thinking about daeron makes me extremely sad... like i can handle gwayne dying but daeron.. just a baby.. alicent's dear baby boy.. RYAN rewrite the story and make daeron LIVE and you'll be reincarnated as a lotus flower please
warnings and author's notes: nothing really for this chapter, very very slow burn romance, religious guilt, possesive ormund, fluff, ormund bullying gwayne a little, reader is from house arryn and has long hair but besides that no physical description. 4k words. many chapters to come
ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪ :
The steadfast and valiant demeanor of House Arryn, bearing the nobility of sky blue and silver, blew into the Red Keep like a fresh Vale breeze sweeping across its gloomy stone walls. The retinue, descending from the steep, jagged crags of the Eyrie into the very heart of the realm, carried a crisp coolness that stood in stark contrast to the muggy, heavy air of King’s Landing.
Standing before the mirror, you ,an eighteen year old, Lady of House Arryn; ran your fingers through your long, thick hair that cascaded down to your waist, shimmering in the silver moonlight. The sky blue silk dress, woven in Maidenpool, wrapped gracefully around your form, while the silver embroidered falcon motif upon the bodice symbolized the unyielding pride of your lineage. The Arryns were a noble bloodline that dwelt upon the highest peaks, far removed from the filth of the earth, their blood and honor kept pure for centuries. Lady Jeyne Arryn, alongside your mother and father, were clad in the same sky blue and silver cloaks, bringing the proud, haughty posture of the high hills into the intrigue laden corridors of the court.
You were here for the wedding of your cousin, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, to Ser Laenor Velaryon. Rhaenyra’s mother, Aemma, was the daughter of your father's uncle, Rodrik Arryn, binding your blood closely to the crown. Poor, gentle hearted Aemma had fallen victim to King Viserys’s relentless ambition, passing away tragically upon the childbed before ever seeing her daughter’s wedding day.
As your family stepped into the Great Hall, the sheer splendor of the feast dazzled your eyes. The court had been adorned like a dragon’s treasure hoard for the wedding of the King’s heir. Black and red Targaryen banners blended with the silver pennants of House Velaryon; tables groaned under the weight of delicacies brought from all four corners of the Seven Kingdoms, accompanied by the finest wines. The rich aromas of roasted wild boar with golden, crispy skin, silver goblets filled with spiced wine, honeyed fish sprinkled with pomegranate seeds, and warm bread kneaded with Vale butter drifted through the air. The warm, flickering light of candles stretching toward the rafters fractured against the knights' polished armor and the ladies' sparkling jewels.
Slighting through the bustling crowd, you made your way toward the high table where your cousin sat beside her betrothed. Rhaenyra shone like a dragon clad in gold and white, yet beneath her radiance lay the heavy, premature weariness of the immense responsibility looming over her. As you drew near, a genuine smile blossomed across the princess’s face.
"Cousin," Rhaenyra said, placing her hand gently atop yours. "Seeing the sky blue of the Vale lifts my spirits. It is as though you carry the very scent of my mother."
"All my prayers and loyalty are with you, Princess," you whispered, softly squeezing her hand. "May the Seven Blessings make this union fruitful for the realm."
For a quiet moment, the two young women shared a gaze, a pure, familial respite amidst the web of courtly intrigue and forced alliances. Following this brief, warm exchange, you took your leave, stepping toward a quieter corner of the hall, only to pause as a heavy, unmistakable sensation washed over you. You could feel eyes pinned upon you, prompting you to glance calmly about the room to seek out their source.
Standing in the shadows of the high stone arches, away from the boisterous crowd, was a young nobleman who had not broken his gaze from you for a single moment. With sharp, defined features and light auburn hair that gleamed like burnished copper under the torchlight, he was Ormund Hightower of Oldtown's mighty house. Beyond his surname, you knew nothing yet of this man who would come to touch your life so deeply, yet the sheer intensity of his scrutinizing gaze was enough to send a quiet shiver across your skin.
Ormund watched in admiration as your gown glided through the hall like a swan, taking in the way the blossoms pinned in your hair cascaded over your shoulders with every step. Your noble composure, the effortless grace with which you held your goblet, and your poised distance from the surrounding chaos etched themselves into his mind. When your searching eyes finally shifted in his direction and locked onto his, Ormund did not retreat. Instead, he raised his goblet slightly, offering you a subtle, enigmatic toast. Feeling a sudden warmth rise to your cheeks, you averted your gaze. He possessed the bearing true to a highborn lord; confident, noble, and, as you could not help but think, undeniably handsome.
By the time you rejoined your family at their table, King Viserys was already delivering a grand speech in honor of his daughter and new son in law. Yet his words faded into background noise when the mysterious lord’s gaze remained fixed upon you, just as yours kept returning to him.
This sweet, electric tension, however, was shattered by a sudden arrival that cut through the hall like a blade.
The heavy oak doors burst open, and every whisper in the room instantly died down.
Queen Alicent Hightower, the King's young wife, made her entrance.
You could not tear your eyes away from her. Alicent wore neither dragon red nor Targaryen black. Her gown was a sharp, striking green, the very color lit atop the High Tower of Oldtown when it called its banners to war. The Queen walked with a rigid majesty, her face as cold as carved stone. The gold embellishments traced across the green fabric gleamed like serpent eyes under the flickering torchlight. This was no attire for celebration; it was a brazen, open declaration of war. The court broke into hushed, fearful mutters, for every soul present understood the grave meaning of that color.
You tightened your grip on your mother's hand. For a fleeting second, your eyes darted back toward the auburn haired stranger. Ormund was now looking at Queen ,his cousin, appearing thoroughly pleased by the dress and the dark declaration it represented. The resolute, shadowed fire in his eyes seemed to whisper of the colossal storm gathering on the horizon. Between the fiery red of the dragon and the menacing shadow of green, the Dance of the Dragons was about to begin.
The tense silence was finally broken as the musicians struck their bows and plectrums against the strings. The strains of lutes, flutes, and heavy rhythmic drums echoed off the vaulted ceilings of the Great Hall, prompting guests to raise their goblets and stream onto the floor for the wedding dance. As Rhaenyra and Laenor took their first steps amidst the false smiles and applause of the court, the stifling atmosphere pressed heavily upon you, making you long for a breath of fresh air. Seeking a moment's escape from the suffocating heat of the crowd and the cold shadow cast by the Queen’s green gown, you stepped back toward the shelter of a shadowed stone pillar.
Leaning your back against the cool stone as you observed the noisy gathering, your eyes instinctively searched for the stranger who had been watching you earlier.
It did not take long to find him. The charismatic young lord showed not the slightest interest in the joyous chaos of the dancers or the lavish spreads of the banquet tables. He stood alone beside a massive iron candlestick, his eyes locked onto the droplets of warm wax slowly melting and sliding down its polished body. With the tip of his index finger, he lightly touched a soft, unsolidified bead of wax ,not out of pain, but as though lost deep in thought beneath the flickering candlelight. Amidst all the surrounding splendor and intrigue, his serene, focused composure drew you in completely. As you watched him in quiet fascination, the young man suddenly raised his head, as if sensing the weight of your gaze upon him.
In that loitering torchlight, your eyes met once more.
Startled by the sudden catch, you flinched, desperately wanting to look away. Feeling the blood rush hot to your cheeks and your chest heaving with rapid breaths, you turned your head sharply to break the connection. Your heart hammered far faster than the lively tempo of the musicians' melody. Driven by a flurry of embarrassment and sudden excitement, you gathered the skirts of your dress and retreated from behind the pillar, hurrying back through the crowd toward the safety of your family.
Ormund watched you go, slowly scraping the hardened wax from his fingertip. As he observed your flustered, timid, yet undeniably proud escape, a faint, resolute smile played upon his lips. No doubt remained in his mind.
Setting his goblet down upon a nearby table, he murmured a few brief words to a cousin seated at the far end, adjusted his dark velvet doublet, and, without a moment's hesitation, directed his confident stride across the hall straight toward the proud figure of Lord Arryn.
A full month had passed since that tempestuous wedding in King’s Landing, and House Arryn had returned to the cool embrace of the Vale, to the Eyrie nestled atop its steep, jagged crags. Yet the courtly intrigues and the seeds sown upon that fateful night were not slow to follow them, pursuing them to the very peaks of the mountains.
One morning, two imposing guards carried a heavy chest made of fragrant cedar wood into your chambers. Upon the lid, a seal shimmered, carefully carved into tough oak and filled with molten silver: you instantly recognized the crest of House Hightower, depicting the formidable strength of Oldtown topped with its blazing beacon. Following the wedding night, you had managed to inquire discreetly of Lady Jeyne Arryn to learn the nobleman's name. Ormund Hightower.
When the guards withdrew from the room, you felt your heart fluttering within your chest like a trapped falcon. Your thoughts immediately flew back to the man who had not taken his eyes off you that night; could this truly be from him? With trembling fingers, you pushed back the heavy lid. A rich fragrance blossomed from inside the chest, filling the room with the scent of lavender, dried citrus, and exceedingly precious amber. The scent was so intoxicating that the air of your chamber, typically whipped by the sharp winds of the mountain peaks, transformed in an instant into a blossoming spring garden.
Driven by overwhelming curiosity, you began to examine the contents of the chest, one by one:
Resting at the very top was a delicate shawl woven with silver threads that immediately caught your eye. Its texture was so impossibly soft that it slipped through your fingers like running water. Its hue was a soft blend of peach and gold, evoking the beautiful sunsets of Oldtown. The sweet scent of lemon blossom and faint woody notes clinging to the fabric mingled with the Vale breeze, carrying you straight back to that warm, breathless night at court. Just beneath the shawl lay a necklace hidden inside a pouch of green velvet. As you emptied the pouch into your hand, the cold weight of the metal settled into your palm. It was a breathtaking piece wrought from finely crafted white gold, encrusted with glittering yellow diamonds. In the dim light of the room, the diamonds gleamed like the flickering candle flames of that evening feast. At the very bottom of the chest rested a thick, leather bound volume with gilded edges, clearly originating from the ink scented halls of the Citadel in Oldtown. It was an ancient treatise detailing the realm's medicinal herbs and the movements of the stars. Tucked between its pages was a single dried sprig of lavender, still retaining its sweet scent.
As you gazed at the flower in your hand, pondering the meaning of it all, the face of that noble stranger vividified in your mind. You could not tell if the feeling awakening inside you was true affection or merely the sweet curiosity of a young woman drawn toward the unknown. Yet it was an undeniable truth that your heart skipped a beat whenever his name crossed your thoughts. Curiosity gnawed at your inside like a sweet, persistent ache.
Just then, a soft knock sounded at the door. A handmaiden entered, bowing respectfully. "My Lady, your father, Lord Arryn, requests your presence in his study immediately," she announced.
Concealing your tangled emotions, you closed the chest and made your way toward your father’s solar.
Lord Arryn stood before the high arched window of his study, gazing out into the boundless void of the Vale. Hearing you enter, he turned; his face wore the stern, unshakeable countenance expected of a lord.
"My daughter," he began, gesturing toward a sealed letter resting upon his desk. "You must have seen the chest brought up from below. It comes from Oldtown, from House Hightower."
You listened in silence to your lord father's words, folding your hands neatly before you as you awaited him to continue.
"On the night of Princess Rhaenyra’s wedding, the Queen’s cousin, Ormund Hightower, approached me," Lord Arryn said, his voice echoing off the stone walls of the chamber. "Ormund expressed how deeply captivated he was by your poise and nobility that evening, deeming the Lady of the Vale worthy of Oldtown. He seeks your hand in marriage to forge an unshakeable alliance between our houses. The Hightowers are among the wealthiest and most powerful families in the realm. The Queen is of their blood, and the royal army is bound to them at the hip; this would prove a formidable partnership for our house."
Your breath caught in your throat. You knew not what to say, nor what to feel. Though a strange, thrilling excitement stirred within you at the man's sheer resolve, a dark cloud of dread rose immediately in its wake. Leaving the safe embrace of the Vale to be thrust into the treacherous games of the south suffocated your spirit.
"Father..." you could only manage to whisper. "I... I do not know if I am ready. It is so far, so foreign."
Lord Arryn cut you off, tapping his hand lightly upon the desk. His tone was firm, yet tempered with fatherly concern: "You are ten and eight years of age. Your time has come, and indeed passed. There could be no more honorable match for a young lady, nor a more powerful alliance for our house. The winds of the realm will blow harsh between the Greens and the Blacks, and we require stout allies in the south. The decision is made."
Lord Arryn folded a letter, setting it back in its place, and continued: "However, we shall not bind you in marriage immediately. Ormund’s letter contains a reasonable proposal. Prior to the wedding, they invite you to Oldtown for two months, so that you may accustom yourself to their customs, and above all, to him. Your own handmaidens shall accompany you. A protective escort led by Ormund’s cousin Ser Gwayne Hightower has already ridden forth to fetch you. They will arrive here within a few weeks' time."
In the face of your father's absolute command, you bowed your head. As you left his study and returned to your own quarters, your mind felt like a chaotic battlefield.
Oldtown... the oldest, grandest, and most mysterious city in all the realm. You knew certain things about it; you had heard tales of the scholars of the Citadel, its vast harbor, and the colossal Hightower reaching into the sky. Yet as you pondered what awaited you in the streets of that massive stone city, how you would bear company to a man you did not know, and how you would survive the intricate court games of the south, you realized just how much you had yet to learn.
Every passing day in the Eyrie ticked away like a relentless clock whispering that the hour of your departure drew near. From the day you left your father's study, you spent most of your time buried among the books in your room or sitting at your mother's knee.
You placed that thick, leather bound book from the gift chest upon your desk, arranging beside it maps and histories of Oldtown brought from the Vale's own library. You read late into the night until the candles burned down to half their length. In your mind's eye, you tried to visualize the vast knowledge accumulated in the high towers of the Citadel, the maesters bearing chains wrought from various metals, and the spice ships docking at the harbor. You refused to go blindly into a giant, unfamiliar city; knowledge would be your strongest armor.
One afternoon, sitting by the window as she embroidered with fine threads, your mother, called you to her side. Breathing in the familiar scent of her silk gown, you sat upon the cushion at her feet. As Lady Arryn tenderly stroked your hair, her voice was as serene.
"Marriage is a woman’s greatest war in this realm, my sweet child," your mother said, turning her eyes toward the soaring peaks visible beyond the windowpane. "A woman's duty is not merely to bear a man children; it is to stand as an unshakeable fortress behind him, to be the calm harbor where he seeks shelter in stormy seas. When Lord Hightower becomes your husband, you will shoulder the secrets, the sorrows, and the burdens of his house. But never forget your own nobility. Be quiet, but never be weak."
You etched your mother's words into the deepest recesses of your heart. By nature, you were already a calm and dignified young woman. Your aim was to appear modest, poised, and prepared for all things, striving to be a worthy wife to Lord Hightower.
The dress you prepared for the day of your journey reflected this quiet resolve: avoiding extravagant embroidery, you chose a simple gown tailored from pale blue cloth, adorned only with delicate silver ribboning along the neckline. You selected the possessions you would carry with you with equal care. Dresses of vibrant blue silk to represent your own dignity and that of your house, modest silver jewelry... You packed pouches of soft lavender you so loved, a few volumes of poetry and herbal lore you had held dear since childhood, and a small silver falcon figurine to serve as a constant reminder of home.
Just as the final preparations were nearing completion, the door to your chamber burst open. A guard entered, announcing, "My Lady, the expected escort has reached the gates of the Vale. Ser Gwayne Hightower and his men stand in the courtyard."
Striving to suppress that familiar flutter of feeling within your chest, you descended to the great reception hall alongside your mother.
Standing before his green cloaked guards, who were just dismounting in the courtyard, was the Queen's own brother, Ser Gwayne Hightower. Gwayne was a tall, broad shouldered man, carrying himself with the unmistakable posture of a true knight. His light auburn hair was neatly combed back, and his face bore a genuine, noble expression, devoid of the artificial, cunning smiles typical of courtiers. The green cloak draped over his armor was adorned with the gold embroidered crest of House Hightower, making him look every bit the knight in shining armor.
After offering respectful greetings to Lord and Lady Arryn, the young knight's eyes settled upon you. Standing calm and serene as a swan in your light blue gown. Gwayne stepped forward with heavy yet graceful strides. Tucking his helmet beneath his arm, he offered you a low bow.
"My Lady," he spoke, his voice smooth as velvet and reassuring. He gently took your hand and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the tips of your fingers, as though fearful of hurting them. "I see now why my cousin Ormund spends his days consumed by thoughts of you. Your nobility eclipses all tales whispered in the south."
A subtle smile touched your lips at his refined compliment. Throughout that initial, calm exchange with Gwayne, you noted how measured and respectful he remained. Ser Gwayne spoke without exaggerated courtly flattery, nor did he carry the coarse air of a simple soldier. An instant sense of admiration and deep curiosity stirred within you. He bore no resemblance to the clinging, ambitious lords you had encountered at court; in Gwayne's demeanor rested a genuine nobility rarely found among men of the realm.
Still, you sought not to let the feeling swell too greatly within you. At the end of the day, he was the cousin of the man you were to marry in two months' time, a guide tasked with delivering you safely to Oldtown.
"I am ready for the journey, Ser Gwayne," you said in a quiet, measured voice. Ser Gwayne signaled to the guards beside him, ordering the final arrangements to be concluded. Four loyal handmaidens, chosen by Lord Arryn to accompany you, stood side by side in the courtyard, waiting with eyes full of excitement and apprehension. As the heavy cedar chests were loaded onto the wooden wagons, carrying with them the scent of sweet lavender, a bustling commotion filled the courtyard air. You could not help but watch Gwayne as he issued directives to his men, commanding every detail with absolute control.
Once the preparations were complete, Gwayne gestured toward a carriage specially commissioned for your comfort. Sent from the south under Ormund's personal instructions, the carriage was crafted from dark oak with its windows draped in fine velvet curtains; a comfortable, unpretentious vehicle fitted with thick wheels to minimize the jolts of the road. Ser Gwayne opened the door and extended a hand to assist you inside.
Yet you did not budge. Your gaze had shifted toward a bay horse, docile yet possessing a noble stance.
"I prefer to ride a horse rather than take the carriage, Ser Gwayne," you said, your voice carrying a calm, unyielding resolve. "Feeling the wind of the mountain paths against my face will keep me far more spirited than sitting inside a closed box."
Gwayne paused for a moment at your response. Then, a genuine, slightly playful smile crossed his face. This unexpected, bold request pleased him; your willingness to brave the harsh winds only heightened the knight's respect for you.
"As you wish, My Lady," Gwayne said with a slight bow. "The road to Oldtown is long, but if you wish to carry the mountain air beside you, it will be my honor to ride at your side."
As you gracefully mounted the bay horse, the retinue slowly began its descent down the steep, treacherous paths of the Eyrie. The opening hours of the journey passed to the howling of the cool wind rushing through the jagged cliffs. Once the road leveled out upon the floor of the Vale, Gwayne brought his horse alongside yours. Between the two of you, a sweet distance and a quiet, unspoken battle of wits commenced that would endure throughout the journey.
"It may take some time for you to grow accustomed to the southern heat," Gwayne noted, casting a side glance at your pale blue gown. "Oldtown does not awaken to cool breezes like these. There, the air grows heavy with moisture from the sea and the salt of the harbor."
Lifting your head slightly, you met Gwayne's eyes. "They say knowledge also weighs heavy in the air, Ser Gwayne. With the wisdom of the Citadel and its grand libraries, breathing that air shall prove no burden to me."
Gwayne let out a soft laugh at your clever reply. "You hold deep thoughts regarding our house already; that is well. But remember, Hightower is not merely the oldest house in the realm, but the most unshakeable. We do not wait for the sun to rise, we light the way."
And we are the storm itself, you thought quietly, though you kept the words to yourself. Gwayne's confident, composed demeanor both fascinated you and kept you on your guard. This young man was rendering the mental image you had formed of his cousin, Ormund, far more complex. If Gwayne was this striking and noble, what manner of man was Ormund?
Gwayne, watching your quiet reflection and the way your hair caught the wind, now understood far better why his cousin had been so persistent. You were not merely the key to an alliance; you were a quiet, deep storm that would belong naturally in the marble corridors of Oldtown. The two of you rode onward without crossing the subtle boundaries of mutual respect, carrying the quiet anticipation of a new life and the grand destiny that would shape the realm.
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