Chapter Text
Cunt!”
Cousin Ormund screams again as he strikes the table with his sword. My eyes stay forward, not looking at him, not looking at Daeron, despite the creeping chill up the back of my spine. Aemond will not be joining us at Tumbleton as planned, our position weakens by the day.
I risk the quickest of glances to my brother, who has taken a similar stance a few steps away , but has his usual mask firmly in place. Things were not this bad when Uncle Gwayne was here. Ormund’s own mask was usually more put together when others were around, but in moments like this? I don’t think Uncle Gwayne could sway him even if he wanted to, Ormund is the head of House Hightower and can do as he likes. I am glad Daeron was able to send the servant boy out quickly and quietly, Ormund’s rage knows no bounds, untethered- quick to strike anything or anyone who is too close. My brother and I have been on the receiving end more and more as of late. Rhaenyra taking King’s Landing has altered the already heavy atmosphere and presence of the Hightower.
It is said that the Hightower is one of the oldest structures on the continent, even predating the arrival of Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives. The base of the tower is built on a pedestal of sleek black stone, unlike anything else I have seen or read in our libraries. It is entirely possible, however, that I have yet to come across the right book, however, it is getting harder and harder to communicate to Daeron which books to bring to me under the cover of night. Since my flowering a few years back, Cousin Ormund insisted that a true noble lady need not concern herself with the history books, and that my time would be better spent with the other ladies of the Tower, learning to sing, dance, and do needlepoint. It had made some sense at the time, if Rhaenyra couldn’t rule due to her sex, what need would I have of the histories of Westeros and its great men he asked. I remember nodding along silently, the glint in his eyes made it abundantly clear that he would hear no argument or defense otherwise.
Late that same night, Daeron came to me, clutching his arms to his stomach. I remember leaping out of my featherbed and rushing to him, worried that Ormund had gone too far in their sparring…again. When he reached me he released his hold, letting the book quietly tumble into his open and waiting hands. “The Conquest: A History” written by one Septon or another in the early years of Aenys I. I looked at the book, and up at Daeron. His features remind me so much of Mother, or at least, reminds me of what I think I remember her looking like. His hair, the same auburn radiating warmth and kindness, the same small smile when offering reassurance. We do not look like twins, Daeron and I. Exceedingly rare the maesters had allegedly told our mother, for twins to be born so. Sometimes I wonder if that is just another reason for Ormund to prefer Daeron to me. Not only am I just a girl, but I take more after my father and siblings than mother and her family. I do not have the Valyrian silver, but a pale blonde. Daeron’s eyes are more like those of the Andals, a deep blue green that would not look out of place on anyone else in the Reach. Mine are indigo, just a shade too dark to be anything other than the Valyrian traits shining through. A sign of my wickedness Ormund says, the taint of my Targaryen ancestry.
I remember Daeron’s soft smile, Mother’s smile. He told me to leave the book in a hidden corner of my room, and he would come and replace it when he had the chance. I hugged him close and he snuck back out as quietly as he had come in. We've never spoken another word about it, going on in this way month after month. Between the amount of books stored in the High Tower, and years of practice, I have gathered as much knowledge as possible while trying to hide my interest when Daeron is called away by his tutors. Not that it does much good, I can not use the knowledge I have gained in any useful way without raising our cousin’s suspicions. And then the war started. It has been harder and harder for Daeron to sneak away, Ormund keeps him very close these days. And with Tessarion and Nixa locked away in the cellars of the Hightower, my days are beginning to blur together. Perhaps Rhaenyra would take pity on her youngest sister, but after what was done to poor Helaena and her children, I doubt it. Ormund made sure the lesson was not lost on us, our Targaryen blood is savage, volatile- an out of control fire that swallows all through force, no strategy, no wit. Kinslaying among Targaryens only proves what I have always told you two he said. Your brother started this war killing Rhaenyra’s bastard, your Uncle Daemon and his many crimes, this brutality has no place among civilized men, even if that bastard had it coming. You two are lucky to have been raised in the Light of the Seven, in the shadow of the Starry Sept, and as close to true Hightowers as possible, despite your…aberration. I remember him looking pointedly at me, his eyes locked onto my pale hair.
Ormund letting out a large sigh brought me immediately back to the present, as he picked his scabbard up off the floor to put away the sword that I thought for sure would be stuck in the table after the force of his blows.
“Will Uncle Gwayne be coming to Tumbleton?” Daeron asks, low and deferent. He hides it well, but the twinge of hope is hard to hide in his question. Ormund snaps his fingers in my direction, and points to the table. I try to move as calmly and quickly as possible, grabbing the flagon to pour him his wine.
“We must alter our scheme” Ormund says, looking only at Daeron as I place the cup by his right hand. He takes a slow drink, and dismisses us with a wave of his hand.