Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

There is to be a tourney at Riverrun.

Oscar Tully is succeeding his grandfather as Lord of the Riverlands, and thus there is to be a tourney in celebration, and it is to be Daeron Targaryen’s first tourney.

Ormund has promised Daeron that if he does well in this tourney, then he can finally be knighted in the light of the Seven, cleansed of the taint in his blood.

And gods above, does Daeron want that.

Daeron wants to be good. He wants to be the sort of knight that the stories speak of. He wants to be true and honorable, not dragon-tainted, not damned by the sin that he was born with in his veins.

(There is only one sliver of question in his mind. He knows that there have been Targaryen knights. Dragonriders who are said to be as honorable as they were ferocious, their vows as unbending as their teeth. For every Maegor the Cruel and Daemon the Rogue Prince, there has been an Aemon, a Baelon.)

Daeron is excited to meet his siblings for the first time, it must be said. It is half of the reason why his heart is a rabbit-paced thing in his chest, ratcheting up its speed in anticipation. He hopes that he proves to be the sort of knight that they can respect and appreciate, that just because he did not grow up with them, just because they do not know him as well, they can still appreciate the sort of prince that he has tried to make himself into, even without the benefits of court to assist him in his growth.

The other reason, of course, is because this is the first time Daeron has flown on Tessarion's back, and only to present a united green front for any succession crisis that might occur.

(“There won't be one, of course,” Ormund says, “Everyone in the realm can tell that the only pious option is Aegon. No one would support the reign of Rhaenyra the Cunt.”

Daeron knows that Ormund is just itching for the day that King Viserys dies and the Hightowers can place holier blood on the throne, that some day, Daeron is likely to have to face his relatives in battle, that Ormund might force him to face the crime of kinslaying, and he tries not to think about it, because how could Ormund ask him to commit the greatest sin of all, after all of his work to raise Daeron in the light of the Seven instead of the grasp of corrupting dragonfire?)

The connection between Daeron and Tessarion is a half-dead, sluggish thing, struggling to beat heavy wings to rise to the skies to see the light. It sits like molasses inside of Daeron’s chest, hard to pull, hard to connect to.

And yet, there is something in Daeron’s veins that sings when they rise into the sky and he feels the wind against what little of his skin Ormund had let him expose. Daeron is not supposed to touch Tessarion’s scales with his bare skin, after all—that would leave too much of him exposed to possibly being even more tainted by dragon filth, the sin inherent to the fire within their flesh. That is why he is fully covered, green gambeson, black leather gloves, nothing save his face exposed, and even then, Daeron is sure that Ormund would wish to give him a veil if he could find a way to explain it to people once they land.

But he is still, finally, able to fly.

And no amount of coverage that he is required to have to separate out him and Tessarion could ever take away from that. From the warmth that manages to permeate his riding gear to the wind buffeting his skin and hair to the way that his stomach dips when Tessarion swoops through the air, magnificent as can be.

As they soar over the tourney grounds, there are even a few cheers from below. Daeron thinks that he sees other dragons in the distance—a strange sight, the pale blue of Dreamfyre, the gold of Sunfyre, the hulking, old mass of Vhagar, the last of the great war dragons, as Daeron has never actually seen other dragons in person before—so he knows that Tessarion is far from the first dragon here and thus the smallfolk and nobles are far from wowed or cowed by the smallest of the four dragons of King Viserys Targaryen's younger children.

Daeron lands in a clearing, quickly secures Tessarion, and heads off to wash and change so that he might not disturb Ormund with the scent on his skin. He knows what is proper for not just a prince, but the ward of Oldtown, and it isn't this, the dragonash, the leathers, the evidence of dragon-taint and filth against his skin.

And then—onward to finally meet up with Ormund, Gwayne, and the siblings and mother that Daeron has never met.

---

Daeron doesn't even know what it could be like to miss his father. He has never once had a letter, much less met him.

But his father isn't going to be here in Riverrun.

The King is said to be ill, and thus Daeron's grandsire, the Hand of the King, a distant figure from his childhood, remained in King's Landing to interpret the King's wants and needs, his mother and siblings are there to greet him when he lands.

But his mother and siblings are here.

It is a strange thing to see Queen Alicent Hightower for the first time.

Everyone speaks of the silver-haired, ethereal beauty of Valyrian stock.

Despite Ormund speaking over and over again about how his mother was unimpeachable Hightower, Daeron had anticipated the green gown, but some part of him thought that Queen Alicent would have paler hair. Not quite silver, but—honey-haired. Gold as a crown. They say that King Viserys once mistook her for Aemma Arryn, half-Targaryen herself.

But Queen Alicent Hightower doesn’t look like a Valyrian. She looks like him.

The breath catches in Daeron’s throat when he sees her. She has his auburn hair, Florent-bright, shining beneath a coronet of beaten gold and emeralds and above an emerald green dress of crushed velvet, embroidered with the Seven-Pointed Star.

Daeron looks like his mother, something that he never could have imagined, but he doesn’t look like his siblings, and that is less a shock.

They stand behind the Queen, three silver-haired heads of the dragon, all noble, ethereal features and bright eyes and hair of beaten silver-gold.

For a moment, Daeron thinks that the taller one, the one with the more knightly bearing, must be Aegon, but the eye-patch quickly makes him realize which one is which.

Which means that while Aemond has the rigid posture and proper footing of a knight, Daeron can smell the ale on his eldest brother's breath seven from this far a distance.

Aegon looks ragged. Messy. Slouched. Not the sort of King that cousin Ormund promised, but rather looking like someone who was dragged in off of the street and dressed up in Targaryen raiment in shades of emerald, dragon heraldry sketched in Hightower green.

If Daeron wasn’t given his name—and didn’t have the silver-gold hair to look at—he never would have guessed that this man in front of him is the man that Ormund hopes to make King of the Seven Kingdoms, the hope of diluting Targaryen dragonfire blood on the Iron Throne.

Daeron knows what a prince is supposed to be. He knows the rules and routine and courtesies that have been driven into him his entire life.

This is—not that.

Gwayne doesn't seem much impressed by Aegon and neither does Ormund—one of the rare occasions that they are on the same page.

Then again, all of the occasions of them sharing an opinion tend to be when in public, facing others, when it is the Hightowers against the world—even if said world is just Daeron's siblings and mother.

Aegon looks at Daeron and snorts. “So, you're our twerp of a little brother?”

Their mother smacks him upside the head and he scowls.

Daeron tries not to let his eyes go wide. Yes, he has been disciplined in such a way, but usually by a far sharper, cleaner hand, and always in private, and usually by use of a whipping boy after that first burning, when he was a toddler.

But Ormund is the Father, the Warrior; Queen Alicent is supposed to be the Mother. The embodiment of all things kind and generous and pious.

And yes, his brother is—coarse, but still. Daeron was not expecting such a reaction.

But from the way that Aegon doesn't even flinch, he clearly is used to such a thing.

And Daeron has to wonder—is there really that much difference between the Mother and the Father as he'd been taught?

There are still burn scars on his fingers from his own childhood punishments, and though it has been a long, long time since Ormund physically hurt him, he does know a thing or two about how you can feel a parent's hand against your flesh long after the nails dig in, the way a hand lingers, grasping, taking.

Daeron's mother turns to look at him, a small, almost apologetic smile on her lips. “I do apologize, sweetling,” she says, and her voice does sound earnest. Even a bit brittle, for all that she is clearly as capable of being unbending as the Hightower itself. “Your brother knows better than that.”

Aegon shrugs, clearly not taken aback by being spoken of like a misbehaving child despite being a husband and father himself.

And Daeron has to wonder—how did the Red Keep raise its children?

Helaena and Aegon are married, Daeron knows—Ormund made his opinions on incestuous sibling marriages rather clear when the raven came with the announcement of the betrothal and the upcoming wedding.

(Ormund had sent Gwayne to King’s Landing for Helaena and Aegon’s wedding. It had left Daeron behind, in Ormund’s hands, and Daeron doesn’t like to think about what happened in those days. He loves Ormund, of course, as the head of the household. He respects him. He obeys him.

But what happened, those days, those wretched weeks, that terrible month—

When Gwayne had returned to Oldtown, Daeron hadn’t hugged him. Not for months afterward. Daeron knows that Gwayne had been hurt by it, but Daeron couldn’t do it. He needed, deep down inside of the marrow of his bones, to keep Gwayne and Ormund in separate places. And if Gwayne had touched Daeron so close to when Ormund did, he doesn’t know if he could have kept the two of them from becoming entwined within him, a poison dripping through.

So Gwayne is not Ormund, and Ormund is not Gwayne, and Daeron loves Ormund, of course. But some days he has to wonder if he trusts him.)

But despite being siblings two years apart in age, despite being married, Helaena and Aegon don’t seem close.

Daeron has never really been exposed to a marriage close to him. Ormund and Gwayne are both unwed. They both helped raise him, in their ways, more his parents than the King and Queen have been, and sometimes he looks at the way that Ormund treats Gwayne and thinks—I don’t know if I could stand it if my wife flinched before my touch as Gwayne does before Ormund’s.

But that doesn't mean that they are married. That Daeron knows what a husband and a wife are supposed to act like.

So these are my siblings, Daeron thinks, I expected—more.

It is a bad thing, to be disappointed by the siblings that he has waited his entire life, to find fault in them on first glance. Aegon is the future king, Ormund has always said, by the laws of gods and men; Aemond is a great knight, well known throughout the kingdom as being second only to Criston Cole of the Kingsguard and perhaps the Rogue Prince as the kingdom’s best swordsman; Helaena is a future queen, his gentle sister, the mother of his niece and nephew.

But his siblings are also incestuous, proud dragonriders, silver-haired as the Conquerors, the very embodiments of everything that Ormund has always made sure that Daeron knew all too well was not good, was draped in sin and burnished in dragonfire instead of carved from Reach stone.

And so Daeron knows that it might make him a bad person, to judge his siblings without knowing them, but he cannot help himself. He cannot resist such thoughts, no matter how bitter or rude they might be.

Hands rest on Daeron's shoulders and he doesn't flinch. Of course he doesn't.

He is more himself with Ormund's hands lingering, grasping, steadying him than he is on his own.

Ormund bows his head to Aegon. “Your Grace,” he says, and it is half-treasonous, to say such a thing before the man is even king, but he is the prince—Crown Prince, in all but name, Daeron is assured, no matter what heirs the King has declared, no matter how much Aegon slouches and everyone can smell the wine on his lips. "It is an honor to meet you in person."

Gwayne and Daeron immediately bow their heads as well, following Ormund's example. They know that while Gwayne can sometimes get away with poking back in private, in public, they are to be a united front, and certainly are not to embarrass the Hightower, no matter how tired both of them are from the journey here to Riverrun.

Aegon shrugs and nods his head just a little bit back, clearly done with this entire thing, while Aemond at least looks a little intrigued, his gaze sweeping over Daeron—perhaps as an opponent for the tilts later. Helaena isn't looking at anyone at all—her gaze is on the tree branch closest to them, and when Daeron looks more closely, he finds that she isn't looking at the branch at all, but rather at the dragonfly fluttering its wings against one of the branch's offshoots.

All in all, Daeron has dealt with more awkward meetings, but not with those with which he shares both halves of the blood in his veins, the siblings that are supposed to be more a part of him than separate from him.

But Daeron knows that Ormund, for all that he supports Aegon as king, does not wish Daeron to spend more time than is necessary with his more dragon-touched siblings. Power is good, but the presence of dragonfire in power corrupts, after all.

So Ormund says with a bright, winning smile, "It is good for you to greet your siblings, my prince, but you do need to practice sparring to prepare for the joust and the melee." Ormund nods to Gwayne, and Daeron knows it is only the presence of his mothers and siblings that is keeping Ormund from making a snide remark or joke about Gwayne as he says, "You shall spar with your uncle to warm up for the joust."

So he is to go and practice sparring with his uncle and then clean the dragon-stench from his skin, he is well-aware.

But when they make it far enough apart from Ormund, Alicent, and the Targaryen brood, Gwayne says: "Go spend some time with your dragon, nephew."

It is a request that Daeron knows that he should not obey. Tessarion isn't in a Sept. There is no holiness to offset the filth that she puts into him.

But he is not strong enough to say no when he is told, because he does want to be in her presence. He wants it more than anything. He wants her warmth, the way that his heart settles when he is touching her, the way that she makes him feel at home even when the storms are swirling around him.

And so he offers Gwayne a smile, and he goes.

---

Daeron had left Tessarion in a grove about half a mile from the tourney grounds.

He knows, logically, that keeping her in the Sept allows for the Seven to contain the taint of her very existence, the chains to keep her in place.

But this place seems made for her, with the river that this land is named for, with the numerous animals nearby to make her prey, for the moonlight to shine through the open branches and bless her scales. She can stretch her wings here in a way that she can back in Oldtown.

Daeron has had to rope her to a tree, but at least out here, she can see the stars. She can be at least a bit more free.

(Daeron can't be sure if that is better or worse. If a taste of freedom only whets a craving that wasn't aware that such a thing could be hungered for before.)

He wants more days like this for Tessarion. More days as free as can be. More days under the sun and the moon alike, able to call up towards the clouds.

(And maybe, someday—no rope at all. A boy can only dream, even if he knows it to be wrong.)

As an apology for the rope—yes, it is not a chain, but it is still a tie—Daeron brings roasted sheep with him that he'd bought on the tourney ground.

But when he arrives at the clearing, he nearly drops the sheep on the ground.

There is a girl in front of Tessarion, far closer than anyone else has ever risked, gloved hand outstretched.

It is a suicide risk for anyone to get that close to someone else's dragon, and yet, here she is, a reckless, restless, fascinating person.

The girl's hair is the silver-white of the moon on snow, of beaten silver braided and cascading over deep, satin brown skin. Her gown nearly matches Tessarion, in its turquoises and deep blues and blacks.

And she's closer to Tessarion than anyone else that he has ever seen, the first person to not turn her nose up at Tessarion or to cower in fear, studying Tessarion close, with curiosity in her gaze.

Daeron has never met her, but he recognizes her anyway.

There is only one living lady with Valyrian silver hair to wear gowns of blue and black, especially one with such a striking contrast between silver hair and ink dark eyes and dusky brown skin.

Rhaena Targaryen is infamous throughout the realm for an ongoing spat with her father and her reclaiming her mother's colors.

Most say that Prince Daemon shall win. After all, he is the dragonrider, the spirit of fire.

But water puts out fire, doesn't it? And anyone that grew up on an island knows that water can wear down anything. That eventually, after the millenia, the tides always win.

And the stubborn twist to Rhaena’s lips tells Daeron exactly who the most stubborn party is.

A girl who grows up without a dragon learns how to survive, after all. How to endure.

While Daemon Targaryen and her sister Baela might still be at Dragonstone, Rhaena is here, a stubborn, lonely, lovely figure, blue draped in beauty against her deep brown eyes and moon-silver braids.

And she is unafraid of Tessarion—and of her rider.

Because when the sheep hits the ground, Rhaena Targaryen turns to him and asks, voice sharp as can be, but expression curious: "Are you taking care of her properly? Cleaning her scales? Giving her the enrichment that she needs? Allowing her teeth to stay sharp? Allowing her to fly free?"

It is a blunt question. A protective question. The sort of thing that Daeron never would have gotten back in Oldtown, when people pretended that Tessarion did not exist when they were not actively wrinkling their noses at her existence.

And Daeron cannot help his curiosity. He cannot help his want to know, to explore, to learn.

"I do try my best," he says, completely earnest. "I'd like to think that I am able to give her most of what you ask of me." All of it, in truth—other than the freedom, which he himself doesn't have either, so at least things are equal there. "I am Tessarion's and she is mine, and so I do my best to give her what she deserves." Rhaena's expression unfurls just slightly at the admission, softening beneath his honesty, and he cannot help but chase that chance opening into someone that outshines everyone he has ever met. He cannot help himself but ask, curiosity a restless, reckless thing: "Do you do the same with your dragon?"

Rhaena's expression instantly shutters. Pulls tight, an open door closing upon itself and allowing no questions in.

And the difference in light, the eclipsing of the moon itself, is so devastating in its darkness that Daeron nearly falls to his knees to pray for forgiveness.

“I wouldn't know,” she says under her breath, through gritted teeth, and Daeron remembers the rumors that she is dragonless, that that might be connected to her arguments with her father.

Daeron grimaces. “I am sorry, my lady, I did not mean—”

Rhaena’s lips press thin together. “No one ever does, do they? No one ever thinks. No one ever cares."

And then she turns on her heel and leaves him and Tessarion behind.

Tessarion lets out a small keen of loss at the first person other than Daeron to ever touch her without chaining her to the ground—a feeling that Daeron understands all too well.

Daeron knows he needs to get back to the tourney tents in order to get dressed in his armor for his first tourney, but there is a hollow carved out of his chest, now, an ache that he does not know if he can answer. He found someone that fascinated him, someone that might even understand him and his loneliness, and he fucked it up the first chance he got.

Daeron is glad that his cousin will not be participating in the tilts and will not be able to smell the dragonash and take ire with it, so he is able to wrap his arms around Tessarion and for just a moment breathe in her warmth, her ash.

Daeron does not give into true temptation, right? He keeps his gambeson and his gloves on. The only part of his skin that Tessarion touches is his face, and even then—it is not that close, right?

Tessarion nuzzles into him and he feels something stirring within his chest. Some thread juddering, shivering, threatening to snap back into place.

But it cannot, because it is just a whisper of a thing that cannot be spoken aloud. That cannot be acknowledged, because he has the feeling that if he acknowledges it, then it shall become a song, and a scream, and he will never be able to ignore it again.

And he knows that he will need to wash his skin, that he will need to cover up what he has done before he encounters Ormund again, before he goes out to entertain his first tilt—the Warrior would not bless a man with dragonash on his skin, Daeron is aware—and yet there is some strange part of his heart that almost wants to ask for her favor. That wants to keep the ash on his cheek. That wants to ride into the jousts, ride into battle, with everyone knowing exactly what lives in Daeron’s veins, between his ribs, the dragonfire that burns whenever he doesn’t pay close enough attention—

But Daeron knows better than that. Knows that to crave the affection and loyalty of a dragon is to crave a wild sinfulness. To crave corruption.

So he has to reluctantly let go and go to wash his face, to clean the ash from his skin, to perfume himself so that Ormund doesn’t know where he has spent his time, where he has placed his body, the temptation that he has let crack across him and seep into his skin, the weakness that Daeron cannot cleanse from his veins.

---

Daeron is a squire.

It is normally his job to get Ormund ready for his own tourney tilts back in Oldtown, but here in Riverrun, Ormund is not competing, and thus, Daeron is.

Gwayne is off taking care of his own armor for the tilts, so a page assists Daeron in getting into his armor.

By the time he's done, though, Ormund comes in and takes Daeron’s shoulders in his hands before he heads back out to the stands.

“You are the pride of Oldtown,” Ormund says, “Even more than your uncle. You know him and his inclinations, his sins. If you can prove yourself to rise above your base instinct, then I swear to you—you can shine brighter than any Hightower ever has.”

There is genuine faith in Ormund’s eyes. Pride in the curve of his smile. He believes in Daeron in a way that no one else ever has.

And Daeron wants that faith. Ormund's grasping hands make his stomach turn sometimes, yes, but they are also the greatest support he has ever known.

So he nods, bows his head, doesn't squirm under Ormund's touch. "I am yours," he says, and he doesn't think of what happened when Gwayne left for King's Landing and Daeron had to remain. Had to endure.

It was a lesson every Hightower must learn, after all. And it is a good thing that Daeron learned it young.

---

Daeron rides his horse up onto the tourney grounds.

He is more at ease on horseback than dragonback, no matter how much his bones might ache otherwise.

The smell of dragonash has been rinsed away. All that remains is the Hightower, the armor carved in the faces of the Seven, a smaller version of his uncle’s armor. He is copper-haired, faithfully armored; he is the very picture of a knight of the Seven, of a Hightower, no hint of the dragon.

The only evidence that Daeron is at all related to those that sit in the royal box is Tessarion, sitting obedient in the clearing even though she isn’t chained, knowing only to eat that which is brought to her rather than hunting her own food because she was raised obedient, made obedient, by the heavy hand of the same head of House as Daeron was.

His heart beats against the inside of his chest, nervous, reckless as he looks up at the surfeit of dragons sitting in the royal box, half of the royal family there to observe.

Prince Aegon, to many the next heir to the throne, slouches and indulges himself in drink while Princess Helaena sits next to him, eyes focused not on the armored knights like most ladies' but rather on the caterpillar on her fingertips. Daeron has no idea where their children are, but they are likely back in King's Landing.

Aegon’s mother, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, sits in perfect form next to him, posture graceful, her crown a golden halo atop the copper cascade of her autumn-leaf-red curls.

The King is too ill for travel and Princess Rhaenyra is—somewhere. Dragonstone, if Daeron had to guess, but he does not know for sure. He knows little and less about his siblings for sure.

Ormund is an honored guest in the royal box, as the Queen's loyal cousin and the highest ranking member of her birth family at the tourney. While Gwayne and Daeron are both competing alongside Prince Aemond, Ormund is here to curry favor with the royal family and to show off House Hightower's status—two birds with one stone, for sure.

But next to all of them, the only representative of Rhaenyra's side of the court, the lone spot of blue in the box, is Rhaena, posture rigid, chin tilted upward in pride.

And gods, does she catch the attention.

How could she not?

Rhaena carves quite the image in a gown of ice blue, her profile as majestic as the first snow of the winter after a long summer, falling down upon the skin to burn as much as it freezes, the frost biting into fresh flesh.

It takes the tourney beginning to tear Daeron's eyes away from her, and even then, it is only because of who is competing first.

Daeron isn’t the first tilt of the tourney. That honor goes to his brother Aemond, who is wearing armor carved like dragon scales, like the strength of the house that Daeron was born into rather than the one that raised him up. Aemond proudly goes up against an Arryn cousin and demolishes his enemy.

But next comes Daeron, who has his first tilt against Amos Bracken, a knight more of an age with his sister Rhaenyra than himself. As a matter of fact, Daeron is rather certain that this knight was one of the ones said to have courted his sister back in the day when she was the Realm’s Delight, more than two marriages ago, before she was wedded and bedded, before she had five boys clinging to her skirts, when she was sent around the realm to pick her own husband on her grand tour.

(Ormund never would allow Daeron to do such a thing himself. This is his first trip outside of Oldtown, his first trip beyond Battle Island, his first trip outside of Hightower control, and even then, it is still under his uncle’s watchful eye.

Daeron knows that someday, when he is to marry, if he is to marry, it will be to someone that Ormund approves of, and then he shall bring his lady wife back to Oldtown to live under Lord Hightower’s careful gaze. Thus, Ormund can have a hand in raising Daeron’s children, in clutching them close, in raising and rearing them just as he did to Daeron, just as he did to Gwayne, in his way, with grasping hands, with lingering touches, and Daeron’s stomach shudders at the prospect of such a thing, but he knows that it just has to be the nerves of the upcoming joust. Of course it is. What else would it be?)

And Daeron wins.

His brother Aemond already asked his mother's favor, so the field is wide open to ask for a token.

His sister Helaena would be the most expected option. What brother does not compete for his sister’s honor? Gwayne did it back in the day, Daeron knows from the stories that his uncle has told him over the years.

And so Daeron doesn’t allow himself to think about it. This is not a crown, not something that shall carry that much scandal.

His sister is married and his mother’s token already taken—no one would blame him for going to someone else, his cousin perhaps, and asking for her token. In any other family, it would even be expected.

That is the excuse he’ll give Ormund, at least, after Daeron rides up to Rhaena and asks, “Would my lady honor me with a token of her honor to ride for in this tourney?”

Rhaena seems shocked, even a bit suspicious, but does offer him a small smile—for appearances or in truth, Daeron cannot tell—and she tosses it down to him.

Daeron catches her token in grateful, honored fingers. Her favor is red and black with dragons embroidered in turquoise and silver—her father’s colors woven with her mother’s.

Daeron bows his head to her. “My great gratitude, my lady,” he says, and the corners of her mouth turn up just a little—though her brow is knit, as if in question, as if in confusion.

There are so many things that Daeron wants to say to her. That seeing her alone in the clearing with Tessarion was the first time that he ever felt like someone might understand him, just a little. That his loneliness is a reflection of hers. That she is the first person to care for Tessarion as her own creature, the first person to have no fear of the wild thing that beats its wings between his ribs.

But he cannot say those things in front of a crowd, especially with Ormund sitting right next to the Queen, his glare just-barely restrained, so he turns around and heads back for the end of the yard, where he finds Gwayne looking at him in pride.

Still, despite the glare, Ormund is proud of Daeron, he knows. Daeron has won his tilt, and it is just the first one, but it is still a decent showing, necessary for later glory and honor won.

There is every chance that the plan can go through. That Daeron can make cousin Ormund and the Hightower name proud by crowning his mother, the picture of the Hightower, the Queen of Love and Beauty.

Daeron just has to earn the right to such a thing.

---

That evening, after others joust and the field is wittled in two, others go to attend puppet shows and mummers’ performances and the like.

Daeron, on the other hand, has his page help him take off his armor and he goes to rest.

It is likely that Gwayne shall come to visit him, but Daeron knows well from previous tourneys that Gwayne is likely to find a knight that shares his inclinations and pass the night with him. Daeron isn’t Gwayne’s only priority—far from it. Gwayne has his own indulgences that, as Ormund is unafraid of letting him know, makes him ill-suited to being a Beacon of the South.

(Daeron has heard them behind close doors arguing, Ormund’s flash of anger burning like wildfire, Gwayne’s gritted teeth and words bitten back behind bitter-flattened lips. The way that Gwayne points out that if Ormund wishes to have a different heir than Gwayne himself, he needs to marry a woman and start to have children.)

So Daeron prepares to sleep in his tent for the evening—major lords and ladies and even his mother and siblings are being hsoted inside of Riverrun, but Daeron does not mind his own tent. Hell; having his own tent, with his own furs to sleep on, is quite the luxury, he is aware.

But then the flaps of the tent open, and Ormund enters, heading straight for Daeron, and for a moment, Daeron sees the curl of Ormund's mouth as his hand rises and something between his ribs flinches even as he knows that outside, he is supposed to smile, supposed to bow his head, supposed to give Ormund the obedience he is due.

But Ormund's hand does not strike. He has not struck Daeron in a long, long time.

Rather, his hand rests against Daeron’s chest, close as always, close in a way that makes Daeron’s insides itch in a way that he cannot properly scratch.

“Your brother should be able to be depended on to make the correct decision if he wins, but if your training has gone correctly, if there is some blessing made by the Seven to your lance due to your brother’s dedication to his dragon, then you shall pray to the Warrior tonight, and his blessing shall fall correctly, leading to your victory—and you should crown your mother. Perhaps your sister, if you wish to show that you make a far finer prince than your brother the crown prince.”

Aegon is not the Crown Prince. Not technically. By the laws of the Andals, yes, but not by the decree of the King.

But the technicalities don't matter to Ormund. They never have.

No, what matters to Ormund is—

Ormund's hand reaches up to cup Daeron’s chin, the ring on his finger pressing close into Daeron’s skin, threatening to cut into his flesh if Ormund merely presses just a little bit harder, clutches a little bit tighter.

And as Ormund stares into Daeron’s eyes, there is some part of Daeron that thinks that if he was a girl, Ormund would crown him queen of love and beauty in an instant—and then wed and bed him.

It is not a sweet thought, save in the fact that in Daeron's current position, he doesn't think that anyone will ever wed him. Ormund will keep him too close, always, his prince, no one else's, and make of Daeron whatever Ormund wishes to have in him.

(Daeron does not have to be married to Ormund in a Sept to play his maiden, after all.)

“You are the future of the Hightower. You were raised in the light of the Seven. If you win, it is because you have finally been able to cast aside the taint that clings to your blood.”

Daeron is an acolyte, an altar, a puppet, some part of his mind thinks, vicious, aching, a devotee to Ormund’s every word, just as he always has been.

Ormund smiles, this true, fond thing. “I am proud of you for your victory today, and it shall be my greatest honor to knight you tomorrow.”

Duty is a familiar strain here, a wife, a husband, an iron ring welded down to Daeron’s very bones, unable to be removed without taking the flesh with it.

Daeron is at the bottom of a well, aching to climb up out of it, but he does not know how to. He doesn’t know how to be anyone or anything other than Ormund’s.

The only thing that Daeron knows for certain is that there is a token around his elbow, not Hightower emerald, not quite Targaryen black and crimson, either.

It is the one anchor that Daeron can claim for himself. Not in his birth, not in his rearing, but in something that he asked for him, something that he chose for himself.

No one ordered him to choose Rhaena. No one would even think of it. Daeron should have chosen his sister, or a Florent cousin, or even some young maiden from a Reacher family, anyone that was a devotee of the Seven, someone who could represent the Faith.

But he didn’t. He didn’t claim an Andal or even someone of First Men stock.

No, instead, Daeron asked for the token of Rhaena Targaryen, all salt and sky, Valyrian down to her very bones.

The flaps of the tent open to Gwayne—the one person that Ormund’s guards would let in, the one person that Daeron cannot be ashamed of letting see him like this, because Gwayne already knows what Daeron is.

(Except that might be a reason why Daeron feels even more ashamed, because Gwayne is the one who knows him best, who has seen him in this state, who knows him and knows exactly how many times Daeron has surrendered like this.)

Ormund finally lets go, his hand slipping away from Daeron’s chest, and Daeron does everything he can not to give into the urge to gasp in relief.

"It is time for all of us to rest," Ormund says, "One must rest properly before engaging in fighting in tourneys." His gaze slides to Gwayne, a sharp, knowing thing, and Gwayne places his hands on the back of the chair in front of him—perhaps for stability, perhaps to prevent himself from doing something that he would regret. "It would not do good to share beds with our brothers-in-arms, after all."

Gwayne grits his teeth, but he does not say a word. The flaps of the tent are thin things, and whatever punishment Ormund pulls out in the flint-strike of his anger will like as not be heard around all of these noble families.

“Backs against the wall,” Ormund says cheerfully as he leaves, and Daeron knows what he means, and Gwayne knows what he means.

And when Daeron finally lets out a jagged, rasping breath and looks down at Gwayne's hands, he finds Gwayne with his knuckles white against the chair he was standing behind, his lips pressed tight together, a thin line that spells out exactly how much he hates Ormund for what he is implying.

“Uncle,” Daeron says, voice quiet, and in an instant Gwayne’s gaze flickers up to Daeron’s and he lets go of the chair, his face coloring in apology.

“I am sorry, Daeron,” Gwayne says, and there is an earnest note to his voice.

That is the difference between Ormund and Gwayne; Ormund has never once apologized. He has nothing to apologize for. His hand is that of the Father. His light, his fire, is that of the Beacon of the South.

Gwayne, on the other hand—he is a man, and is well aware of it. He is a man who is far too human, not an embodiment of the gods’ will, but something far more flawed.

And there is something about those flaws that makes Daeron feel more comfortable with him than with Ormund.

Ormund is the bright, burning light of the Seven, with a touch that burns, with a touch that sears and scorches and scars.

Gwayne is just—his uncle, for good and for bad.

Daeron shrugs. “You do not need to apologize. You have not abandoned me, have you not?”

Gwayne swallows, this tight thing, and something in Daeron’s heart squeezes.

It is not an admission, of course. Gwayne has never made a confession.

But he knows that Gwayne is thinking of the same thing that Daeron is—Gwayne’s trip to King’s Landing for Helaena and Aegon’s wedding, the months where Daeron was left alone, the way that when Gwayne had returned, Daeron had hissed You left me alone with him, an accusation, a condemnation.

It is not a sin to leave a child within the protective grasp of the head of the House. Ormund Hightower is the Beacon of the South, the source of light, the source of holiness.

And yet—

Daeron understands why Gwayne apologizes. Why he says what he does. What Ormund did, what Ormund's hands took, why Daeron looks at Ormund and thinks that Ormund does not wish to crown him in gold, but rather in blue and white flowers.

Gwayne’s fingers press together, an echo, a ghost. “You shall do well tomorrow, Daeron,” he says, and it is with a sort of sincerity that Daeron should consider faith, but it feels—it feels something different. Something more.

And it’s something that Daeron doesn’t know how to carry the mantle of.

Tomorrow, if Daeron can win the tourney, then he shall kneel before Ormund and be knighted.

Daeron wants, more than anything, to go to Tessarion, to fly her, to embrace the one thing that he knows would never leave him.

But he can't, and so he doesn't.

---

That night, Daeron dreams of being not on the back of a horse, but being on Tessarion’s back.

But they are not flying. They are not soaring through the air.

Tessarion is at the jousting ring. She is facing down the tilt.

She is baring her teeth at the figure on the other side of the tilt: a figure on a pure white warhorse, in Hightower armor, the golden faces of the Seven engraved against a steel background.

And Daeron should be horrified as she bares her teeth, as she opens her maw, as she faces down Ormund, whose eyes are shining in pride, who is going to knight Daeron if Daeron just wins the tourney—

Ormund, whose face is breaking in betrayal as Daeron murmurs, “Dracarys,” his voice sibilant, his voice a song.

His ribs crack open on the end of a lance, blood staining the ground beneath him, as the fire sings through the air, as the symphony rises, as Tessarion lights the beacon on the Hightower on fire.

We light the way, comes the murmurs of the back of Daeron’s mind, a dozen prayers hoarded close to the chest, too close, too aching, threatening to spill from between his ribs in a gush of splintered bone.

And when he wakes, he dreams of a crown of white and blue flowers and a dragon in a clearing, the moonlight glimmering against beaten-silver hair and the ache of three lonely souls.