Archive of Our Own

Gwayne is nearly finished rolling the strip of parchment up tightly, reaching for his seal in the dim, singular candlelight of the room when the strange woman's voice behind him startles the tightly rolled paper from his fingers.

"A pity, what the war will do to the innocent."

He's unsure of her purpose lingering behind him so he chooses to retrieve his letter instead, nodding slowly in agreement, "War is cruellest of all to the innocent."

"Who do you write to?" Gwayne eyes her suspiciously as he finishes sealing the letter, tucking it close to his hand.

"My cousin. Lord Hightower."

"Do send him my sympathies."

Gwayne would rather Ser Criston's company right now than this woman and that is a far stretch given his present irritation, he feels unsteady around her, as if standing on a ledge that is about to give way.

"Sympathies? My house does not require sympathies."

A smile, just like the one she had when she told them of the fall of King's Landing crosses her face, "No indeed Ser Knight. I suppose your father was more of King's Landing than your house."

"My father?"

"Dead. Executed by the queen herself." Gwayne crushes the letter in his hand as he sinks back down into his chair, the weary aches of his body suddenly tenfold in the wake of the news. "I do hope the boy does not suffer the same fate."

"Boy, what boy?"

His first thought is perhaps Aemond, still technically a boy though his actions have brought him years beyond the innocence of youth.

Putting her hands to her hips, the smile is gone but there is something alight in her eyes, pleasure in his suffering, "Why the little Prince Daeron of course. Your cousin handed him over to Daemon Targaryen. I imagine as an heir to the throne, he's dead by now."

Daeron.

Daeron.

Sweet, lovely kind Daeron who deserves the world that Gwayne couldn't give him. Who held his hand and chased butterflies, crawled into his bed during lightning storms. Daeron cannot be dead. Daeron cannot be gone.

She seems to soak in all the emotions he feels before leaving without another word as he sinks to his knees upon the cold stone floor.

He does not know how long he remains kneeling there, the crumpled note to Ormund in his palm. It all seems meaningless, the march, the war, Rook's Rest, racing to Harrenhal for a nephew that did not show up, whilst his nephew who needed him was passed off as fodder to save Ormund's own skin. He should march to Tumbleton now, only stopping to roll in piss and shit, and murder Ormund only after forcing him to suffer that stench.

He cannot believe Ormund would give up Daeron willingly, for all his faults, his cousin loves that boy. A plan or scheme gone wrong then. Gwayne would have rather offered his own head up for execution than allow a hair on Daeron's head to be harmed.

Alicent. Perhaps Alicent would be able to influence Rhaenyra just enough to spare his boy, though in the wake of his father's death, what leverage did Alicent have? One son gone, one son fled, a daughter in chains next to her, and Daeron, dead or chained all the same. And a brother stuck in a worthless ruin.

"Ser Gwayne?"

Gwayne doesn't even bother to lift his head for Criston, he has no desire to see the other's face.

"Are you taken unwell Ser?"

He feels as though the seven have struck him down with an incurable flu, his body aches with grief, his heart so pained it feels as though it barely beats.

"Gwayne." Criston repeats, his hand closing around Gwayne's shoulder, "Come, friend, let us get you in front of the fire."

"You are not my friend, Ser." Gwayne rises, if only to escape the other's touch, collecting his sword and letting his letter fall from his hand but he does not head in the direction of their huddled men within the scorched halls.

"Ser Gwayne-"

To Gwayne's great fortune, one of the men has only just begun removing the plated armour from Gwayne's horse, jumping in surprise as the knight himself appears next to him, "Leave it, please."

"We are to leave again Ser?"

"I am."

He pays no mind to Criston's shouts, though neither does he expect the Lord Commander to catch him halfway down the hill. "Ser Gwayne! Stop! You cannot leave."

"Clearly I can, because I have."

"I did not give you leave."

Gwayne turns his horse, getting as close to Criston as the horses allow him to before hissing through gritted teeth. "I did not ask you to."

"So you desert your position?"

"Rhaenyra has my family in King's Landing. I must return and find a way to save them."

"Alicent will be well- she was Rhaenyra's friend and is not a threat to the throne, Rhaenyra is weak-"

"Rhaenyra executed my father by her own hand." Realisation washes over the Dornish man's eyes at Gwayne's words, his head dipping.

"My condolences."

Gwayne can only shake his head, sweeping his hair back from his face as he realises he left his helmet within that small room where his world ended twice over. "He is not my priority, nor is my sister right now, you're right she's not a threat. My cousin Ormund has been charged with the care of the youngest prince since the boy's infancy. I just learned he was given over to the Rogue Prince as part of their deal for peace. So Ormund can go home, and Daeron-" He bows his head, "Daeron is likely already dead but I cannot leave that to chance."

Criston manages to get a hand on Gwayne's reins and in his desperation Gwayne debates drawing his dagger until he drops them. "Wait but a day for us to gather our strength then we will turn on King's Landing and-"

"Take it with what dragons? Vhagar is gone, Sunfyre is dead. We have nothing Ser Criston. All I have is a lifetime away from court and a relative anonymity that an army does not grant me. I ride for King's landing with or without your leave to do so. But I hope we can part in understanding."

He eyes Criston's hand upon his reins, daring him to continue holding him back from his nephew's safety.

"He begged me, Ser Criston, not to leave him when I turned to march for King's Landing, he begged me. And I brushed him aside. If that is the last memory he has of an uncle who would die for him-" Gwayne voice cracks before he bows his head in shame. "I must go to him."

"Go then. The seven be with you."

Daeron

As a boy, raised in Oldtown, Daeron dreamed of journeying to the Red Keep, to spend days with his siblings or his mother, his father never really came into that picture of childhood, he had the role of father filled enough within his life.

The reality of life within King's Landing is vastly different.

A brother dead, the other fled, one sister who wishes him dead or imprisoned endlessly, his other sister a prisoner just like him. A mother who has not even come to see him, if Rhaenyra even allowed such a thing.

Looking down upon the gallows, where the green's soldiers are being steadily led, dread fills his heart that perhaps Gwayne was still within King's Landing when it was taken, that he is one of the bodies below. He cannot allow himself to think such thoughts, Gwayne will be alive and well, safe from Rhaenyra's reach.

Blood blooms from his thumb as he digs in too deep to a scab, running down his hand and falling upon the windowsill before he attempts to slow the flow.

He sinks back onto the single bed, staring at the same four walls that he has looked upon for the last week. He wishes something would just happen, with nothing but silence his stomach churns day and night for the fear of his fate. In the consuming silence of night, he lies on his side and pretends that Gwayne is curled up in the bed beside him, like he used to when he was too tired or stubborn to return to his own chambers after a hard day of training. Sometimes he can nearly convince himself that Gwayne is humming softly under his breath like he often does to fall asleep or sleepily murmuring the names of stars in the hopes of boring Daeron to sleep. It is unfortunate that those memories bring as much tears as they do comfort, or he wakes reaching for an uncle who is not there.

On this day in particular, Daeron thinks of what might be Gwayne's reaction to finding he has been taken, perhaps when he returns to Ormund after his journeys. That would be an explosive reaction he is certain, no matter that Ormund did try his best to spare Daeron this fate, going as far as to push another young boy towards Daemon with bleached hair in his place. They didn't even make it to Daemon's dragon before the rogue prince realised that Tessarion had no reaction to the other boy being taken.

It was the men, in the end who gave Daeron up, after the threats of being burned alive. Daeron watched his uncle's devastated face as he and then Tessarion were taken, knowing for certain those men would be dead by the time he was in the air.

Tessarion fought, with all her might against three larger dragons to stay with Daeron in the dragon pits, until Daeron himself gave her the command to calm in the hope of sparing her, he knows in his heart she is alive, even if she is as chained and captive as himself.

The door to his small room opens and he raises his head in the hope of the maid who brings him food twice a day, then cringes at the sight of Rhaenyra, Daemon lingering behind her. Is this his death? Will Gwayne search for him until he finds a body?

"Tell me what you know of your uncle." Daeron's mind, upon hearing 'uncle' flashes to Gwayne, though he knows the Queen has no interest in his dead grandsire's son, Ormund then, he wonders what the man is doing if not marching back to Oldtown in defeat, minus one ward.

"My uncle?"

"Well she didn't mean me. Lord Ormund Hightower." Daemon crones behind her, "You know him I believe."

"W-what do you wish to know?"

"His strategies, his weaknesses, the man raised you, you must have more insight to him than any other. So you will tell me in exchange for your life."

"He- he-" His gaze gets stuck on the sword on which Daemon lovingly strokes the handle of, "He- is, intelligent."

"He almost fooled us with a fake boy, we know he has brains, tell us more." Daemon speaks over him, his grip becoming firmer on that sword. What if he tells them everything he knows and then they kill him. Ormund prepared him for many things, never how to be a hostage.

"He studies histories and ancient wars and- he always has a scheme."

"That much is obvious." Rhaenyra mutters, "Did your uncle tell you he planned to invade a town that raised my banner, and now holds it and my people as hostages."

"He rarely shared his plans-" Daemon groans from the doorway,

"What good is this boy to you Rhaenyra? We've got no use for him alive. His head on a pike would be much more convincing." Daeron swallows nervously, his gaze darting to his half-sister in the hope for more mercy.

"He has committed no crimes. My father-"

"Your father didn't even know this boy existed. I didn't know this boy existed. His death may sway Ormund-"

"His death may push Ormund to something drastic-"

Daeron shrinks upon himself as they argue about his death like they are debating supper, the longer it goes on, the longer he lets his mind drift, a mantra repeating in his mind. Gwayne will come. Gwayne will come. Gwayne will come.

He couldn't be sure for how long they argue about his death, among other things, by the time the door shuts he is still alive, but Gwayne has not magically appeared in the doorway.

Gwayne

By the time Gwayne reaches the crownlands he has stripped both himself and his horse of their armour, losing his distinctiveness to his dark green doublet, which with all the dirt and mud accumulating upon it, appears brown or black.

He has heard no word of Daeron in his rushed march towards King's Landing but if Ormund's actions are anything to go by, his boy will be long since dead in punishment. And yet that thought does not sway him from his path.

What does at least slow his path, is his horse going lame nearly five days from King's landing.

It is to that he screams to the heavens and the seven and any wild creature out there that will listen to his rage. Five days by horse is weeks on foot, time that Daeron does not have to spare if he is alive at all.

But still he begins his walk through the wilderness, it was between that and giving up, waiting for the earth to take him back, but he cannot do that until he knows if Daeron has already joined him in such a fate.

Nightfall comes with pouring rain and a wet cough that will not abate, a fever forcing over his body that warms him even in the lack of fire.

His dreams are more vivid under the fever, and always of Daeron, sometimes the boy is dead in his arms, limp and cold, sometimes he is a head upon a pike when Gwayne walks through the King's gate. In a more pleasant dream, Daeron appears to him through the rain, Tessarion's happy chirps in the background as his nephew kneels by him and curls into his arms, warm and whole, safe and sound.

"Look what we have here boys."

Gwayne is still reaching for Daeron through his empty arms as his eyes peel open, the fever now leaving him frozen to the bone and shivering as he regards being surrounded by thirty or so men bearing Rhaenyra's banner.

Wonderful.

He will die in the mud, fevered, a failure to his house. Daeron would be alive if Gwayne had refused to honour his sister’s summons, for he is certain he would have taken the boy far from these lands and Ormund had he been home to shield him.

He will die having failed the one who matters most.

Through his fever, he hears Tessarion chirp and wonders if this is all another one of his vivid dreams but the rain on his skin is real, as are the men in front of him. Which unfortunately means the dragon is not.

That is until a burst of cobalt flame sears past his head, the noise of rain being washed away by the chorus of screams and the scent of burning.

"Tessarion? Daeron!?"

Fever or no he leaps to his feet, rushing towards the blue dragon that chirps behind him, joy and exhilaration in his heart until he sees her empty saddle.

"He's not with you."

He always held a healthy respect for Tessarion, though he rarely touched her until she was large enough to pony Daeron around, which, largely due to his protectiveness and not relating to his desire to ride such a beast, meant that he sat upon her back too so they could trot around the grassy meadows of home.

Still now she nudges his chest, allowing his brief touch down her scales which are wonderfully warm under his palm.

"Is he alive girl?" Tessarion chirps, not an answer that Gwayne can decipher but the fact that she came to him at all must mean she holds the connection to her rider.

"It is a long walk. But we will make it. You are not exactly subtle."

He steals a waterskin from one of the bodies, shivering as he walks ahead of the chirping dragon. "What a mess hm?"

The more he coughs, the closer Tessarion gets to him, until her wings are nearly knocking him over, "Tessarion, I cannot ride you, Daeron is not here."

She chirps again as if she says 'I know' but does not cease nudging his legs. "Perhaps, riding you like a horse does not disturb that ancient magic- please don't kill me?"

She allows him- even aids him- into climbing into the saddle, his hands clenched in anticipation of a fiery death but she only plods on, as if his weight on her back means nothing. An odd horse indeed, but he's never had one that could incinerate his enemies before.

Another advantage to his position on her back is the warmth radiating beneath him, the heat drying his clothes and burning through the fever as the night drags and the dragon plods on until he is deep into sleep.

Daeron

Daeron is still sleeping or at the very least drowsing when the door to his little prison flings open, Rhaenyra's voice echoing, "where is she?"

She?

He knows precious few women in his life and none of the would be hiding with him.

"Who?"

Rhaenyra grasps his face as he sits up, gripping hard enough to bruise, her voice dark and low, nothing like the woman he first met. "Your dragon. She escaped the dragon pits, injuring several dragon keepers. Where is she?"

Tessarion. Gone. He is glad she is free but cannot fathom where she might have gone if not to him

"I don't know. N-not here. Clearly. Home, maybe?"

Why wouldn't she come to him, no matter how hopeless? He can't believe his dragon would willingly leave him unless she has already decided he is a dead man walking.

"Hm. I think perhaps you have outlived your use here." She releases his face, beginning to pace up and down the small room like a chained dragon. "Your uncle has named you king, did you know that? By all reports he parades the boy with bleached hair around as the king, all whilst you sit here. Perhaps a show will be good. The real King Daeron's head upon a spike for all to see. And put an end to his treachery."

Of course his uncle would could continue his scheme and sacrifice Daeron's life to do so. Unless he thinks Daeron is already dead and scrambles to keep his path to the Hightower's ruling clear.

Rhaenyra pauses in front of him and he lifts his gaze hopefully, hoping for the kindness that was on her face when she refused to harm him after Daemon dragged him to the keep. It is not there.

"I'd almost think you were the fake after all, the dragon has abandoned you. You do not have hair of our ancestors. But you look so like your mother."

"Is she here?"

He wants to ask why his mother hasn't come to him, if it is by her choice of Rhaenyra's but he fears the answer. "She is away. Carrying out an important task on my behalf."

"Oh." Perhaps she was always away and that is why she never came to him, it is odd though, because he is nearly certain he heard a servant mention his sister, surely his mother would not leave Helaena alone.

She takes his face in her hand again, tilting his head back and forth to see his hair, her eyes catching upon Gwayne's signet ring which sits around his neck.

"Who's ring do you wear?"

Some odd flash of clarity tells him to lie, that if he is to have hope of a rescue, Gwayne must be the last person on Rhaenyra's mind. "I was gifted it when my great uncle died, I do not know which ancestor I inherited it from."

He was actually gifted it the day Gwayne rode for King's Landing and Daeron nearly sobbed in the courtyard pleading with him to stay. He did not cry at all in the end, no matter how much he wanted to, Ormund would have punished him after all, but before Gwayne turned his horse and followed his men, he took his ring off and gave it to Daeron with a promise to return.

Only now Daeron is not there to return to, he is in King's Landing, alone, doomed for death and he doubts his uncle is coming.

Rhaenyra doesn't seem to care about his answer, her eyes looking upon his face once more before she lets him go, smoothing her hands down her tunic and nodding, "I am to be coronated in the morn. Your execution shall mark the beginning of my reign."

Nausea wells in Daeron's throat, thick and choking as she decides his death like one would decide breakfast.

"Your first act will be to execute your youngest brother?"

He was expecting the slap at the words, his head rocking to the side as his teeth cut into his cheek, "My first act will be to end the line of usurpers, once and for all so none may claim my right to rule is not divine. Already the Hightower host faces it's last day, your death will be the end to usurping."

She turns towards the door without sparing Daeron a further look whilst he tries to process the idea of being executed in the morning. It just doesn't settle in his mind, there's no part of him that can make peace with it. He doesn't want to die, he wants to go home. He wants Gwayne to come.

"Might I meet my sister? If I am to die tomorrow?"

His words almost give Rhaenyra pause, and he hopes at the very least he may be able to finally see Helana's face after a lifetime of picturing it but never truly being sure. She always added pictures of bugs or butterflies at the bottom of his mother's letters so he always drew Tessarion at the bottom of his for her. Nearly twelve years of wordless communication for a sister he has never met but loved all the same.

"She is fragile. It will not do her well to see you."

The door shuts behind the queen as Daeron buries his face into his hands to stifle a sob.

He's going to die tomorrow and Gwayne won't come.

Gwayne

"Stay here. Do. Not. Follow. Me."

Tessarion just chirps as Gwayne points a stern finger at her, feeling very much just like the uncle who had to manage a five year old boy and a baby dragon at the same time. Which resulted in the halls of Oldtown having a spate of small fires. "Just- don't do anything stupid? Let me handle the subtle part."

He takes a few steps away, walking backwards to ensure the dragon remains with her head tilted, "wait here and I'll bring him back to you. Or well- if you hear us screaming feel free to attend."

Gwayne is truly unsure of the distance from which Tessarion might be able to sense Daeron's distress, she became angsty not an hour ago, pacing back and forth until Gwayne abandoned his short rest to climb upon her back again, certain it meant that Daeron needed him, now more than ever. But now he walks into King's Landing alone, not willing to risk Tessarion's part in the rescue to the much larger dragons that guard the red keep.

From where Tessarion is left, curled up amongst the undergrowth of Godswood, it takes Gwayne another hour on foot to enter King's landing, brushing through the gates with ease amidst the bustle and chaos. Something is afoot, the guards are distracted as they all seem to be converging not towards the Red Keep, but towards the sept, where many seem to be going. A blessing at first, the throng of people surrounding Gwayne carries him along, shielding him from the sights of any guard who might recognise him, but he finds himself unsure how he will escape the crowd and go his own way.

Gwayne has the archway that will lead him towards the Red keep in sight, his mind focused on nothing but Daeron when screeches echo overhead, first Daemon's long, red, odd looking dragon that swoops down low near the keep and then vanishes in a south westerly direction, a second, silvery dragon following. "Where are they going?" He finds himself asking, more to himself than any other though the man next to him seems to think it was to him Gwayne spoke.

"Off to take Tumbleton. Gods help them all."

So that will be Ormund's end. His own arrogance and a dragon. Ironic, truly, given how much his cousin detested the sight and smell of Tessarion.

"What is all this anyway?" Seeing as the man is chatty, Gwayne will more than happily procure any information that may help him whilst he decides a plan.

"You been living under a rock?" The man pauses to eye Gwayne's filthy appearance up and down. "Maybe you have. The queen's coronation. Then the guards are saying she's going to kill that little boy king upon the walls of the red keep."

"Boy king?"

"Aye. Name with a D- we've had so many kings and queens of late it's hard to keep track of their names."

"Daeron."

Again he wasn't talking to the man but he nods regardless.

"That was it. That Lord Hightower was going around pretending he's a blond like the rest of them. Guards say he's a red head. Maybe they've got the wrong one."

No they have the right one.

His sweet, kind Daeron. Held in chains, bound for execution. He's still alive.

Daeron is alive.

Daeron is going to die.

Not on Gwayne's watch.

His interest in subtly lessens as he inches closer to the red keep, but the chaos provides him anonymity and opportunity to catch a guard alone, unawares, relieving himself in an alleyway until Gwayne hits him hard over the head and relieves him of his armour.

He pays no mind to Rhaenyra's procession towards the sept, moving slowly but surely towards the keep without ever attracting attention.

Gwayne wishes above all else that he has Tessarion with him, to burn the wooden platform they have made upon the walls, an axe and executioner already awaiting his nephew.

"You there-"

Gwayne freezes, desperate for this not to be where he is caught, so close and yet so far from Daeron. "Yes ser?"

"Tell the servants to prepare the boy for execution. The queen has granted that he wash and change."

"Yes ser."

Gwayne is reaching his limits upon his knowledge of the Red Keep, but by the direction provided by the captains vague gesture, he finds himself within the keep, nodding to the closest servant he can see. "I am to escort someone to prepare the prince for execution."

"This way."

He follows one step behind the maid, not taking even a moment to marvel at the grandeur of the red keep when all he can think of is Daeron, likely sitting terrified, about to be washed so that they might cut off his head.

Gwayne wishes to cut off everyone's heads, particularly Ormund's, though that is not an unusual feeling for him. Still that strategy would lack the subtlety that is required to save his boy.

The maid leaves him with a male servant who collects a basin of water and a small bar of soap, gesturing for Gwayne to follow him up and up until they must be nearly to the top of the Red Keep- an inconvenience for escape he notes, but it is of little matter. With Daeron next to him, he will fight like Tessarion herself to see his boy free.

The servant stops outside a door where two guards already stand watch, looking upon Gwayne with curiosity whilst the servant fumbles for the key.

"What is your name Ser? I have not seen you in the house before-"

Daeron

Gwayne will come.

Gwayne will come.

Gwayne will come.

Daeron curls himself tighter under the bed, pointlessly he knows, he thinks his legs are visible from the doorway but he can't seem to convince his body to unfurl. Rhaenyra has left the keep for her coronation, when she returns, he will die. He really hopes she takes her coronation seriously and holds it over a matter of days.

It does not seen likely. His reason for curling down and down until he was a ball on the floor was the sight of then preparing the walls for his execution.

It is an odd feeling indeed to see the axe that will part your head from your shoulders.

Another bout of nausea hits him and he unfurls to crawl to the chamber pot just as a crash sounds outside the door, then a muffled shout before something smacks into the wood hard enough to rattle the boards. He curls back down in the middle of the floor, his body trembling too hard to do anything else.

Gwayne will come. Gwayne will come. Gwayne will come.

"Daeron!"

Gwayne's voice. That is a cruel trick for his terror to play on him. The memories of strong arms and warm smiles, the scent of sunshine that has always clung to Gwayne.

"Daeron." A hand jolts his shoulder, "Daeron are you hurt?"

That concern still sounds like Gwayne. And underneath the scent of mud and blood and dirt, it smells like him. What an odd illusion for his mind to craft before his death.

Gwayne will come. Gwayne will come. Gwayne will come.

All of this is just a cruel torture for-

"Daeron look at me. Open your eyes. Look at me."

Warm hands pull his face away from his chest, a thumb sweeping under his eye just as Gwayne always did to get Daeron to look at him after Ormund had scolded him.

Daeron opens his eyes slowly, expecting still for it to be a cruel trick until he sees Gwayne knelt before him, wearing a guard's uniform. There is no way for his mind to conjure such a thing.

"Y-you are here? For me?"

Gwayne chuckles, "well I am not here because I enjoy the court, sweet boy."

"How?"

Gwayne just shrugs, shaking his head, "I wish I knew. Or I wish I could claim some grand plan that Ormund would come up with-" As he speaks, he pulls Daeron to his feet, clothing fisted in his hand but he pauses to sweep his gaze from head to toe of his nephew, "You are unharmed?"

"A few bruises. Nothing bad."

"Good. Change quickly." He thrusts the clothes into Daeron's hands, giving a quick glance backwards into the empty corridor that contains the bodies of two guards and one servant in nothing but his small clothes.

As Daeron slips into the slightly baggy trousers, Gwayne turns his head to bury a hacking cough into his elbow, startling Daeron who has never seen Gwayne any less than healthy.

"Uncle?"

"Do not fear, the worst is behind me, your dragon saved me from that."

"Tessarion?" Joy and hope fills his heart at the idea that she is not lost or abandoned him.

Gwayne nods, the same fond but trying to hide it smile that he's had all his life for the dragon appearing on his lips, "she found me- about to die from either a fever or Rhaenyra's men. It seems she is fond of me after all."

Suddenly it all makes sense, Tessarion wouldn't abandon Daeron, but she is too smart for a hopeless rescue attempt, for her to leave and hunt Gwayne down- it sends a rush of love through him he cannot explain. She found the one person in the seven kingdoms who wouldn't hesitate to obey her call to arms.

"Is she here?"

Gwayne glances out the window with a head tilt northwards, "I left her in the godswood and made her promise to stay out of sight."

With Daeron dressed, Gwayne secures his grip around his elbow and begins to march them from the room. "She let her ride you?"

Gwayne nods, stepping down the staircase in front of Daeron, "in a way, she let me ride her like a horse. I was too scared to try anything else. But she's warm and faster than me."

"I think she would have let you."

"Perhaps. But I wasn't leaving you to your fate because your dragon ate me."

The continue going down, Gwayne leading only by seemingly guess work, "how will we escape?"

"The city is in chaos with Rhaenyra's coronation. No one truly knows what you look like, half of them think you have silver hair."

As they stray into the bustle of the red keep, eagerly awaiting his own execution, Daeron has to refrain from the urge to grab Gwayne's hand like he used to whenever his uncle would take him out into Oldtown. Instead he has to rely on fixing his gaze on Gwayne's head and not straying from the path his uncle cuts through the crowds, striding like he has somewhere to be and all around him are in his way.

He can see the gates ahead of them, hope bubbling in his heart to the thought that this nightmare might be over when a passing maid crashes into Gwayne's shoulder, steadied quickly by the always kind knight but it is not Gwayne she looks to.

"The prince."

Of course, of all the maids in the keep, of all the people they could bump into, it would be the only one who brings his supper.

"No, no I'm not- shhh."

Gwayne, always kind, always chivalrous, presses a blade to the poor maid's stomach, his voice low, "make a noise and you are dead. This is not the prince."

He shoves Daeron ahead, lingering a few seconds before hurrying after him, they make it less than halfway across the courtyard before he hears her shout, "the prince! The prince is escaping!"

Of course, scarcely a person knows what the prince looks like, and Gwayne does a convincing act of 'looking' around for the prince whilst hissing, "head down. Move."

The crowd swells around them, guards and commoners alike looking for the prince, but it is blond hair they search for. The boy with red hair is easily slipping from their grasp until he hears that same maid- who was always kind to him, but clearly values loyalty to her Queen shouts again, "the boy- with the red hair! Look for red hair!"

It is Gwayne that grabs Daeron's hand, not the other way around, his grip tight as every guard in the crowded space searches for red hair and Daeron's is of course gleaming against the sunlight.

"You there-" Daeron sees Gwayne level his blade, ready to fight by whatever means he must, even without a hope of winning when a scream sounds further around the keep, then another, then several.

"Queen Helaena!"

"It was Princess Halaena!"

"The queen!"

Above all the clamouring a guard yells for order as the crowds surge towards the keep whilst Gwayne pulls Daeron down to duck among them.

"What do you think happened?"

Gwayne grinds his jaw, "that cannot be our problem now." He practically drags Daeron on, not even daring to look back so Daeron is left with little choice but to match his pace.

"There- stop them! Close the gate!"

The portcullis above the gate creaks into motion and Daeron hears Gwayne curse before dragging him forward, "Run Daeron!"

The gate is perhaps the height of a regular man by the time they reach it, Gwayne shoving Daeron towards it as two guards approach with drawn swords. "Go. Go!"

Gwayne draws his own sword, pressing his dagger into Daeron's hand before pushing him towards the gate.

With one desperate look back, Daeron ducks under the portcullis, his heart in his throat as he watches Gwayne dodge one guard's sword and parry the other, a kick launching out into the first's knee that is followed by a scream as Gwayne turns and sprints towards Daeron, a look of determination upon his face as the gap between the sharp metal bars and the dusty ground becomes next to nothing.

"Gwayne no don't-"

Daeron watches, in horror and amazement as Gwayne slides under, kicking up a cloud of dirt as he skids safely through with a grin towards Daeron as he rises to his feet. "Let's go, stay behind me or-" He pauses to watch as the portcullis begins to rise again, "on second thoughts, stay next to me."

For a few moments, they can race through the streets unhindered, once again Daeron's red hair and the servant's clothes providing the anonymity they need until a half dressed man staggers from an alleyway, clutching a bleeding head wound.

"Oi! You-"

"Shit-" Gwayne mutters, reaching back to grab Daeron's arm again and spinning them down an adjoining street.

"A friend of yours, uncle?"

"I'm just borrowing his clothes, some people are so fussy."

Daeron's arm nearly pops out of the socket when Gwayne lurches back and returns them the direction they came from at the sight of six gold cloaks approaching.

"I think we'll take the first option."

The half-dressed guard has managed to find a rock to toss as Gwayne as they race back past him which Gwayne deflects with the bracer on his forearm, "I said I was sorry!"

They merge into the sea of unmoving people who stand watching, or well, listening to Rhaenyra's speech upon the sept but neither Gwayne nor Daeron pause to give it a second thought as Gwayne carves their way through the crowd, a shawl finding its way from a woman's shoulders to his hand, "cover your hair." He murmurs, already fiddling with the straps of the white cloak he wears and discarding it to the ground, followed by the bracers, and then with difficulty, the chest plate that he drops behind an abandoned market stall, replacing it with a damp, torn blanket that offers tiny glimpses of the chainmail he still wears beneath.

"There. We look the part." He tugs the shawl slightly further over Daeron's head, tucking one strand of hair back behind his ear with a look so gentle and soft, unbefitting of their situation.

"What?" Daeron asks, oddly expecting him to deliver terrible news, like they are surrounded and there is no hope but Gwayne just shakes his head.

"I missed you."

"I missed you too."

Gwayne smiles in response then steels himself again, "not the time for all that. Come on."

The weave in and out of people, heads bowed as they try to work away from the sept. Daeron didn't see much of the city when he was dragged in by Daemon and he knows Gwayne must only know it from perhaps four visits over his lifetime, still, as long as they are going away from the Red Keep, forever.

"They say she fell-" He hears someone murmur as they pass, just as another murmurs,

"Fell or pushed? A family of kinslayers." Gwayne tugs Daeron's hand as he falters, a frown upon his face as well but he only seems concerned with their escape.

"Who fell?" He finds himself asking, in spite of Gwayne's hand tightening around his.

"Dae. Come on-"

The woman Daeron spoke to nods towards the Red Keep, "Queen Helaena. Terrible thing. So beautiful and sweet."

Daeron's sister is dead. He was so close to meeting her and now she is dead. They were in the same halls for the first time in their lives but she died in them whilst Daeron was set free.

"Dae. Come. Come on. Please."

The woman's eyes snap towards Gwayne, "what's your hurry?"

"We need to get home. To put supper on the table." He returns his focus to Daeron, holding both of his shoulders. Even though his voice is firm, there is grief glistening in his uncle's eyes, or maybe guilt, but he is unwavering. "Come. Please."

Daeron only nods, falling in step behind him and focusing only on the coppery red hair that he has followed like a beacon for all his life. What he looked for in the training grounds, or in a crowded banquet hall, the hair he watched gleam in the sunlight as Gwayne rode out from Oldtown for war.

He nearly slams into Gwayne's back as a result when Gwayne stops with a jolt, "back, back, back."

Daeron is obeying obediently when he sees why, Rhaenyra's procession is returning towards the Red Keep, he has to assume she is within the odd little carried carriage, does it have windows? Can she see him?

Clearly Gwayne is thinking the same thing because he reaches up to pull the shawl down over Daeron's face, cringing himself as he lowers his own head towards the scrappy blanket over his shoulders.

They both exhale as the carriage continues on past, Gwayne just nudging Daeron to move on when he hears his sister's voice, "stop!"

"Run Gwayne."

A guard of the procession manages to catch Daeron's arm, his grip bruising and sword lifted before he screams and the pressure is gone from Daeron's arm, because Gwayne's sword is dripping with blood and the man's hand is on the ground.

Evem Gwayne, who has been to war and seen and done many things Daeron is sure, looks startled by what he did on instinct before the shock wears off and he pushes Daeron out of the way of the approaching guards, taking a blow meant for Daeron to his ribs with a grunt of pain.

"Gwayne!"

"I'm fine, go- go."

They turn in any direction that will take them away from the guards, though Daeron dares one last look over his shoulder to look at Rhaenyra who stands staring at him from her stopped procession. The quick flash she sees of Gwayne's face whilst he turns to defend another attack seems to spark some recognition on her face, even though it must have been years since she saw him in tourneys.

There goes the hope of her believing in some sort of anonymous rescue, will she send dragons to Oldtown now?

Her furious face vanishes as they round a corner and Gwayne clashes with another guard whilst a second, and then third approaches them from the side.

Truly, the only thought in his motions is to protect Gwayne, he's trained hundreds upon hundreds of time but never truly with the intention to harm, that is before his first strike of the dagger draws blood across the guard's face and neck, surprising taking hold of him before Gwayne twists and finishes the job.

"Gates are this way." He murmurs, his face pained, voice soft as if he's trying not to speak too loudly.

Gwayne leaves a trail of bodies of any guard who tries to stop them, even with one hand usually pressed to his ribs but there are more pressing in behind them, and to the sides, the gate within sight. But closed.

"What now?" Daeron asks, accepting that Gwayne drags him to stand back to back.

"I don't know." Gwayne murmurs, his blue eyes jumping between the circle of men around them. "I don't think we can take this many. I'm sorry Daeron." He whispers softly, "I failed you."

"No. At least I won't have to die alone."

He hears Gwayne snort, "you always could find the sunshine in life."

Gwayne's shoulders press against his back, his voice softer again, "I love you my boy, no matter what happens. You were the greatest thing to come into my life, and I am forever grateful for it, my son."

A lump rises in Daeron's throat as he realises this may be the last time to tell Gwayne that he was the one Daeron thought of when anyone mentioned his father, that the rainy day they spent curled in front of the fire with a constant supply of hot sweet tea was the best day of his life.

What actually comes out of his mouth is, "do you hear that?"

Because he swears he can hear the beat of wings bearing down upon them.

"The executioner sharpening his axe?" Gwayne questions bleakly.

The chirp from the sky is almost as familiar to Daeron as Gwayne's voice, "No. That."

A burst of dragon fire from above sends the closest guards to Daeron up in a sea of flames and screams. Tessarion flies low, almost as if intending to land but staying airborne long enough to send another burst of flames upon the guards that were rushing for Gwayne in the meantime.

She lands with a happy chirp, tilting her head at Daeron then snapping her jaws around a guard trying to sneak up on Gwayne.

"Come on uncle!" Tessarion bows to help Daeron climb upon her back, his hand extended to Gwayne who cuts down one more guard before grabbing his nephew's hand and climbing upon Tessarion's back.

 "Are you ready for your first taste of flying?" Daeron asks as Tessarion prepares to take flight,

"I believe I told you many years ago, I am very content with the ground."

"And dying upon it?"

"Fair enough."

"Sōvēs, Tessarion."

Gwayne

Admittedly, Gwayne clings slightly harder than he needs to- or will be comfortable for his nephew's ability to breathe as Tessarion spreads her wings, her body ready to launch just as he hears the surviving men upon the ground shouting, "aim for the boy- take out the rider!"

"No-"

He flings as much of his body around Daeron as he possibly can as Tessarion takes flight, shielding Daeron's head and chest with only his hands as arrows rain from below but glance harmlessly off from Tessarion's scales.

He takes a breath of relief as they seem to fly too high for the archers to aim. He doesn't think about the bell tower until an arrow flies from it, not towards Daeron's slightly protected upper body, but instead into his thigh.

Daeron's shout of pain draws almost the same reaction from Tessarion as it does from Gwayne, though his comes in an angry shout, and hers comes in a roar before the bell tower is launched into flame. She even sweeps around a second time for good measure whilst Gwayne tightens his grip around Daeron, using his own legs to hold them in the saddle to relieve the burden on his nephew's leg.

"It's alright." Daeron whispers faintly, "just the flesh."

"I will be the judge of that. Later. We need to get away before they bring their dragons out, or the dragon lances."

Daeron nods weakly, "Rȳbās, Tessarion. Sōvēs."

***

Gwayne continuously checks over his shoulder as they fly over the woods and trees, but it is Daeron who voices his confusion, "why haven't they sent dragons for us?"

"Three of them are gone to Tumbleton. To pay your uncle a visit." He feels Daeron tense at the mention of Ormund, "how many does that leave under her command?"

"Three, perhaps, at least including her own. And it would take a moment to get to the dragon pits."

Gwayne nods, glancing behind them again. "We need to get out of the sky. Find shelter. Tessarion stands no chance against any of their dragons. And I need to deal with your leg."

"And your ribs." Daeron comments before leaning forward to pat Tessrion, "embrot."

Gwayne winces at the mention of his ribs, the chainmail saved him from being cleaved in two, but the blow certainly broke a rib or three which does nothing to help the urge to cough and the overwhelming desire not to because that will be agony when it becomes inevitable.

They land in a none descript area of woodland, Tessarion bending so low she is almost lying down as Gwayne helps Daeron from the dragon, wincing at the sight of the arrow still sticking from his boy's thigh, nearly the length of his leg itself.

"We need to take that out and..." He winces before even revealing his plan, "cauterise it."

Luckily he won't have to build a fire, he has a dragon readily available. If she doesn't attempt to eat him for 'harming' her rider.

"Sit down." He offers Daeron his hand as an aid to lower himself to the ground, crouching beside him with a grimace as his ribs protest.

"Your ribs-"

"Not the issue at hand. Stretch your leg out?"

Tessarion plonks herself down next to them, her nostrils flaring as she smells Daeron's blood. "Now, Tessarion. I am going to take this arrow out, and he is going to feel pain, but I am helping him. So don't eat me. Please."

"She didn't understand any of that." Daeron murmurs tiredly, extending his hand out until Tessarion presses her nose against it. "Lykirī."

Gwayne exhales slowly, nodding to Tessarion who simply blinks then looks to Daeron as he curls his fingers around the arrow shaft.

"Ready?"

Daeron nibbles his lip, nodding timidly as Gwayne squeezes his leg then states, "on three then. One, two-"

Daeron yells in pain as Gwayne yanks the arrow out, quickly tossing it aside in favour of covering the wound whilst Daeron groans, "you said three."

"I lied." Tessarion quietly sniffs at the arrow, then Gwayne before nudging Daeron's face until he pets her nose again.

"It's alright. I'm alright. It's Gwayne." She chirps at that, nudging Gwayne's face with her snout.

Gwayne reaches over to side his own dagger from Daeron's belt, observing it's size then the size of the wound.

"This will do."

"Oh good." Daeron mutters, leaning his head back against the tree he is propped against. "You know, I remember us doing much more pleasant activities as a child."

Gwayne smiles, cutting the fabric around the wound to give himself a wide berth, "Children remember things much nicer than they were."

"Oh, so you regularly pulled arrows out of me like a pin cushion?"

"Exactly." He smiles at his nephew, aware the boy is either calming himself or stalling but he is more than willing to put this off as well.

"Can you get Tessarion to heat the blade?"

Daeron nods, though he takes the dagger himself and extends it, murmuring, "dracarys."

With a quiet chirp, Tessarion observes the blade, then Daeron's hand, but does not obey his command. "She thinks it's too close to my hand."

Gwayne looks at his sword, knowing it will cause a much larger wound but he is left little choice but to extend it as Daeron repeats again, "dracarys."

This time she obeys, though Gwayne feels the need to lean over Daeron and shield him from the immense heat, in spite of the boy being the dragon rider between the two of them.

He only looks back to the blade when it is glowing, a queasy feeling settling in his stomach.

"Forgive me?"

Daeron simply nods, extending his hand not for Tessarion but to Gwayne who grips it tightly then lowers the blade.

He thinks he will get away without being eaten by a dragon until Daeron's strong resolve breaks and he releases a scream that pierces the woodland, sending the birds from the trees as Tessarion opens her mouth, a roar erupting from her and Gwayne's life flashes before his eyes. Mainly memories of the boy in front of him-

"No! No Tessarion! Lykirī! Lykirī! It's Gwayne. It's Gwayne. No." Gwayne doesn't know how Daeron has the consciousness to calm his dragon, Gwayne certainly wouldn't but with one more roar in Gwayne's face she rises to her feet and plods away to circle the area, little disgruntled growls escaping her as she continues to cast looks back at Gwayne.

"She's going to eat me in my sleep." Gwayne mutters, leaning down to check on his work.

"She'll forgive you." Daeron mumbles, his eyes barely open and Gwayne can feel his hand shaking under his. "That was...terrible."

"I know. I'm sorry." Daeron just squeezes his hand, closing his eyes fully until Gwayne moves to tear a strip from the shawl around his shoulders. "Cleanest fabric we have- and that is saying something."

Tessarion has calmed herself down by the time Daeron regains the strength to sit up straighter against the tree, "your ribs-"

"There's not much to be done for them. Let's keep moving. Get back on Tessarion."

Their pace is slow, Daeron clinging to Tessarion's saddle, Gwayne trudging next to them, each step sending a jolt of pain through his ribs. When he finally gives in and coughs, they all have to stop and watch him double over and groan in pain.

"Uncle-"

"It's alright Daeron."

Daeron is quiet for a minute, waiting until Gwayne straightens back up, "where are we going?"

Gwayne stares bleakly into the forest in front of them. "I don't know. Ormund is likely dead, as is Ser Criston, your brothers are dead or fled and I expect Rhaenyra awaits our return to Oldtown. I would suggest a life of quiet anonymity but the dragon very much detracts from that. So we are... just walking. For the sake of it. Because my ribs appreciate the movement."

Daeron considers his answer, "if Ormund is truly dead then you are the Lord of Oldtown."

"Sounds terrible."

"Gwayne."

Gwayne shakes his head, "she knew who I was, if we return home, all of Oldtown suffers with us."

***

Their camp is rather pathetic once night closes around them, Gwayne was too wary to light a fire so both he and Daeron sit against Tessarion, the heat from beneath her scales warming their bones.

Daeron went silent a while ago and Gwayne initially suspected that he was struggling with pain but he doesn't think that the longer he watches Daeron track a moth fluttering around in the moonlight.

"I failed her."

Daeron's head flicks towards him, a frown crossing his face, "who? My mother?"

"No- well, yes, her too. Your sister. Helaena. I had both of you in my grasp but I truly only thought of you. It was selfish."

Daeron shifts slightly, "Selfish? Risking life and limb to break your way into the red keep was... selfish?"

"I grieve Helaena, her sweetness, her innocence, her death- it is devastating but I am selfish because I know I can live with that death. Yours... had I been too late for you- I would have fought every man who hurt you until the gods saw fit to reunite us. But I know her death will do that to your mother."

Daeron doesn't reply, but he does squeeze Gwayne's hand, both of them watching the moth flutter around above their heads.

"The maids say she was with child." Daeron eventually murmurs and Gwayne's tired, pained brain immediately provides flashes of Criston's...affections towards Alicent.

"My sister?!"

Daeron slowly turns his head to give Gwayne a confused look, "No... my sister."

"Oh." So much innocent life lost at once, "oh."

"Why would my mother be with child? My father was too sick towards the end-"

"No, no she wouldn't- I am talking nonsense. Ignore me."

Daeron keeps watching him for a few moments then sighs, "I never got to see her again."

Gwayne finds it hard to believe that Alicent wouldn't fight to see Daeron, she may have sent him away but he knows she cared for him simply from the way she asked about the boy before he rode to war again.

"No? Where was she?"

"Rhaenyra said she was away- doing something for her. It makes no sense, what could my mother do that a dragon rider or anyone else could do?"

"I don't know."

Truly he remains as baffled as Daeron to that aspect, but the idea that his sister roams free, somewhere- they could find her- they could all be free. In Oldtown or elsewhere.

"I have an idea."

"What?" Daeron asks tiredly, rolling his head against Tessarion's scales to turn and look at Gwayne.

"We're going to find your mother."