle murdered, Daemon Targaryen got exactly what he wanted.

“Once the prince goes to King’s Landing with his bride, your attention will no longer be split,” Ormund says, and his voice is soft as silk, an abrupt change from the sharpness of his voice before, almost honeyed, as if to tempt the boy in front of him to agree to his statement. "It shall be just you and I, finally, and you won't have to worry about things such as a prince's marriage ever again."

And something in Garmund relaxes, melts, at the words. At the reassurance. 

And Rhaena's stomach shudders.

Then Ormund finally, finally, lets go of Garmund—an occurrence that she is incredibly grateful for—and they both start heading in her direction, so she peels away from the door, straightening her skirts, making to look as if she wasn't just eavesdropping on her host and his squire.

They step out of the room and the moment that Lord Ormund catches sight of Rhaena, he smiles at her, this false charm, and she smiles right back in the way that she used to smile in Pentos, when she knew that she was the overlooked, unwanted child, that she was the hanger-on, the dragonless Targaryen that carried no use to the Prince of Pentos—someone that had to be dealt with rather than actively being wanted in her own right.

But behind him, before Garmund gets the chance to school his face, she sees something in his expression now that Ormund's attention isn't on him.

There is a feral, nigh-wild light in Garmund’s eyes. He looks—trapped.

And she knows that he is, now.

---

But this night, when she steps into the kitchens, she finds Garmund already ready with a small plate of bread and jam, something eager and earnest in his face as he turns to her.

“My lady,” he says, delighted to see her, and something curls as warm in her chest as Morning is on her shoulders.

To be your lady would be an honor, is the automatic response, but she is engaged to another.

And the more important fact of the matter—

Rhaena doesn't know how to bring it up. By the gods—she doesn't even know if she wants to bring it up.

How do you say—is he hurting you?

How do you say—I've only seen one person wrap their hand around someone else's neck like that, possessive rather than violent, and yet still—dominating. Looming.

I know that he loves her—that he has always loved her—but sometimes, I wonder—where is the place between possession and love? Where is the place between lust and ownership? Where is the place that a body goes when it has been trained to offer up its neck for the slaughter?

But as Rhaena steps forward to take one of the offered slices of bread, what comes out of her mouth instead is: “Do you have family here in Oldtown?”

“Or did Lord Ormund simply pluck me up off of the streets, is what you are wondering?” Garmund asks, smile sharp.

Rhaena shrugs. She would never be so ill-mannered as to ask the question as he states it outright, but it must be said that that is the truth of the question, at its heart.

Garmund answers, “I have no mother. Well, I suppose—we all have the Mother. But as for mine—I have never met her. I started to live with my uncle when I was but a babe.”

Rhaena's heart squeezes inside of her chest. She doesn't have an uncle of her own, not a living one, but the dead mother—that, she understands. “My mother died as well,” Rhaena says.

And Garmund immediately reaches out a hand to her, for her to take, to reassure her, she is sure, and there is something sweet to it, as there always is for Garmund, who has always been the sweetest boy that she has ever met. “I do hope that you had other people there for you,” he says, all earnestness.

Rhaena nods. “My sister, and eventually, my stepbrothers and half-brothers.” She cannot help a wistful smile as she thinks about Baela, Luke, Jace, Joffrey, Aegon, and Viserys. No matter the fact that they were often wrapped up in dragons and dragonriding and training and the like, there were moments where they were close. When she felt more their blood than her own. Even the moments made of fire and blood, fights that started with grif and fury and ended with the flash of knives and, were moments of bonding.

She misses her sister, now. This is the longest that she’s ever been without Baela.

But soon enough, she shall return to King’s Landing and shall wrap her arms around Baela and Jace and Luke and Joffrey and Aegon and Viserys, shall introduce them to a husband that she barely knows, and shall be happy for it. 

She has to, right?

Rhaena swallows. “Tell me about your uncle,” she says.

A small smile flickers to Garmund’s lips. “My uncle—he is kind. But he is out of town, right now. Lord Ormund sent him off to war.”

Rhaena’s brow furrows. “The war is over. It never even began. Why would he—"

Garmund swallows. His fingers twitch, picking at themselves. “My uncle—he is a knight. And thus, he must follow the orders of his lord.”

And Rhaena thinks of the sight of Ormund’s hand pressed against Garmund’s chest, thinks of the fact that there is no one to step between him and the fingers wrapped around his throat.

Something nasty sours her throat. She knows that grasping touch. She knows the way that men look at things that they wish to seize by the throat.

(She knows the way that her father looked at Rhaenyra, the night of her mother's funeral, like a catch to be won.)

When she was dragonless—when all of the lords in the kingdom thought that it would be easy to snatch her and her dowry up—many of them looked at her like that, like they wanted to take her, a Targaryen lady, off to their keeps and castles to keep as a prize forever.

The pieces are clear—Lord Ormund clearly wanted to keep Garmund to his own.

But Garmund is not as nervous around her as he clearly is when they are both upstairs, with Prince Daeron and Lord Ormund.

He still sneaks around, when he can.

And so she chooses to think of that as a sign of trust, especially when she goes to grab a pastry and their hands brush, her fingers dragging across his bony knuckles, and Rhaena’s breath catches in her throat.

His hands are calloused by swordwork and other squiring duties, likely by the metal and armor buckles on Lord Ormund's armor.

But there is something more here, she thinks, because he doesn’t flinch back or freeze, not in the same way that he does upstairs, when Ormund touches him.

Rather—he almost seems to lean into the touch. To move closer to her.

Does he wish to be touched as much as she does? Is there something in him that yearns, that aches, for a sweet touch?

They snack on the pastries in peace for a few minutes, but when they are finished, the sweet crumbs consumed and the plate placed in an empty basin for later cleaning, Daeron offers out a hand to her. "For my lady,” he offers with a smile, "Would she honor me with a dance?" and her heart leaps within her chest.

Rhaena has attended banquets before. The betrothal banquet for Jace and Baela before she left King’s Landing was accompanied by dancing, as was Aegon and Helaena's match.

But with all of the musicians and the minstrels and the singers, nothing quite felt like this. Than spinning around the kitchens of the Hightower, lit only by a couple of candles, a handful of stolen pastries in her stomach.

Because the fact of the matter is that Garmund’s laughter is a more beautiful song than any that she has ever heard before, and the way that he looks at her—the way that he looks at her, all those bright eyes, all that earnest delight—

For a moment, it is possible to forget that Rhaena is supposed to marry another boy. That there is a dragonrider out there that her hand is meant to go to.

Because if the choice was the dragonrider or the boy that is sweet as the pastries that he loves—

There is only one person that she wishes to kiss. Only one person that she wants to dance with.

And it is a boy of copper hair rather than silver, a boy of smiles that can be as sharp as they are sweet, a boy who she will only get so many dances with before she is sent back to King’s Landing with a boy who is next to a stranger to her.

But for now—

For now—

For now, they can spin around the kitchens, his smile sun-bright to her senses.

His hair might be copper, but his laughter is more than golden beneath the flickering candlelight.

---

Rhaena does try to get to know her future husband, of course.

But it is a hard task to attempt.

The boy barely speaks to her. He seems nervous. Timid.

But everyone knows that the moment that one claims their dragon, their shyness starts to fade. They become bolder, fiercer, more sure. 

She remembers Aemond, after he claimed her mother’s dragon, the way that even a slash to the face, the loss of an eye, did not make him shier—it made him more ferocious. More vicious.

And even the Targaryens that weren’t necessarily fighters—Aenys, Alysanne, Rhaena, even Rhaena's younger brothers case in point—they all became stronger. More confident. More willing to strike out.

Daeron Targaryen is not just shy—he speaks barely at all, save in the shortest of careful manners, and Rhaena cannot quite blame him, considering the way that Ormund Hightower’s personality takes up every single room that he is in, carving space out of every conversation to make room for the Lord of Oldtown, the Lord of one of the most powerful houses in the Seven Kingdoms.

And it's not as if Rhaena has gotten the chance to speak with Daeron without Ormund in the room. 

(She has a feeling that if Ormund was aware of the fact that she was friends with his squire, he wouldn’t let her alone with Garmund, either.)

And so maybe, perhaps, if she saw Daeron with his dragon, she might see some of that shyness melt away. She might be able to see what he would be like with her, one-on-one, without Ormund or anyone else with them.

So Rhaena requests, "Might I meet your dragon, my prince?"

Daeron's eyes dart side to side, as if nervous, and Rhaena understands that introducing someone to a dragon for the first time can be a strange and even nerve-wracking thing. How might the dragon respond to a stranger? Will the dragon allow in a new person within its life?

But Ormund nods. "Of course you may meet Prince Daeron's dragon, milady," Ormund says, as if he has no protest.

And maybe Rhaena would have believed him, if it wasn't for the state of the Blue Queen when she sees Tessarion for the first time.

---

They go not to the hills, to the cliffs, but to the Sept.

It is one thing, to chain up a dragon. The dragons are kept in the Dragonpit when they are not flying, but the idea of keeping a dragon of this size trapped in a hold this small—there is something about it that crawls beneath Rhaena’s skin. Morning is only the size of a large cat, still small enough to perch around Rhaena’s shoulders thanks to the weight of her hollow bones alleviating the weight, and yet she cannot imagine having to chain Morning down like this.

But Tessarion is chained to the inside of a Sept. A sept, clearly not designed to be kept like this. 

Her scales are well kept and cared for, but there is something trapped in her gaze. Something hunted.

She strains at her bonds, her gaze locked not on Daeron but on Ormund, as if he might be a threat worth paying attention to, a thought that Rhaena cannot help but agree with.

And in his turn, Ormund turns his nose up at the creature, a certain disgust entering his expression, and Rhaena had known that the Faith wasn’t the biggest fans of dragons, but the sheer disgust in his face—he looks like if he could, he would take his sword and saw straight through Tessarion’s neck as easily as a ratcatcher would through the neck of a rodent.

Lord Ormund has a sensitivity to odors. That is why I was picking up perfumes.

Perhaps that is it. The scents that are calming to Rhaena—the ash, the scale oils, the fire—are likely overwhelming to Lord Ormund, a suspicion only proven by the fact that he pulls a small bauble from his pocket and waves it beneath his nose, as if that is where the perfumes that Garmund acquired for him are stored for him to relieve the stench.

Morning curls up tight beneath Rhaena’s cloak, entwining closer to her neck, and Rhaena cannot help but understand her. Morning deserves more than chains and disgust. She is hope. She is the dawn, breaking golden and pink over the horizon—

Huh. Wait a minute.

It is not often that someone who is not Targaryen or a dragonrider touches a dragon, and yet, while Daeron is busy with Tessarion, Garmund has a hand against Tessarion’s side as well.

Where Daeron smiles at the creature, it is a tight thing, and it makes something in Rhaena’s heart crunch, especially when she sees Daeron’s gaze dart over to Garmund before quickly moving back to Tessarion and Ormund.

Rhaena knows far too well how much joy, how much relief, there is in a bond with a dragon. How it feels as natural as breathing. How Morning being on her shoulder feels more natural than it does not, sunlight to the senses, warmth to a heart so used to frost.

So why does Daeron seem almost frightened of his dragon?

Is it because Ormund requires Tessarion to be locked up like this? Has Ormund raised a Targaryen to be afraid of their own dragon?

It feels a blasphemous act. A profanity, against the very blood in their veins.

To bond with a dragon, to feel its warmth, is the most natural thing that a Valyrian can do. Rhaena spent years aching to do it herself.

And yet—Daeron doesn't care about it. Doesn't want it, need it as much as Rhaena craved it down to her very bones for years.

He won't understand that part of her. Won't understand that need for freedom. That need to fly.

Daeron is a decent enough boy, she has to give it to him. But he is more fear and shyness and youth than the hot springs of earnestness and kindness and curiosity that manages to spring warm in Garmund despite the circumstances.

Rhaena had never been foolish enough to presume that she would have the same passionate interest in her husband that her father and Rhaenyra had, nor did she particularly desire it. She'd braced herself to be a second choice, if a choice at all, like her mother, less than her mother, who had a dragon, who was beautiful and dazzling and braver than a dragon, who had far more going for her than Rhaena did.

But Rhaena never anticipated being the one to fall for someone other than her husband. Never anticipated being the one to make Daeron her second choice. Women don't tend to have that option unless they are the Crown Princess, and even then, Rhaenyra had been enveloped by her uncle's embrace before too long, wasn't she, consumed by Daemon Targaryen's hunger.

And yet, when Rhaena looks at Daeron, when she thinks of Garmund and dancing in the kitchen—

It is blasphemy under the Seven to covet a man outside of your marriage, but her father had always turned his nose up at the gods of the Andals, and though Rhaena had never cleaved to her father as much as the other children had, thanks to his clear disinterest in her, she at least took that to heart.

---

At the end, as they exit the Sept, Ormund seems angry about something, his lips twisting, the corners of his eyes wrinkling as they narrow together.

There is something hard and heavy knotting itself inside of Rhaena’s stomach as she watches Garmund and Ormund walking off together, Ormund’s fingers grasping onto Garmund’s shoulder.

There are secrets here in the Hightower, she knows all too well. They live half-glimpsed behind the cracks between the doors and their hinges, only able to be seen through windows too high up in the air for any ladder to climb to.

The people in the Hightower can look out; no one else can look in.

Well, it’s a good thing that Rhaena has a dragon, right?

---

They are supposed to leave for King’s Landing in a week.

That’s one week left with Garmund. One week left before they have to leave this place.

And Rhaena is intent on snatching as many nights together in the kitchens as they can, for both of their sakes. Garmund deserves a break from Ormund’s oppressive presence and his own abiding obedience.

There’s just one problem, though: when she comes down to the kitchens, she doesn’t find Garmund standing there, waiting for her with bread and jam or with pastries.

Rather, she enters the kitchens to find him sitting on the ground, back against one of the cupboards, curled up with his knees against his chest.

His face is twisted away from her, his shoulders hunched in on themselves, but she can see that he is holding a damp rag to his face, even if the shadows make it hard to make out his expression.

Still—she thinks that his bright eyes flick up to hers as she enters the kitchens, and her heart curls in on itself when she sees his expression fall, as if disappointed that she is here.

“My lady,” Garmund says, “You do not need—you can take the pastries and go, I won’t be good company on this evening—"

Oh, disappointed not by her, but because he thinks he will be a disappointment to her—a feeling that Rhaena knows all too well.

And a feeling that Rhaena will not abide.

Rhaena steps forward and sits down on the ground next to him, uncaring of how her nightgown and cloak will be affected.

“Your skirts, my lady—!” Garmund protests, but Rhaena doesn’t care.

“What happened?” Rhaena reaches out a tentative hand to grasp his fingers and pull them away from his face, but she doesn't think about how a creature that has learned to react like prey in a trap might flinch at sudden movements.

Because Garmund winces, and she pauses, the words rotting and dying on her tongue, but he doesn’t try to pull away. He doesn’t try to stop her.

And so she tries again, gently pulling his fingers and the rag away from his face.

And even in the flickering candlelight of the kitchens, she can see the red mark marring his pale skin, starting to bruise the apple of his cheek.

A fucking brand against the skin.

“It will heal,” Garmund says with the sort of certainty you only gain when you’ve lived a long enough life to be sure. “This does not happen often—it is normally other servants, when I cannot get them out of the room first—Lord Ormund doesn’t wish to injure me, he considers me…precious, but his anger can sometimes—" He swallows. “Just—do not worry. Lord Ormund wouldn’t let it linger.” And he almost seems to be trying to reassure her as he gives her small, forced smile and says, “I shall be presentable for when you leave, do not worry. I won’t mar the events of you and the prince leaving this place.”

But Garmund—he can’t be a day above fifteen. Sixteen would be pushing it.

That’s not a long life.

That shouldn’t be long enough to get used to this.

Except Rhaena knows a thing or two about lessons that you learn before you’re ready. About the way that grief scars a soul, about the way that you learn to accept the fact that life is going to punish you before you are given proof that there actually are good things awaiting you.

Morning proved that Rhaena could bond with a dragon just as much as her sister could, but she still has years before she can be a dragonrider. All those years spent without a dragon—all of those years spent as a failure, as a wreck, as a disappointment—taught her a thing or two about the importance of rare moments of kindness and support.

And Rhaena has dragonfire in her veins. Fury that blazes through her.

Garmund deserves someone who cares about him—someone who is here.

“I don’t give a shit if it lingers. I give a shit about the fact that it happened in the first place.”

Garmund’s eyes go wide. “I swear to you, this would not have happened if my uncle was here—"

“But he’s not here now, is he?” Rhaena’s hand squeezes Garmund’s. She cannot let this linger any longer. She cannot leave him in such a dangerous place. She refuses to let him continue to be abused by his master. No one deserves that, lowborn, highborn, regardless, especially not someone as kind as Garmund, to help out a strange girl just travelling through, to dance with a lonely vistor. “You have to come with us to King’s Landing when we leave,” Rhaena says, firm as anything.

She was raised by a mother who knew what she wanted out of life. A dragonrider who refused to linger in places where she did not want to, who flew the largest dragon in the world, who was a dragonrider to the very end.

Laena Velaryon was as strong as the sea, as swift as a storm. When she made a decision, it cracked down sharp as lightning.

She died a dragonrider's death because she refused to do anything but burn bright as can be.

Rhaena reaches out a hand to Garmund. “The prince’s dragon seems to like you,” Rhaena says, “And so does the prince. When we leave for King's Landing to be married, we can take you with us, away from Lord Ormund.”

But he gives her a smile, and it is a sharp, sad thing that guts her open, a blade straight between her ribs to shred her heart in two, as if he has accepted the truth a long, long time ago.

“I’m afraid that even a prince cannot go against Lord Ormund’s wishes,” Garmund says, absolutely resigned, “And Lord Ormund will not let me go.”

Rhaena remembers the way that Ormund’s fingers had curled around Garmund’s jaw, the way that his fingers had encircled his neck, the way that Ormund speaks of Garmund as a prize to be cleansed, not a boy to be celebrated.

If they leave him behind, without his uncle, without any sort of protection— 

Rhaena remembers how her father looked at Rhaenyra, back when she was younger. The way that Ormund has made Garmund dress him, touched Garmund, kept him tight and close.

Daemon and Rhaenyra Targaryen are married, now. They are married, and Rhaena remembers standing at the top of the steps in Dragonstone one night and it was just her and Rhaena’s father and she saw the way that her father had wrapped his hand around Rhaenyra’s neck and squeezed until she was gasping for breath.

Rhaena had wanted to scream, but she couldn’t, because she didn’t have a dragon, because a teenage girl cannot hope to stand against a dragonrider who is also one of the fiercest warriors in the real.

And now, all she has is Morning, who is not big enough yet to devour Lord Ormund, not big enough to defend Garmund, and she cannot speak to Daeron without Lord Ormund being there to ask about his dragon, and if she cannot find a way to get to the prince—to Tessarion—

There is a noose around Garmund’s neck, and yet—he is smiling at her and reaching out to take her offered hand in his.

“What about your uncle?” Rhaena asks, desperate.

“He won’t return before the wedding, and besides—he is no Lord of Oldtown. He has no power. And if I try to escape—Lord Ormund shall just send him into the worst of the fighting. And my uncle might be a knight, but he is still only one man. He can die just as much as anyone pierced with a sword or burned by a dragon can.”

“The war is supposed to be over,” Rhaena points out, but the argument tastes like dust on her tongue, because she remembers watching her mother burn, smelling the seared flesh, seeing the charred skeleton in the Pentoshi courtyard.

People die without wars all the time.

And maybe Garmund’s uncle might not die on the battlefield, but there are always bandits and assassins and from the evidence on his cheek, it’s clear that Ormund Hightower is not afraid of violence.

“Even before the threat of war was avoided with the marriage contract, Lord Ormund had all of the power here. And the prince—" Garmund’s gaze is sympathetic. “He doesn’t have much power, either.” He swallows, hard, staring at their entwined hands. “But I swear to you—he is a kind boy. When you are out of Oldtown, he shall treat you well as a husband, I swear it.”

And yet, even as Garmund is speaking of the virtue of another boy as her betrothed, he still doesn’t let go of her hand, despite the fact that there is a dragon curled warm around her shoulders, despite the fact that he is telling her that she shall be happy with another boy.

It feels impossible, this sweetness, this tenderness, this selflessness.

And Rhaena can’t imagine leaving Garmund behind.

I will come back for you, she promises herself, I shall come back when Morning is bigger, and I am married, and I can ride off with you back to King’s Landing. I do not care if you wish to be a mistress, or love me in return—I just need to know that you are safe.

“But until you go—we can still have these nights, right?” Garmund asks, and his voice is so desperately hopeful.

He is this close to her face. His eyes are bright as the moon glittering against the sea waves, impossible to look away from.

She wants to kiss him more than she wants to kiss her quiet, shy, young betrothed, who seems afraid of dragons, who doesn’t speak to her, who is his not this, the pastries and the dancing and the guide through strange places where she feels more a stranger than anyone around her and who more than anything, is hers.

And there is a moment, when his face turns to hers, when his bright eyes are looking into hers, that small, sweet smile on his lips, that she thinks—

But then she sees the mark on his cheek, and no. She is to be married, soon enough, and she is someone who is determined to be honorable and faithful in a way that her father never was, and she would not kiss him and leave him behind.

Yet, something inside of her aches. To see the stars in someone else’s eyes—to see the brightest pinprick of light she has ever known—on the verge of being snuffed out by him being trapped.

But Morning shuffles back, leaving one shoulder clear, and for a few minutes, at least, Garmund lies his head on her shoulders, and she reaches up to run fingers through this hair, careful not to disturb the small braid on the back of his head, careful not to disturb the bruise on his face.

And Morning, in her turn, curls around Garmund as well, and he startles just slightly at first, but he melts beneath Morning’s warmth, especially against the bruise forming on his face.

There is something about the way that he fits snugly against Rhaena's side that makes her ache for the fact that she wishes she could have this forever. That she could alleviate the chill in his bones, the cold of his master, the fact that he cannot find the same safety that she knows she can guarantee for herself in King's Landing.

And Rhaena makes herself a vow: I will not leave you behind. I will steal you away like a thief in the night, one way or another, whether your uncle arrives in time or not.

I just need to figure out the how.

---

Six days left. Six days left to figure out how to get Garmund out of this seventh hell on earth.

But Rhaena can do it, she knows it. She might not have a dragon to fly her out of this place, but perhaps she can convince Daeron to fly Garmund on his dragon, to demand that his uncle let him take Garmund as a squire—yes, Daeron seems to be younger than Garmund, and Daeron is not a knight yet, but surely they can figure out some solution that does not involve abandoning Garmund in Ormund Hightower’s grasping hands.

Six days left, but that will have to be enough. She will make sure that it will be enough.

Rhaena Targaryen is made of fire and blood and salt and sea. She is the daughter of Laena Velaryon and Daemon Targaryen. She was raised a traveller, a lady, a scholar, a dragonrider.

She made herself what she was after her mother died. Her father’s attentions were elsewhere, on lovers too young and too married and too full of fire.

Rhaena crafted herself out of her own bones. She managed to hatch a dragon not as a babe, but out of sheer determination at this age, digging the dragon egg out of the dragonmont herself, choosing it herself, taking it with her when she went.

Morning was named for the golden-pink light of the dawn. For the feeling of hope and relief that bowled Rhaena over when, alone on the side of the Kingsroad, having ditched her guards and the ship that was supposed to carry her, she hatched the egg that was keeping her saddlebag warm.

Rhaena Targaryen is not someone who gives up. She is not someone who gives in.

And Ormund Hightower does not get to take this from her. She refuses.

Even if she must wed Daeron Targaryen for the sake of alliance and peace, Garmund shall get to be his own man. 

And so Rhaena heads down to Oldtown to greet the retinue that is finally arriving, two weeks after she did. (The fault of going the long way around Dorne.)

There’s just one problem—before the ship arrives in the harbor, she catches side of a knight coming riding into Oldtown, face covered in ashes and grime. He is bent slightly, as if exhausted by battle, despite the fact that there hasn’t been a true battle in Westeros in a long, long time, only skirmishes and the like.

But if this is a knight that was sent off for a skirmish, a knight that was sent off and did fight, and hasn’t come back to Oldtown in ages?

It could just be a knight that went off to fight bandits, but if he hasn’t been seen in Oldtown the entire time that she’s been here despite the Hightower regalia, with hair just a shade brighter copper than Garmund’s—

God, the relief that sweeps through Rhaena is a tsunami, nearly sweeping her off of her feet entirely.

“You must be Garmund’s uncle,” Rhaena says with a beam, turning her eyes from the harbor.

But the knight’s brow furrows in exhaustion. “Who in the seven hells is Garmund? My only nephew here in Oldtown is Daeron Targaryen, and it has been too long since I last saw him—"

The first answer, of course, is that if this knight is her intended’s uncle, then Garmund in all likelihood is a Hightower bastard. A Flowers, who managed to prove himself worthy of being made into a squire.

But would Daeron really speak so fondly of a man who treats him as if he is not even worth being named related to him?

Perhaps. Rhaena used to speak of her father with pride, even when he was speaking dismissively of her for her lack of a dragon, even when he made it clear that the reason he was with his mother was because of her blood and the fact that no matter how incredible she was, no matter the fact that she was the best woman that Rhaena had ever known, Laena was somehow his second choice. 

But the second answer—the correct one, she is sure—is that Daeron Targaryen and Garmund are one and the same.

It seems an impossible solution to reach to the equation in front of her. 

But the red hair—not just copper, on Garmund, but auburn, so close in shade to Alicent Hightower’s. The fact that Garmund is the right age. The way that the dragons act around him, not as if he is some Hightower bastard, but as if he has at least some amount of dragonfire in his veins.

But why would Ormund Hightower ever perpetuate such a lie? Such a falsehood? It seems an insanity. It seems the most mad plan in the world.

She has to be wrong. She has to be incorrect.

And yet—

Alicent Hightower has a brother, does she not? A brother, Gwayne Hightower, who likely has her same rust-red hair, and who has a nephew here in Oldtown.

And so she smiles at the knight. “Sorry, good ser,” she says, “A mistake has been made, that’s all.” She offers out a hand. “Welcome back to Oldtown. I am Rhaena Targaryen, your nephew’s betrothed.”

And a mistake very much has been made, that is for certain.

“Ser Gwayne Hightower, my lady,” Gwayne offers her a smile, confirming the thought of his identity, the fact that he has the same bright eyes as Garmund does, the fact that he has copper in his hair.

Gwayne takes her hand, kisses the air above her fingers, proper as anything. He has no designs on her, she is certain of it, if Garmund—Daeron, if her suspicions are right, and she doesn’t know if she wants them to be right or not—spoke of him as kindly as he did, then he cannot be of the same grasping, possessive ilk as Ormund is.

So, is he Garmund’s uncle or Daeron’s uncle or somehow both?

The question is how will the story unravel? How will the tapestry unspool? 

There a chance, however slim, that this has all been a misunderstanding. That Garmund didn’t lie to her for so long. That there has been no betrayal, that there has been no lies, that there has been no deception.

That there is no way that a boy with a dragon was not so terribly bound by loyalty and fear and a dozen other aches that his cousin could slap him and yet the boy remained, anchored the ground beneath his shaking hands.

That the chains that bind Tessarion in the Sept are not the same ones that bind Garmund— 

Still, she needs confirmation. 

And she’s not stupid enough to think that if she confronts Garmund outright, he shall tell her the truth of copper hair and bright eyes and dragonfire running through one’s veins.

So, once again—snooping to discover the answers.

Morning might not be big enough to ride just yet, but she won’t need to be able to fly in order to look in the windows. The Hightower shall give Rhaena its secrets.

She will make sure of it.