#bitterglories

[smaragduseques]

@bitterglories sent ; running down the stairs so quickly he almost trips over his own two feet to greet his uncle after having spotted his arrival at the keep from the windows upstairs, a big grin on his face, “ uncle gwayne! ” ( from little bitterglories )

he never had relished having to make the journey between old town and king's landing, always requiring nigh on two weeks travel each way, only to be subjected to all that he disliked of the capital, his father's looming presence that was near as intolerable as ormund's, an inevitable turn in the training yard with his nephews and the knights that should be shamed for the way they behaved but were instead given honours for no reasonable cause, least of all cole, who grated upon his nerves at best and seemed ready to overstep in his position at any opportunity. yet he still made the journeys, when the letters came, for they were infrequent enough to not become troublesome, and there was yet some good to be found at the red keep, within the youngest of alicent's children, the poison of that place yet to turn his heart as it had to his own sister and nephews, and though helaena seemed unaffected, and though he held a fondness for her too, she was not quite usual either and he was yet to be convinced that she ever really wished to speak with him over her bugs. though perhaps he couldn't blame her. the creatures seemed to be favourable company over her alternatives.

barely had his feet met the cobblestoned courtyard as he dismounted when the sound of running seemed to rise above the flurry of activity that surrounded him, his head turned towards the source with a grin that matched the boy's, already leaning down with open arms that would swoop him up as soon as he was within his reach as if he weighed no more than a newborn babe still, even though he had grown much since his last visit. "take care, daeron, we don't want any teeth knocked loose today otherwise i will never be invited again." hoisting the young prince a little higher, reluctant to set him back down no matter that he was already becoming too heavy in his arms, a brief yet no less tender kiss was pressed amongst his blond locks as he started them towards the steps the boy had just raced down. "i have missed my most favourite nephew. though do not tell your brothers otherwise i will be in trouble again." the words whispered as if with a co-conspirator, and despite the jesting tone, they were no less true for it, and as surely as it was not their own fault, he was not their father and did not have to play at pretending equal favour amongst them, not that viserys ever feigned such a thing either, or so he had gathered. he did not know if alicent shared any motherly fondness equally across them, did not get to witness her often enough with them, but if she had learned from their father, he sincerely doubted it.

"you are growing by the minute. you will be taller than i the next time i visit." carrying him through great doors into the keep, in little rush to make his way to greet any other kin, even if there would no doubt be a servant already running to inform them of his arrival. well, they would have to come and find them wherever they may end up. "i hear that a certain dragon egg has hatched too. is she growing as swiftly as you?"

[smaragduseques]

@bitterglories sent ; wordlessly shakes his head, stepping closer to gwayne and burying his face in the crook of his uncle's arm when the first tears begin to fall, despite his efforts to hold them back, “ . . . he's mean. ” ( from little bitterglories )

this day was inevitable, he had known it from the very moment the letter had arrived upon wings of a raven to inform house hightower that the young prince daeron would be coming to ward at old town, to learn from his hightower kin as a squire, for he was too well acquainted with ormund's sharp tongue, often well disguised by kinder utterances that any observer might think were intended to soothe, manipulation coming like a second language and he had only honed his talent since their shared childhood. he intervened whenever he might suspect the direction of his cousin's words, shielding daeron from the worst of him while he could, untroubled to rouse any ire, the boy still too new to old town to be secure in his place amongst them and in his voice. until then, and likely beyond, gwayne would speak for him, even if such conversations were often reserved for late evenings, out of earshot of his nephew as he slept, quiet yet terse exchanges that more than often left neither of them the victor, only back to their stalemate. he could not stay by the boy's side for each minute of each day, however, no matter that he might wish to, for he had truly grown fond of having him close by, fonder than he already had been of his youngest nephew whilst he lived in king's landing, the people of old town now often expecting him to be accompanied by the young prince and questioning him if they were apart. but there were matters that were not for a boy to know of, still too young to witness and not yet needing to learn how to deal with all the difficulties that might be brought to gwayne.

he had been gone the afternoon, longer than intended, the setting of the sun casting an orange glow across the city, yet the warmth it brought seemed absent from the hightower, a tangible shift in the air from which he had left mere hours earlier. it had been daeron's chambers he had headed for, a cursory glance through shared spaces on his way, knowing that he would like as not find him there if something had occured as he suspected. a gentle knock upon the door, a pause, and when no answer came, he allowed himself in, heart constricting at the sight of daeron's face. meeting him halfway across the room, arms opened to bundle him against his chest, a hand cradling the back of his head and a kiss pressed into his hair, lingering as he gave a murmured response. "he is. i am sorry i wasn't here." fingers squeeze gently against his shoulder, gaze dropping down to where his nephew's face was hidden against him. he could not fathom his cousin, never had and in part he was glad for it, for if he could understand ormund, it might mean he was akin to him in some ways. he had hoped in vain that he would treat daeron with greater courtesy, if not kindness, that his royal title might just be enough to shield him from the worst of it but he had swiftly realised it would not be so. any target was as equally deserving of an attack it seemed. "would you tell me what happened? if you feel you are able to. you do not have to if you would rather not."

[smaragduseques]

@bitterglories sent ; ❰❰ FREE ❱❱ sender frees the receiver from restraints ( from bitterglories in the new au )

some would name it cowardice, how swiftly he had ceded his sword, a betrayal of both his king and hightower kin, that he should have fallen with king's landing rather than walk himself into the hands of the blacks and have them deliver him to the cells beneath the keep but if he ever heard such whispers behind his back in the years that followed the dance of the dragons, he was never known to engage with them for he knew that they would not be convinced and it was better to save his breath. if there were still those that were oblivious to his favour towards his youngest nephew and only him, there was little hope they could ever understand his decision. he had given his word, as he had done each time that he had needed to leave oldtown for extended periods, that he would return to daeron, as unscathed as he could manage, not some idle promise that was only used to prevent any fuss over his departure, but one made with the solemnity it deserved. he would not willingly put himself to the sword for a cause that his heart had long since wearied of, if it were ever truly dedicated to it, only for some raven to eventually bring the news to daeron that gwayne too had abandoned him.

from the confines of his cell, he had little indication of anything that occurred beyond its walls and barred door, the early questioning of him, in the hopes that he might have some information that could be of use, quickly coming to an end when the little he knew was revealed. human interactions had since dwindled to nothing more than the odd word or two, if he was lucky enough to receive an answer from the guards that delivered meagre plates of food, when he asked for news, always only of daeron. foolish, perhaps, to believe that as long as they refused to answer him, it must mean daeron still lived, for surely they would take the opportunity to wound him with that loss. foolish, but necessary if he were to have a reason to continue forcing miserable bites of food down his throat, and drinking the water that tasted like it had been sat for too long. it was near impossible to know how many days had passed, or weeks most likely, the guards visits irregular and no other markers of time available. all he knew was that it was still rhaenyra's guards who came to his cell, if aegon or his supporters had made attempts to take back the city, they had failed, and he did not know if that was for good or for ill. whilst rhaenyra held the iron throne, his future was confined in this place and this place alone, but should aegon take it back, what would become of him then? perhaps he would be named traitor, for not fighting, or perhaps his nephew would simply have him resume his former position. perhaps perhaps perhaps. speculation was all he had to keep him company, aside from the rats.

caught between sleep and waking, daeron's voice had once more crept into his dreams, a familiar scene in oldtown playing in his mind, only to be interrupted by the scrape of a metal door against flagstones further down the ill-lit passageway lined by cells, lids quick to fall shut and head resting against the damp stone walls once more, for they had only recently refilled his water, and it would be another prisoner they had come for. had daeron's voice not come in conjunction with the sound of keys unlocking the door of his cell, he might have thought he had so quickly slipped back into a dream state, yet even then his mind was too sluggish to realise that it was more than some conjuring of his imagination before there was someone in his cell, beside him, knelt with him, with keys to unlock the restraints on wrists that had never been necessary, for he never intended to resist but there had been no point in saying so, all of which happened as his mind struggled to comprehend the sight before him. daeron.

"daeron." voice raw from disuse, scratching his throat but what did that matter, what did anything matter because daeron was in front of him, and he was solid and real, gwayne's hand having already grabbed onto his arm without a conscious thought to be sure he wasn't some hallucination, the first signs of madness that would surely befall any who spent too long in this place. but he didn't vanish when he lifted his hand to his son's face, cupping his cheek in his palm as he had done countless times, and there should be a flurry of questions, and they would come later, once he had the chance to recover and eat a true meal, but the only question that truly mattered had already been answered. he was alive, largely unharmed from his cursory glance, at least nothing that offered an immediate cause for concern, and he was here. "i was starting to think i might not see you again."

[smaragduseques]

@bitterglories sent ; I watched you fall from your horse. I thought—

the air within the tent had grown too warm, sitting under the midday sun, yet it was a relief compared to how the sun had been beating down upon the tourney field, armour rapidly absorbing the heat and making it feel as if he might soon be cooked within it if he were to remain outside for much longer, though he would have had his complaints if it had been raining for mud brought its own challenges to a melée. the tourney, put on by house costayne as celebration for a new marriage, had started the previous day, and he had found a much greater success in the lists the day before. at least in the melée, even though he had fallen, he hadn't been the first, and it was his faction who had come out victorious in the end. much of the top half of his armour was already removed and laid out, well-practiced fingers unfastening the leather straps on the cuirass as the tent flaps opened to his nephew, an expected intrusion, and as swift as he might have expected the boy to be.

"not my finest performance, it has to be said, but the only thing harmed is my pride." there would be, he was sure, bruising from the impact of his fall, for it had winded him for a time, left lain upon the ground with a ringing in his ears, although he had eventually been able to recover himself, back onto his feet and, despite not mounting his horse again, he had rejoined the fighting. certainly there was already a stiffness to some of his motions as aches began to settle in, and if he were to turn his head too quickly, a throbbing pain would bloom behind his eyes, forcing him to sit until it passed, but he was yet to discover that particular ill effect. none of which stopped him from taking a few steps to cover the distance between them, bare hand lifting to cup daeron's face, a smile warming features despite it all. "i have suffered harsher falls from my horse than that one. now, would you help me with this chest plate?"

[infamescoronam]

@bitterglories sent ; ❝ no wonder they don’t like you. ❞

it's a petty retaliation for his youngest brother's words when he passes behind daeron's seat, fingers quick to snatch up the cup of wine sitting before him as he does and dropping with a lack of grace into the empty chair across the table.

"careful, brother, lest you begin to sound like aemond." a warning finger waved in what should be jest but the sourness that clouds his expression betrays any humour that might be found within the gesture. for all he might know, daeron may favour the middle son more already. as much as he doubts it would be the case, the brother sat opposite him feels closer to a stranger in many regards. he does not recognise his mannerisms in the way he could understand aemond, or even helaena who could so often be a mystery to all of them.

[smaragduseques]

❝ Will everyone please stop fussing over me? ❞ ( from bitterglories )

@bitterglories

"sometimes the fuss is warranted." a gentle hand fell upon the top of favoured nephew's head, fingers carding through the blond locks, the one feature other than the hue of his eyes that truly marked him out as something other than the hightower gwayne viewed him to be. "i do not want to be writing a letter to your mother to tell her you've succumbed to an infection from a wound sustained whilst i was observing your training."

hand dropped away from hair to his shoulder, digits squeezing gently as the maesters finish their work. daeron's complaints weren't unreasonable; he rarely found that the boy kicked up a fuss for no good reason, more even—tempered than what gwayne knew of his elder nephews, but a prince's injuries would always come high in the ranking of issues that need urgent attention. sometimes it was best to accept the fuss and let everyone get on with it, despite frustrations.

[searedwithscars-blog1]

@bitterglories     as far as the eye could see tents dotted the land and at the very centre of this organised chaos lay the biggest of them all - that of the leader and his own family. the barks of dogs, the crackle of firewood and the shouts of the indigenous people all marked a sense of home, of belonging. at least until men on horses came tearing through, cutting down every man, woman and child in sight, encouraging their own flames to feed off the homes people had spent their lives building. centuries of tradition and culture went in the blink of an eye.      xanthe woke abruptly to the sound of another girl moaning, her screams of apparent pleasure seeming to fill the entire place whilst her own heart pounded, alive with fear. with the flames still flickering behind her eyes, the exotic female blinked taking in the claustrophobic room she had since been forced to take refuge in, that reminded her she no longer had a thing. she still shook, was acutely aware of the way her fingers trembled as she went about getting dressed for the day.       thousands of miles away from home with a leaden chest and heart torn in pieces xanthe heard the call for the girls to line up and though every fibre of her protested, what else was there? where else could she go? in this world only one name mattered and though she had her own titles in pasa they did not apply here. a quiet prayer to the mother of all and bare-foot the female made her way. caramel skin only emphasised by the pure white of her robe, xanthe filed in with the others though she did not acknowledge them. she could only hope that she would not be picked.