Writer's block=fanfic. Novel-length + deleted scenes + snippets etc. Cannon compliance? Never met her. (Maybe once in a while.) WreyWrites on AO3. Not accepting hate at this time :)
"You know what happens to the shark that stops swimming?"
"It drowns."
~~
Annie Cresta wasn't a career. She could have been, with her father's money, imposing build, and spearfishing skills. Now her confidence is the only way to win. And it means her fellow tribute from Four will have to die.
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Tiger Shark (AU) - The Hunger Games
Annie has lost too much to the arena already, so she refuses to let Mags volunteer for her in the Quarter Quell.
This is a later (and better, I think, and definitely happier) version of the above. The first half is the same story of Annie's Games and the aftermath; after that, well, the Quarter Quell is exciting.
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The Albatross - The Hunger Games
“I volunteer!”
Festus looked up, a little surprised, but pleased as well. “Come on up then!” He beamed as the girl moved through the crowd, all of them staring at her, then offered a hand to help her up the stairs.
“What’s your name?”
“Angelee Westin.”
Someone (my beta) may have informed me that Beck has the personality of a saltine cracker. I said, "Yeah, but... on purpose..." So, with full character credits of Angelee and Beau to my beta, this is the story of the albatross.
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Little Lessons - Star Wars
A collection of one-shots about Jedi Ky Ydarra for Jedi June 2024.
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Tacos and Tequila - Aquaman
Orm has one (1) friend.
Pros: She knows all the good places to eat, she has a spare bedroom, and she's willing to explain mundane human concepts to him with minimal judgment.
Cons: She's a surface dweller who thinks Aquaman is "cool."
Princess Alyssa gives her husband a memorable name day gift. He's excited, but it does mean more giant lizards living in his backyard. Vermithor is very excited, though Ormund can't be sure if it's because there are more dragons to keep him company in the Oldtown Dragon Pit, or because there are more dragons to help him annoy Ormund from the Oldtown Dragon Pit.
A/N: You could read this by itself, but it's part 2 of Tomcat (go, go, go, I'll still be here when you get back). Also, I legit have a 40-page Word doc of this, so... there's more. There's so much more. At this point I might just commit to the Tomcat Extended Universe and write y'all a book over on AO3.
Warnings/Content: Suggestive dialogue (those babies gotta come from somewhere), one reference to getting baby trapped (as a joke—everyone involved was willing and enthusiastic). Fluff, Wife Guy Ormund, Sunshine Targaryen/Velaryon OC, Grumpy Cat Vermithor, Baby TargTowers in Oldtown, Silverwing appearance, Baela and Jace live happily ever after as Westeros's Coolest Aunt and Uncle
Word Count: 9.5k
“And what are you getting up to today, beloved wife?” The future Lord Hightower’s voice was rough with sleep.
Princess Alyssa sighed, breath tickling down his back. “If only I had planned something for your name day. Oh wait!” She squeezed the arm around his middle tighter and kissed his shoulder blade. “I did!”
“I assume that is why you are awake so early,” Ormund mumbled, lacing his fingers between hers. He glanced over his shoulder at her. “So that before the festivities you may go ride the monster I invited to live in my family’s lands?”
Alyssa smiled and shook her head. “I went for a good long flight yesterday, and I shall have to sneak out for a quick lap or two tomorrow, but today, dear husband, I am all yours. And I got up so early because I am excited about your name day gift, but also I must send a raven and I am rather unsure how best to phrase what I must say, and I have been dwelling on it for days, and last night I promised myself today was the day and I must send it, and I am so nervous—”
“Nervous?” Ormund rolled over to frown at her. “My heart, you ride a dragon for fun. I have never known you to be nervous.”
“How is your shoulder?”
“Fine.” He kissed her forehead. “And do not change the subject, even though it was your fault.”
“My fault? Hardly! It was your idea!”
“Well, I did not hear you complaining,” he said airily.
“I don’t think you could have heard anything from—”
Ormund pressed a finger against her lips. “Hush, wild girl. We shall argue about this later.”
Alyssa rolled her eyes and levelled a playful glare at him.
“Tell me what it is that makes you nervous, and I shall do my utmost to aid you.”
She took a quick breath, then, “Very well, my love, will you write my mother and tell her I shall need an egg?”
Ormund blinked. “An egg?”
“Yes.” Alyssa smiled that wild smile that had made him fall in love with her three wonderful years ago.
Gods, he’d walk to King’s Landing and carry an egg home on his back if she asked. “May I enquire as to the purpose…?”
She snuggled close and whispered, “Targaryen babes have dragon eggs put in their cradles.”
He sat up so fast it made him dizzy. Perhaps he was dizzy anyway. “Babes?” he gaped.
“Well, I cannot promise you twins. Likely just the one.”
Ormund stared down at his wife. His beautiful, wild, beloved wife. “You’re sure?”
“Yes!” Alyssa laughed. “I have been sure for some weeks, but I wanted to save the news because truthfully, I have yet to find what to give the man who wants for nothing on his name day!”
He flopped onto the pillows next to her and pulled her close. “Waking up next to you would have been enough,” he whispered, kissing the top of her head, “but this is certainly the happiest of surprises."
***
Rhaenyra’s raven invited them to meet at Dragonstone to celebrate and to choose a clutch of eggs to bring back to Oldtown.
Ormund set to planning the journey at once.
“I think we are better to ride, then we may stop in King’s Landing to greet the king and the cousins and such, and from there we may book a ship but with considerably less of our baggage and household, and—”
“Love.”
He stopped with a hum. “Yes?”
“We could fly. Baggage and household be damned. There are tailors and dressmakers and maids and squires in King’s Landing and on Dragonstone.”
He had been afraid she would suggest that. All his eager and hurried planning had been in an attempt—vainly, apparently—to avoid this very idea.
“Alyssa. I love you.”
“And I you.”
“But your dragon does not. He would take the first opportunity to tip me off to my death so he may live happily as the only object of your affections—”
“Vermithor would never—”
“He tried to bite me just the other day!”
“He did not, and you know it!”
“He did! And you did not see it because he always does these things when your back is turned! It was the day those knights from the Stormlands arrived, and I gave you a kiss because I wasn’t going to be able to meet you when you landed, and he snapped his jaws at me, Alyssa.”
Alyssa was clearly holding back laughter. Her eyes glittered. “Perhaps he thought the smelly man was harassing me and he would come to my rescue.”
“I worry about that very thing!”
“Silly husband.” Alyssa draped her arms around his shoulders. “Vermithor does not eat people unless I tell him to.”
“That is less comforting than you might hope.”
***
Alyssa begged and begged, and in the end, they compromised. The baggage and household would meet them at Dragonstone. Alyssa would fly on Vermithor. And so would her husband.
He stood outside the Dragon Pit built just for her, curling and uncurling his fingers, too hot in the extra layer she had insisted he wear, listening to his wife’s dragon purr as she inspected the adjustments the Dragon Keepers had made to the saddle so it could more comfortably seat two.
He still detested the smell, but that was the least of his concerns today.
“Are you ready?” Alyssa called down to him.
Vermithor swung his head around to narrow his huge eyes at Ormund. His tail lashed.
“Alyssa, he is going to eat me. He is going to roast me and then swallow me whole. And he will be happy about it.”
“Ormund. I love you. But you are being very dramatic. Come, come.” She slid down the bronze dragon’s side and walked to his head, where she scratched his chin and cooed soft words in High Valyrian to him. After a moment she looked up and gave her husband the most imperious look he had ever seen on her face.
Between that and the dragon, he could understand why people tended to listen when a Targaryen spoke.
Ormund swallowed, steeled himself, and took two steps forward.
Vermithor swung his great head around and huffed.
“Vermithor.” Alyssa admonished him so gently, and he listened.
One of the Dragon Keepers said something. One of the others snorted. Even Alyssa, walking toward Ormund, cracked a smile.
“What?” he asked, nerves frayed near to breaking.
“He says that if you are not…” Alyssa paused, looked at the first Dragon Keeper, and said a few words in High Valyrian. He nodded, repeating them back. The other laughed.
Ormund was not sure how he felt about how comfortable a relationship they seemed to have with his wife, but for the first days of her life in Oldtown, they and the pair of maids that had come with from King’s Landing were the only people she knew. He tried hard not to begrudge them, but when they spoke a language he did not, and were clearly talking about him—
“He wonders if Vermithor might think you forced yourself upon me.”
Ormund spluttered. The Dragon Keepers grinned at his obvious embarrassment.
“What?”
Alyssa wrapped her arms around his middle with a laugh. “Well, he can smell that I am with child, you know. Like a stallion can smell a mare in heat, or in foal.” She turned back to the Dragon Keepers and said something.
They laughed and bowed, each lifting an end of the trunk that had been the subject of much debate, whether a bit of luggage would be necessary (Yes, Ormund had argued) or even possible (unlikely, but she would ask, Alyssa had conceded), and approaching Vermithor, talking quietly and steadily to him.
“Don’t worry yourself, dear husband, I have informed them, and Vermithor, that I was a willing participant.”
“That is not the comfort you might hope. And I am not sure I like your Dragon Keepers knowing so much about our…”
She said a word with a laugh, and he frowned.
“It just means sex.”
Ormund made a face. “And you talk about it with the Dragon Keepers because…?”
“Because Vermithor noticed, love. He was terribly snuffly and he even snapped at one of them when they stepped too close to me. He is protective, is all, and more so now, so yes, I told them. I would have liked to tell you first, but it could not be avoided. And I am sorry for that.”
He would have loved to pout. He was certainly not too proud for it, and certainly not when it came to Alyssa.
“Don’t you pout!” She jabbed a finger in his chest. “You pouting got us in this in the first place.”
That was probably true.
“Now,” Alyssa grabbed his shoulders like he would grab a squire who needed extra encouragement, “you must be very brave, sweet husband, and get on the dragon.”
He did not want to get on the dragon.
He did it, but it took a great deal of cajoling, directed both at him and at Vermithor, Alyssa standing on the ground below, one moment telling Ormund where next to put his foot to climb a step higher, and the next speaking sweet words to Vermithor. Reassurances that she had enjoyed getting with child, he suspected, and indeed, Ormund Hightower was vain enough to at least be proud of that fact, but he still did not like that the dragon had to be told all about it.
“Now your left foot, in that stirrup, and swing over just like a horse!”
Vermithor growled.
“Very well done! Surely the gods have blessed me, to have such a brave husband!”
Yes, it was patronizing, but he did not particularly care. Her praise was what he lived for. He finally snuck a glance down at his wife to see her wild smile shining back up at him.
She gave the dragon one last scratch under his chin, then scrambled up his side as easily as running up a set of stairs. In the saddle in front of Ormund, she began fastening buckles, connecting first him, and then herself, to the saddle.
“Do you know how, when you are thrown from a horse, there is the moment after it has jumped straight up underneath you, when you are still over the saddle, but not quite touching it, and you think Oh, this is it, this is how I’ll die?”
“Yes.”
“Flying is a bit like that. Soves, Vermithor!”
He would have screamed, truly, if the air had not all been sucked from his lungs and his stomach left behind on the ground.
As it was, Ormund Hightower clung to his wife like a child to his mother’s skirts, and the smell of dragon was the least of his concerns.
***
“He did not enjoy the ride, but he was very game about it. Got back on in the mornings at least,” Alyssa grinned at her mother. “I do not think he’ll fly home with me, but I had no desire to waste weeks sailing ’round the coast when we could get here in a few days on dragonback. I shall simply beat him home. Or stay with you for a fortnight after we’re done in King’s Landing. We shall see.”
Rhaenyra snorted. “For the doubts I had, he must truly love you. No man rides a dragon for political gain.”
“Certainly not that man. Though, he did go the entire first day without complaining about the smell.”
“Was that how long it was that it took him to get his bearings?”
“He didn’t vomit, if that’s what you’re asking. He was quite pale though. And he did not like it when I mostly unharnessed myself to turn around so we could talk more easily. Thought I would fall to my death. As if Vermithor would let me fall.”
“And you?” Rhaenyra looked more earnest than she had all morning, since embracing her daughter at the gates.
Alyssa frowned. “What about me?”
“Did you…?” She trailed off, casting a meaningful glance at Alyssa’s stomach.
“Did I what, Mother? I do not know what you’re asking.” She laughed. It was her way.
Rhaenyra sighed and gazed at the sky for a moment. “Gods, I shall be incredibly jealous if this goes the way I think it is about to.” She looked back at her daughter. “Many women are sick during pregnancy. Especially the early moons.”
“Ah. Then I shall spare your feelings and pretend not to have heard the question.”
“Lucky girl.”
They sat in happy silence for a while, the sea breeze fluttering around them, carrying the occasional roar or song of a dragon in flight.
“How many eggs do you want?”
“Hm?”
Rhaenyra smiled at Alyssa. “I’m no fool, little dragon. If you could take all that you wanted, how many eggs would return to Oldtown with you?”
Alyssa huffed, smiling and shaking her head at her feet, stretched out in front of her. “Just a clutch.”
“There was a clutch of five, about a year ago.”
She nodded. Then, “Do you know what color they are?”
“One of them is green.”
Alyssa laughed. “I had probably better take them then. Syrax?”
“Meleys. Rhaenys said they may as well be here, since here is where the babes most often are.”
“Something you’d care to tell me, Mother?”
“Care to guess, Daughter?”
Alyssa leaned close to her on the couch, resting her head on her mother’s shoulder. “What would our family be, without nieces and nephews older than their uncles?”
Rhaenyra laughed. “Mine will come first. You sent your raven quite early. No, do not apologize—” she cut her daughter off, squeezing her hand, “I remember when I discovered you growing within me. I could hardly wait to tell someone—anyone.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t have your own mother to share the news with.”
“As am I. But I am glad to be here to hear your own happy news.”
Alyssa cuddled closer, feeling young and small again. “Speaking of Grandmother… I had wondered, if my little one is a girl, if we might name her Aemma?”
“Oh, little dragon!” Rhaenyra kissed the top of her head. “Of course! Nothing would make me happier than to meet little Aemma Targaryen. Hightower. Velaryon?” She laughed. “What a mess all these names and changes to names have become!”
“And will continue to be. I think I am Lady Hightower, at least to the courtiers and lords and ladies who have known Ormund since he toddled around after his own mother, but I feel I should be Princess Alyssa Targaryen. I will be, at least, when you are queen.”
“Of course. That was the arrangement with Lord Corlys. You will become Princess of Dragonstone as a Targaryen. Your children, though…” Rhaenyra let out a breath. “At least, they will sit the throne as Targaryens. Beyond that, perhaps it does not matter.”
“It might.” Alyssa sat up, thinking. “Ormund will be Lord of the High Tower—Lord of the Reach—Hobart’s health is not what it once was—it will be sooner rather than later…” She was taken a bit aback by the melancholy she felt just saying it. Hobart perhaps did not cherish her, but he was always terribly polite, and he had allowed his son to spend an exorbitant amount of money to build a Dragon Pit just for her, not to mention allowing his son to marry her, rather than trying to strengthen a different alliance instead of joining the Targaryens and Hightowers again. “Ormund will control the Reach, not Otto or Alicent, so if Ormund’s child is in line for the throne, and carries the Hightower name until being named Prince or Princess of Dragonstone… It would keep the Reach in line.”
“It would.” Rhaenyra gave her head a rueful shake. “I wish you did not always scheme so, little dragon, either out of need or desire.”
“I do not scheme, I think. I am always thinking.” Alyssa sobered. “And I do not wish to go to war for this. If there is war for the succession… If the dragons fly… It will be death for us all. Not just the Targaryens, but all of Westeros.”
***
“Husband, just because you have not yet found sleep does not mean you must toss and turn and keep me from it as well.”
Ormund huffed out a breath. “It smells of ghosts, Alyssa.”
“Ghosts, Ormund?” With a tired smile, she rolled over to face him. “Tell me, what do ghosts smell like?”
“Dust. Dust and mold. Corners that are never quite clean and never will be. Smoke from fires a hundred years dead and cold. Rotting wood.”
“You are ever the poet.”
“And the wind wails through the windows, whether singing or sighing or shrieking, I cannot tell. And if it is singing, I know not the words or even the tune, and I feel the knowledge would be perilous.”
Alyssa scooted closer and draped an arm around him. “That is dragonsong. My guess is Silverwing, though I have not heard her sing in many years.” She yawned. “Vermithor was her mate for a very long time. I suspect they are catching up, sharing news.”
“Oh good, he shall tell her of the bothersome man who harasses his rider, and then she shall want to eat me as well.”
It was a mark of how tired Alyssa was that she didn’t laugh. She smiled and shook her head, nose brushing his chest. “I have told him time and again that there is room for both of you in my heart. He is my freedom, and you are my strength.”
“Who is the poet now?”
“Poetry is but truth. Now, hush, close your eyes, and listen.”
“Alyssa?”
“That is not being quiet.”
“I love you.”
One eye cracked open, a glint in it. “If that is what you wish to speak of, then by all means, talk until the sun rises.”
“Silly woman.” He kissed the top of her head.
“Silly yourself, but I love you the more for it. Now sleep.”
He squirmed only a little, to position himself to best hold his beloved wife as she curled against his chest, and then he closed his eyes and began breathing as deeply as he could, thinking only of the warmth of the bed and the softness of the sheets.
And Alyssa began to hum.
It was a song he had never heard, but when the strains of dragonsong echoed through the open window, they made a perfect harmony.
And he wondered—had the Targaryens taught their dragons, or had the dragons taught them?
***
“I do not think I will be able to come quite yet, for your labors, and as far apart as we live, I would have to intrude upon the hospitality of the High Tower for some time to guarantee I could.” Rhaenyra looked apologetic.
“Do not worry yourself about it, Mother.” Alyssa squeezed her hands. “I shall be fine. I have the utmost confidence in Maester Edmyn, and the midwives, and Alayne and Cat.”
“Little dragon, I am your mother. I will always worry myself about it, when it is you.”
“Or one of the boys.”
Rhaenyra choked out a surprised laugh. “Especially one of the boys.” Then she hugged Alyssa. “Not that you are much better, wild daughter of mine.”
Alyssa leaned into her mother’s embrace. “Perhaps I learned from you.”
“Gods, I hope not!”
Alyssa laughed.
“Calm, Silverwing. Calm. You must stay here.” The Dragon Keeper’s words returned their attention to the dragons.
Silverwing’s mournful keening was soft, but forceful.
“Silverwing.”
“What if she comes with us?”
“You—” Rhaenyra frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Alyssa gave her mother a meaningful look, “what would be the harm in it? Rhaena has tried claiming her, and you say Silverwing has had none of it. If Aemond has not tried it yet, I do not think he ever will. There are no others who would claim her. Who are we to say that my children might not, were she in Oldtown? And even if not, then truly, what would be the harm in them staying together?” Then she snorted. “Other than the Hightower coffers supporting more shepherds than they otherwise would.”
“Alyssa, it is not your Dragon Pit.”
“But it is. He built it for me. And I would ask, but he is not here, and there is no raven swift enough, nor can I fly to catch him without bringing Silverwing along.” She grinned, a light in her eyes. “And I know what he would say anyway.”
“That he is terrified to say no?”
“Something like that.” She looked at Silverwing, who was stubbornly standing next to Vermithor and ignoring the Dragon Keepers. “Silverwing.”
Glittering in the dim light, the dragon cocked her head at Alyssa.
“Silverwing, I will not stop you. Fly if you will, or stay. The Oldtown Dragon Pit will be home if you wish it, but you must act appropriately.”
Silverwing trilled.
Rhaenyra sighed. “Do you think Lord Ormund is afraid to say no to you because all the dragons listen when you speak?”
Alyssa reached up to scratch Vermithor’s chin. His rumbling purr nearly drowned out her next words. “No, he is not afraid of me. He is not even afraid of Vermithor. But he has seen me at my wildest, and still he gives me his shy little smile when he asks me to dance. Or a decidedly less shy smile over the edge of the bath. No, Mother, he is not afraid of me, but he knows what he has, and saves his no for important occasions. Besides,” she shot her mother a grin, “they do not all listen. And he does not know that more than one of them listens. Now, I shall be off, else he’ll beat me home and I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Rhaenyra nodded as Alyssa climbed into Vermithor’s saddle. “Will you come for Jace’s name day?” she called.
“If I can manage it. If not, I apologize in advance. It would have to be a short visit if I can.”
“Well, if you do not make it, I shall send him to visit you after. I may anyway. It would be good for him.”
“It would. Farewell, then! And send word of your little one!”
“You as well! Fly safe, my little dragon!”
Alyssa grinned. “Vermithor! Home!”
Vermithor roared, the sound deafening as it echoed through the caves, and stormed toward the mouth and the sunlight streaming in from it.
Silverwing cast a long look at Rhaenyra. The Princess of Dragonstone smiled, shook her head, and gestured after Vermithor. “You are a dragon. Fly where you will.”
Silverwing rumbled, then swept after the bronze dragon.
Rhaenyra turned to the Dragon Keepers. “When my daughter’s household next visits, some of you may need to return with her. Five eggs and two large dragons…”
“The eggs will not all hatch tomorrow, Princess. But some of us will go, yes.”
***
“Wings!”
The shout that carried around the ship roused Ormund from leaning against the bow, watching the waves.
“Wings, wings!”
The waves were soothing, and the clean, clear, salt smell of the open sea only a little less so. Wings, on the other hand, meant it would soon be less clean and more brimstone. He looked up, following the gazes of the sailors and scant members of the household that had traveled to Dragonstone and King’s Landing.
“Wings!”
All was well. Even at this distance, Vermithor’s build was as familiar to him as his own horse, the rhythm of his wingbeats a dance he could keep time to. It was not so long ago that the very idea of joy at the sight of a dragon would have been absurd to Ormund Hightower, but not so now. Not when it meant his wild Alyssa was nearer than she had been for days and days.
“It is Vermithor!” he called, voice loud enough to carry, but with little patience in it. The people on this ship were not foreigners. They ought to know their lady’s dragon by now.
“My lord… there are… there are other…” a sailor up the mast stammered down. “There is a second set of wings.”
Perhaps all was not well, then. Ormund squinted and shaded his eyes. It was a pity he knew three words of High Valyrian, and none of them useful to enquiring of his wife’s new Dragon Keepers as to which dragon the second was.
But as the two dragons flew closer, it became evident they flew side by side.
“I do not think we have anything to fear, Captain,” he said to the man now standing at his side and seeming to mentally prepare himself for the worst. “Princess Alyssa would not tolerate being followed if it was unwelcome.” He remembered with half a smile Ser Arrun’s words at the Dragon Pit. You are not the first to dog her steps, but you are the first who she smiles to see doing it. He had never asked what had happened to the ones she had not smiled at. Perhaps Vermithor had eaten them. It seemed like something he would do, with Alyssa’s permission.
The second dragon was gray, and sparkled like mail in the sunlight. It was nearly as big as Vermithor, and besides that Ormund could think of only one dragon that might have followed the bronze beast and been welcome.
And then she sang.
Not long ago, the thought that he might know a dragon by only her song would have struck him as ridiculous. Had Alyssa told him it could be done, he would have laughed. Politely, but laughed all the same. Probably the soft little laugh that had no venom behind it and always made her smack whatever part of him she could reach—also with no venom—and usually ended with the two of them in some dark corner giggling like a maid and a stable boy.
But now… now it was a song that he knew. That he felt in his bones. That did indeed speak of something that he wanted desperately to feel, and maybe had felt a time or two—wild abandon and weightlessness and whatever still made him feel as if his heart might simply burst out of his chest when Alyssa laughed.
It was Silverwing.
Five eggs and two adult dragons.
Vermithor slowed and swooped down level with the ship, sweeping his claws along the surface of the sea. Silverwing circled overhead. On the ship, men pointed and shouted, laughed or hid.
“Hello, my heart!” Alyssa shouted.
“Wild girl!” Ormund shouted back, a grin splitting his face.
“I have brought a friend! Silverwing would not be stopped! I hope that is all right!”
Vermithor’s speed, even greatly reduced, was already carrying him beyond the ship.
“Who am I to stop her when she sings so beautifully?”
The last he heard before Alyssa was beyond earshot was her laughter ringing across the water. Then, with a great sweep of his wings, Vermithor climbed high above again, and he and Silverwing turned inland and toward the High Tower.
***
“My love!” Alyssa’s call echoed up the stairs and down the hallway and through the open door.
Rickon, who had the misfortune of being today’s door ward, went pale as Ormund looked mildly up from the stack of letters he was bored with anyway. It was far too lovely a day to be inside dealing with nonsense.
“My heart!” Her voice was louder, less echoing, close enough he could hear the click of her bootheels.
What he would give to take his horse on a good long gallop. Perhaps after supper. Maester Edmyn had allowed Alyssa to keep flying—surely she could ride as well.
“Ormund!”
In fact, Alyssa had informed Edmyn that Targaryen women had been flying while with child for time out of mind and she would not be the one to break tradition. Her exact words had been—
Rickon leapt out of the way.
“I need new riding leathers!” Alyssa announced without preamble, marching into the room. Waddling, perhaps, was more accurate, but his darling and daring wife did not waddle.
“Love, did you not just get new riding leathers a fortnight ago?”
“Indeed! And now I require new ones again!”
Ormund took a steadying breath and fought down the rueful smile. “You may go, Rickon,” he said, instead of letting himself respond immediately to the wife he could hardly say no to.
Rickon bowed and ducked out, closing the door as he went.
“Do not be offended, my heart—”
“Offended!” Alyssa scoffed, looking exactly that as she dropped heavily into the chair across from him.
“Yes, for you know I love you, but… why?”
“Why?” She sprang from the chair and set to pacing. “Why? Because this—this—ox growing within me has grown so much that my new leathers no longer fit! What shall I ride in, dear husband?”
He did not like the tone of that. It was not his fault that the child was growing large and strong…
Suddenly he was rather self-conscious about the breadth of his shoulders.
“Perhaps my nightdress? It is large enough to still fit, unlike everything else that I own, apparently!”
He did not consciously shrink down in his chair, but she pounced nonetheless.
“Yes, it is your fault! I could have had Prince Aemond and doubtless then my children would be lithe and limber and not great weighty bull calves and my back hurts and my shoulders hurt and my feet are swollen and do not look at me so, as if you love me, as if you adore me, as if you did not do this to me!”
There did not seem to be a safe reply to all that, and though he did not at all like that his beloved wife, his wild darling girl, had even once considered what things would be like had she married her uncle—his nephew—gods, their family tree was a tangled mess—
“And now you sit there, answering your letters and thinking about what dessert you would like the cook to make tomorrow night and planning a stroll through the gardens thinking that will make me feel better and I only want to fly but I am so tired—”
He leapt from his chair and wrapped both arms around her before she could escape. “Tell me, then,” Ormund murmured, lips brushing the top of her head. “Tell me what would make you feel better.”
Her strength always surprised him.
Her arms crushing around his ribs, Alyssa broke. “I don’t know!” she sobbed. “I don’t—”
“Oh, my love. My wild girl.”
Alyssa’s deep, shaking breaths wracked her shoulders. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s… I didn’t mean it. Well… maybe I meant some of it. I am frustrated and tired and—”
“And if railing against my character and physical build helps you, then I shall gladly receive your abuse.”
She laughed a wet laugh.
Ormund kissed the top of her head, then whispered, “What would you like for dessert tomorrow?”
She did laugh, then, something close to her real laugh. “I don’t know that either. Every day something different sounds good, and what I wanted yesterday turns my stomach today.”
“Very well, what do you want for dessert tonight? Though, not being the cook, I can make no promises.”
“May I skip supper and have strawberry tarts until I burst?”
Ormund breathed a slow, thoughtful sigh. “I shall have to write your mother and ask.”
She removed one arm from around his middle to poke his ribs.
He chuckled. “Of course, dear one. I’ll send word to the kitchens. And in the meantime, there is nothing to stop you from visiting Vermithor, even if you cannot fly. I know it isn’t the same, but better than nothing. And anything you want—only think on it and tell me—and if it is new riding leathers every four days, then—” Then the cost would be staggering. He hugged her tighter. “Then new leathers every four days it shall be.”
Alyssa nodded against his shoulder. “I will think.” She looked up at him, eyes red, face tear-streaked.
This was certainly a new side of her.
Were all wives like this when they were with child? If so, why had no one thought to warn him? Or was it that most wives were used to quiet lives of stitching and reading poetry and so noticed no difference when limited to those very activities and therefore no one knew?
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I shall rail against your very broad shoulders again tomorrow.”
“I expect nothing less.”
***
“Do you wish me to stop flying?” Alyssa asked, over something like her tenth strawberry tart.
Ormund pressed his lips together. It felt like a trap. “I wish you and the babe to be safe. But I also wish you to be happy. And I do not wish to empty the coffers of Oldtown to do so, but if needs must.”
She nodded. “May… Might I have a swing?”
The laugh burst from him before he could stop it. Alyssa frowned.
“I am sorry, my heart. I do not mean to make fun. Of course you may have a swing. My mother had one, I remember—it may still be in its tree, or else we shall find a suitable tree and have a new swing made.” He shook his head. “I was afraid you were going to make a ridiculous request, like a harness to go ’round your shoulders so that Vermithor could pick you up by the scruff like a kitten and you would fly that way.”
Alyssa choked on her wine. “Gods!” She laughed, still trying to catch her breath and smudging her napkin at her nose, where some wine lingered. “Gods, can you imagine!”
“In fact I can. That was why I worried.”
“It would never have occurred to me!” Alyssa laughed again. “Though, now that you’ve brought it up, I am intrigued by the idea. To be suspended from a dragon, rather than have my feet in the stirrups…”
Ormund fully put down his knife and fork to take her hands across the corner of the little table. “I am begging you, wild girl, if you love me—”
“I shall keep my feet firmly on the ground, my love.” She grinned. “Or in the stirrups.”
“Thank you.”
“Or perhaps in the air—”
“Alyssa!”
“—When I am using the swing you promised me!”
***
“Lady Alyssa?”
Hannaly looked up from her book, then started out of her chair.
“No, sit,” Alyssa said, then called, “Enter!”
The door opened. Lord Hobart stood in the doorway.
Hannaly sprang to her feet and dropped into a curtsy, then quickly retreated to the side of the room.
Alyssa huffed as she scooted toward the edge of her seat. “Forgive me, my lord, I am not as spritely as Hannaly.”
Hobart waved a dismissive hand. “Not to worry. You are my daughter-by-law and a princess of the realm, and hardly in a state to go springing about.”
Alyssa snorted. “Indeed. This morning I felt hardly in a state to get myself out of bed.”
Something like a smile crossed Hobart’s face. He gestured at one of the empty chairs. “May I?”
“Of course.”
He sat. “My lady wife was much the same. She was…” He truly smiled then. “She was quite ready to meet Ormund, and that was a good two moons before the boy made his way into the world.”
“He speaks of her sometimes. Ormund. I cannot tell if the memories make him happy or sad. Perhaps both.”
Hobart looked out the window in silence for a long moment. “For me, it is both.” His voice was soft. After another moment, he returned his attention to Alyssa. “Ormund said you would like a swing.”
She nodded.
“I think it is an excellent idea. My wife’s was in an old tree that died not long after she did, but, if you are up for a stroll, I would be happy to walk the gardens with you and look for a suitable tree.”
“I would be delighted. Hannaly, will you come as well? When we reach the gardens, we may need you to find us a gardener.”
“Of course, my lady.”
***
“Your swing is ready.”
“So quickly?”
“My father is not a ditherer.”
“Indeed not. May I use it?”
Ormund offered his arm. “That is why I had it built, dearest. I thought we might try it before supper while my stack of letters grows and grows.”
Alyssa took his arm. “I shall help with your letters tomorrow. I have a few of my own to write, and I cannot do anything else.”
The gardens were still warm from the afternoon sun even as the shadows grew longer. It was a fairly short walk to the tree Hobart had showed him, the one that had made Alyssa smile. Ormund suspected it hadn’t been the tree itself, but the flower beds. They were overflowing with wildflowers, a riot of color and barely controlled chaos. One of the older gardeners had told him once that this part of the gardens had been requested by his great-grandfather, a man of the earth who preferred the beauty that could be found by the roadside, in wild meadows and untilled soil, to orderly rows of lilies and roses. He wasn’t surprised it was one of his wild wife’s favorite places.
Ormund held the swing still while she sat. “Not too high for you, is it?”
“Hmm.” Alyssa stretched her legs until her toes dug into the ground, then pushed herself back.
Ormund grunted as the swing hit his thighs, hard, and a little too high for comfort. “Is that a yes?”
She tipped her head back to grin at him. “I would hate for you to grow soft.”
“No, instead I shall grow bruised.” He leaned down to kiss her nose anyway. “May I play the part of noble lord and give you a push, my heart?”
“You may.” Alyssa crossed her ankles, prim and proper, and stretched her legs out in front of her. “And I shall, for the first time in my life, play the part of quiet lady wife.”
“Please do no such thing. I value your wild heart far too much.”
Value her wildness though he may, Ormund did not push her with as much strength as he could have. He remembered his father giving him such shoves when he was young that he nearly flew from the swing. He was not about to do that with his heavily pregnant wife.
His wife may have been heavily pregnant, but she was not stupid.
“Oh, come now, Ormund! I know you can push harder than that!”
He chose innocence. “How do you know such a thing, dearest Alyssa?”
“Not six days ago you picked me up and set me on your shoulders and—”
Gods, could she at least not crow about it in the gardens? “And I had help from the wall,” he cut in. Then, against his better judgment, he gave her such a shove that a grunt escaped him.
Alyssa whooped and kicked her feet out as she swung high into the air. “I knew it!” she laughed as the swing brought her back.
Ormund ducked to the side, watching her go back and forth until most of her momentum was lost.
She grinned at him. “Again, my beloved ox!”
So now being an ox was a good thing.
“Wild girl.”
But she had stoked his pride, and she knew it, and he knew that she knew it and that she was playing him like a harp. He simply did not care. Truth be told, he loved showing off for his wife.
So Ormund grabbed hold of the swing and shoved.
***
“Papa!” Aemma was already flailing her chubby little arms at him, unrestrained joy on her face.
He could never say no to that face. Grinning, Ormund waved back.
“Down! Down, down, down!” Aemma shouted, struggling against her mother.
“A moment, little bird!” Alyssa laughed as she unhooked the straps that held Vaerys to the saddle behind her.
The boy slid down and waited for Alyssa. When she reached the ground next to him, she knelt and lifted Aemma from the harness that kept the little girl snug against her chest. Then she murmured something to the pair of them, the wild glint in her eyes matching her windswept hair. As she stood, the children ran toward him.
That minx.
Vaerys crashed into him, Aemma toddling not far behind as fast as her legs could carry her, both of them stinking of dragon but with that same wild, unrestrained joy that Alyssa’s face bore as well.
Ormund scooped one up in each arm. “How were the clouds today, little ones?”
He listened as Vaerys told him about the eagle they had seen, but his eyes were only for his beloved. She scratched Vermithor’s chin, then followed in the children’s footsteps. Vermithor watched. He bared his teeth and lashed his tail, but at a word from the Dragon Keepers, he entered the Dragon Pit.
Alyssa stopped in front of Ormund, grinning, and wrapped an arm around each child. She leaned between them and kissed him.
“You smell terribly,” he mumbled against her lips, “all of you.”
“And now so do you. We shall all need baths.”
He frowned at the emphasis, but she only laughed as they walked toward the horses.
***
“Papa!”
“Vaerys!” Ormund looked up from—gods be praised—a smaller stack of petitions than usual. Then he frowned. “Where is—?”
“Mama said I had to ask you!” Vaerys panted. “She is not flying today, but Uncle Jace said he would take me! Mama said I had to ask you first. Please?”
How dare that boy plead like his mother, with those wide, deep amethyst eyes, and hands clasped in sincerity, and the slightest pout of his lower lip? It wasn’t fair at all. He could hardly say no to one he loved so much.
Jacaerys walked in just then, but stopped just inside the door.
Rickon raised an eyebrow. In response, Ormund tipped his head toward the hallway, and the door ward left without a word.
“Well,” Ormund pushed his chair back from the desk, and Vaerys, recognizing their familiar stages of bargaining, hurried over and scrambled into his lap. “Do you promise to be on your very best behavior for your uncle?”
Vaerys nodded, ever serious.
“And do you promise not to spend hours and hours with Estanax either before or after, but come straight back to the High Tower to bathe and get ready for the feast tonight?”
He nodded again.
Ormund nodded back, then smiled and ruffled his little ox’s curly silver hair. “Go on then.”
Vaerys’s face split into a smile to shame the sun and he threw his arms around Ormund’s neck. “Thank you, Papa! I will be ever so good!”
“I do not doubt it.”
The boy tumbled from his lap and ran for the door, shouting as he went, “I must put on my riding leathers, then I will be ready!”
“Very well,” Jacaerys said, smiling and shaking his head. He turned to follow the receding sprinting footsteps of Vaerys.
“Prince Jacaerys.”
He stopped and returned his attention to Ormund. “My lord, are we not brothers-by-law? You may call me Jace.”
Ormund leaned forward, elbows braced on the desk. “I call you Prince Jacaerys so that you may understand how serious I am when I say this.”
Jacaerys looked evenly back at him.
“That is my son. And I love his mother more than anything in this world, but I did not understand exactly how desperately a man could love someone until the first time I held that boy the day he was born. Should something happen to him, then oaths be damned.”
Jacaerys nodded once. “I understand, my lord. I will keep him safe.”
“Good.” He gestured to the door, and let Jacaerys get nearly through it before saying, “Oh, Jace, the prevailing winds come in from the sea. I’m told if you aren’t prepared for them, landing from the north or south can be tricky.”
A smile twitched at the corners of Jace’s mouth. “That is good to know. Thank you… Ormund.”
The prince had not even managed to leave the room when another silver-haired child came barreling in.
Aemma did not bother to announce herself or plead her case, whatever it was. She simply raced around the desk and scrambled into Ormund’s lap.
“Papa!” she bawled.
He blinked. He was not quite prepared for such tears at this hour.
“It isn’t fair!”
“Not fair?” He quickly put on his most scandalized voice and put his hands around her middle lest she pitch herself off his lap in her angst.
“No!” Aemma sobbed.
Ormund shot a quick glance at Jace, still in the doorway, who returned an equally confused look, then stepped aside as Alyssa strode into the room.
She stopped, seeing Ormund attempting, perhaps vainly, to console their daughter, and stepped quietly next to Jace.
“What’s not fair, precious girl?” Ormund asked quietly, returning his full attention to Aemma.
She sniffled, then buried her face against his chest. “Vaerys gets to ride with Uncle Jace but I have to stay home!” she wailed.
Wrapping his arms around Aemma and resting his chin gently on top of her head, Ormund was distantly aware of Jace and Alyssa having a rapid and quiet discussion in High Valyrian. He did his best to ignore them. “Oh, little bird, there will be other days. Uncle Jace will be here for a fortnight yet, and only tomorrow is busy—after that there will be many days. And I will talk to Vaerys so he knows it is your turn next.”
“Promise, Papa?”
“Promise.” He very much hoped Jace wouldn’t mind. He cast a glance at the prince over Aemma, kissing her forehead as he did so.
Jace, however, merely inclined his head toward Alyssa.
Alyssa didn’t move, but she said, quietly, “Aemma, sweet girl?”
Aemma, having perhaps cried herself out of tears, unstuck her face from Ormund’s doublet—now he was certainly going to need a new one before supper—and looked up at him, face red and tear-streaked, nose dripping, lower lip trembling.
Gods, it broke his heart.
Ever so gently, he released his hug and brushed his thumbs over Aemma’s cheeks. Then he leaned in until his nose touched hers. “I think Mama has an idea,” he whispered.
Finally, Aemma turned to look at Alyssa.
“Little bird, Lady Baela is flying today too. Uncle Jace thinks, if you ask her very nicely and promise to be very good, that she would let you ride with her on Moondancer.”
Aemma blinked at her mother.
“And then in a few days, when they go flying again, you can ride with Uncle Jace and Vaerys can ride with Lady Baela.”
“Oh.”
Jace’s smile was audible when he said, “I can help you find Baela, if you want.”
Aemma looked at Alyssa, who just smiled softly and nodded.
Then she looked at Ormund.
He tapped the tip of her nose with one knuckle. “Go on. Back in time for a bath before supper, though.”
Aemma nodded, then her face broke into an enormous smile and she threw her arms around Ormund’s neck. “Thank you, Papa!” She scrambled from his lap and ran to Jace, grabbing his hand and pulling him into the hallway.
“Thank Lady Baela!” Ormund shouted after them.
When the sounds of their footsteps no longer echoed back through the hallway, Alyssa burst into laughter.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing, my heart.” She finally left her post by the door and walked to the desk, then perched herself on his lap.
“You’d better be careful, wild girl, or we’ll have another little one running around this time next year.”
Alyssa laughed and leaned against his shoulder. “Oh, I think four is enough. Though, I could be persuaded—”
“Before I can do something unwise and detrimental to the state of my desk, let us table this conversation for the moment, and you can tell me what it is you were laughing about.” Ormund poked her between the ribs.
She squirmed and he immediately regretted that particular action.
“Gods, woman, sit still! All these letters give me trouble enough without the urge to sweep them to the floor!”
She grinned and kissed his cheek. “My studious husband.”
“My wild wife.” Ormund kissed her nose. “Now, the laughing.”
“Just that your little Aemma has you wrapped around her finger.” She tapped his chest with each of the last words.
Ormund scoffed. “It was your idea to try Baela.”
“It was Jace’s idea. I agreed because it’s a good idea. I want our children to have good relationships with their aunts and uncles, and I want Jace and Baela to have some experience with children who aren’t their younger siblings before they have little ones of their own. Also, the only dragon rider our children know is me, and all dragons and riders are different. It will be good for them to see how other dragons fly and how other people ride. It is my dearest hope that they will learn something, precisely because no one will be trying to teach them. They will simply have a few hours of fun.”
“You win this round, my heart. I could not argue that logic with a sword at my throat.”
“Excellent. For our second round, I propose that we owe Hannaly a very excellent name day gift just for putting up with the twins the last few days. They have been nightmares.”
Ormund snorted. “What else is new?”
“More nightmarish than usual, then. Rhaegar is a menace, and Rhaelle only less so because he is louder than she is.” Even as she disparaged the twins, Alyssa smiled.
“Vaerys is my son, and Rhaegar is yours.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“That boy is a thinker—no, a schemer. He’s not malicious, just… too smart for his own good. Or…” Ormund paused. “At least too smart for the rest of us to keep up. No one is prepared for a toddler to have the kind of plans he comes up with. I’ll wager you were the same way at his age. I know you were by the time I made your acquaintance.”
Alyssa rolled her eyes, then leaned her head against his shoulder again. “But aren’t you glad I was such a schemer? I schemed us into this.”
“Don’t disparage yourself too much. I was a willing participant.”
She laughed. “True. Though my mother still thinks all this only came about because our schemes happened to overlap each other.”
Ormund snorted, tapping his fingers on the desk. “She isn’t wrong.”
“No, but I did also pick you because I liked you. I still like you.”
“Why, thank you, my love. I like you as well.” He shook his head as she wrinkled her nose in a grin. “What are your thoughts on a horse for Hannaly? One a bit more adventurous than the mare, so she can keep up with you?”
***
“I want to ride Silverwing!” Rhaegar declared with such verve that Alyssa was surprised he hadn’t stood on his chair to make the announcement.
Ormund choked on a bite of potato.
“But you have an egg,” Vaerys said.
“An egg that has not hatched!” Rhaegar slammed his fist against the table, the handle of his fork making a surprisingly solid sound. Even Rhaegar must have been a bit surprised, because his eyes widened only for a fraction of a second and he quickly put the fork down before returning to his tirade. “Your egg has hatched, and Aemma’s, and even Rhaelle’s, and mine does nothing! Mother had a cradle egg and it did not hatch, but you can see she did not wait around forever just because she had an egg!”
Alyssa tried not to look impressed. It was a rather well thought-out tirade, but that was Rhaegar. He was outwardly all fire and action, and so, even at seven, people tended to underestimate him. His family knew better. He was a thinker. Of all the children, he was Alyssa, through and through.
“No! Mother rides Vermithor! And I can either wait and do nothing until we eventually go to Dragonstone for some reason, or—” He finally stood on his chair. Alyssa was secretly relieved to see him move a little. “—I can claim the dragon who lives in our Dragon Pit!”
Alyssa waited a few seconds to ensure that Rhaegar had reached the end of what he wanted to say before setting her own fork on the table. “Rhaegar.”
“Mother.” His voice was remarkably even.
“Silverwing will not tolerate a little child flopping around on her back.”
“Then I will not flop.”
Then he sat down and returned to his roast boar, as if the matter had been settled.
***
On days when the weather was pleasant, and the wind blowing in the right direction or not at all, Ormund would sometimes take his stack of letters to the Dragon Pit and sit in the shade of a few nearby trees and answer as many as he could while his wife and children flew or simply spent time with their dragons.
It was one such afternoon, two days since Rhaegar’s announcement that he would claim Silverwing and Alyssa’s gentle guidance toward waiting a while—though she had privately told Ormund, when he asked later that night, that she had claimed Vermithor at six.
It was a lovely day, and perhaps that was why Ormund was not quite surprised to hear shouts echoing out of the Dragon Pit.
He looked up, almost mildly, easily identifying three of his children’s voices even as they spoke exclusively High Valyrian, but most of their words were the names of their little dragons. He also caught no, and idiot, and then a roar.
And then Estanax streaked from the mouth of the Dragon Pit, flying low and fast, Vaerys barely in the saddle and trying desperately, from the dozen words of High Valyrian that Ormund knew, to calm the dragon.
Briar came behind them, slower, but more skittish, and another roar sent her straight into the air before Aemma managed to talk her down.
“Aemma.” He tried to keep his voice calm, but it was difficult when, whatever had happened, even his wild children were frightened.
Her head whipped around to find him, then she stared, wide-eyed, as Briar’s tail lashed. She opened her mouth—
Silverwing stormed out into the sunlight, steel-gray scales glittering and refracting as she charged forward and her wings snapped open, as—
“Soves, Silverwing!”
She took to the sky with a roar, and a laugh echoed back down through the chaos.
Ormund stared.
It seemed hours later, but by the distance Silverwing had covered, it was barely a minute, when Vermithor came out of the Dragon Pit, the first all day to do so at a reasonable pace.
Alyssa, already on his back, shouted down, “I shall admit, he is my son!”
Ormund’s voice cracked. “Yes, he most certainly is.”
Then Alyssa grinned and shook her head. “Ah well, nothing to be done now. He snuck off, the little schemer. But I do not begrudge him. I shall go fly with him, and try to catch Estanax before he flies all the way to the Wall! Vermithor, soves!”
Vermithor jumped into the air and swept after Silverwing, who was flying wild loops and cartwheels and breathing pale flames at the clouds.
One was plenty, and now he had five dragon riders living in his house. All he could do was shake his head before turning to Aemma, still astride Briar nearby, petting the dragon’s shoulder.
“Well, little bird, it has been an exciting half-hour.”
Aemma laughed. “It has!”
She still looked a bit shaken, but Briar was settling.
“Will you fly?”
She nodded. “I just want her to calm down a bit first. I don’t want her first response to fear to be fleeing.”
“A wise course of action.”
Khyrion came loping along, barely big enough to fly with Rhaelle, but the Dragon Keepers said it was good for them to go for short flights, to strengthen both their bond and her wings.
“Soves, Khyrion!”
The first few flaps were a struggle, but by the fifth, the smallest dragon was airborne, the sun shining beautifully through her pale red wings.
Aemma patted Briar’s shoulder one last time, then gave her a long string of instructions in High Valyrian that made the green dragon purr and arch her neck before leaping into the air, and soon her small shadow joined the others, spiraling overhead.
The sky over Oldtown was filled with flames, golden-bronze and silver-blue and green and red and inky midnight.
Ormund leaned back against the tree, closing his eyes and listening to the distant dragonsong.
It was a wild song, a song of unbridled joy and unknowable sorrow, of inexpressible aliveness.
The dragons of Oldtown sang, and Princess Alyssa Velaryon and her wild children laughed, and Lord Ormund Hightower smiled.
Ormund Hightower would do anything for Alyssa Velaryon. Anything but become friends with her dragon. Vermithor feels similarly.
Hey @daenysthedreamer101 this one's for you. I had a similar idea and then saw your post about ten minutes later, and who am I to deny the people?
A/N: This man. I cannot. He's just so pretty and delicate and he has such big muscles and I want to kiss his nose. Also sorry this is not a Reader x____, I don't do those. You'll get third person and you'll like it!! Also also I wrote a lot of this at work on my phone, then kicked it over to Word for the briefest of proofreads and to get a word count, so... yeah. Also also also, would Rhaenyra name her daughter Alyssa? Unlikely! But they're fictional characters, so they can do whatever I want them to!
Warnings: None. Fluff, Wife Guy Ormund, Sunshine Targaryen (Velaryon) OC, Grumpy Vermithor (Boy Cat and His Mommy vibes), fuck the timeline and the Dance (AND WHOEVER IS RESPONSIBLE FOR NOT GIVING US A GOOD CLOSEUP OF VERMITHOR YET). Once instance of anti-Dornish racism, but like... no slurs, just grumpiness.
Word count: 6K
Vermithor liked him about as well as Vermithor liked anyone, which was to say, not at all.
It had started as a joke, in the early days of Princess Alyssa Velaryon’s playful advances toward the future Lord Hightower.
“You must meet him! He is truly magnificent and a perfect gentleman to me. He was my great-great-grandfather’s dragon, you know.”
“Impressive history or not, I’ll wager he still smells worse than a wet dog in a marsh.”
Alyssa laughed. “Well now he will not like you, if you insult him so! And no, my lord Ormund, he does not smell of wet dog,” she scoffed, daring to bump her shoulder against his. To the surprise of neither, she bounced off and he hardly moved, though he did smile. She went on, “He smells of woodsmoke and roast deer and salt and leather and—”
“Dragon?” Ormund cut in dryly, eyebrows raised in answer to his own question.
“Well we cannot all smell of—tulips!” Alyssa fumbled. She had never greatly cared for the feminine art of identifying flowers merely by their aroma.
“Tulips!” It was Ormund’s turn to be affronted. “Good gods, girl!” He immediately realized the error—or at least the informality—of his words, dipping his head in a little bow. “Apologies, Princess Alyssa, I meant no offense—”
She laughed again, throwing her head back before returning her gaze to meet his. “I take none. I may be a dragon and a rather vain creature, but I assure you I am neither thin-skinned nor averse to familiarity.”
It had perhaps been the wrong word, if only just, but she could not bring herself to regret it, not when his lips brushed her knuckles as they parted, even if their stroll ended without their having visited the Dragon Pit.
Vermithor would be there tomorrow.
~~~
“You would tell me if it is foolish.”
“I will tell you it is something I would not do even were my other choice to swim to Essos.”
“Mother!” Alyssa laughed.
Jace and Luke glanced up from their toy dragons, waging a magnificent war against the small wooden boats of the Triarchy, carved by Father, but just as quickly went back to their game, far more interesting than the conversations of courtship.
“Besides, I would fly to Essos. It would be short work for my bronze gentleman!”
“Indeed. And the flight from Oldtown to King’s Landing?” Rhaenyra gave her a knowing look.
“Even shorter.” Alyssa shook her head and smiled. “I fear for their sheep, perhaps, but it is an easy trade.”
Her mother took her hand. “You scheme too much, my little dragon. I wish you might seek for… for a…”
Alyssa laughed again, an easy, genuine thing. “Mother, you speak as though marrying Ormund Hightower is the worst punishment you can imagine.”
“Not the worst,” the crown princess said slowly, “but certainly I would consider it a punishment. You need not do it on my account. It is too much to ask of you.”
“Would you say it is too much, then, for me to ask for a handsome husband? I do not seek him only to secure your throne—though it will help, I grant—I seek him because I cannot help but stare every time he walks into a room, and he is endlessly polite—”
Her mother’s eyes rolled.
“—I know what you would say, but let me finish! He is endlessly polite at feasts and in the box at tourneys and when we dance, but he is not afraid to jest with me, unlike all the others! I am fire and blood, not silk and glass!”
“And he knows it,” Rhaenyra said with a soft smile.
“And he knows it.”
Then Rhaenyra truly smiled, the one she saved for her daughter. “Vermithor will not like him, you know.”
Once more, Alyssa laughed. “I had forgot what we were started about, with all this talk of marriage. Ah, but no, Vermithor will not like him. Big cat that he is, he will bare his teeth and lash his tail and hiss, and he smells of dragon, so Ormund will not like him either, and we shall proceed from there!” Her bright smile would have been enough to light the room had the sun not shone in through the open windows, and Rhaenyra could only return it.
“I wish you luck then, little dragon.”
~~~
“Will you come meet him?”
“Indeed, since he—” Ormund stuttered to stop as he turned to see Alyssa striding up behind him. “Hh-hm.”
Alyssa’s eyes glittered at his obvious discomfort. “My lord, they are riding leathers. It is not as if you can see my kneecaps.” She stopped in front of him, spread her arms, and twirled as if to show off the finest new dress gold could buy rather than a set of aging and slightly dirty leathers. The boots were new, but he wouldn’t even meet her gaze, let alone let his eyes drift anywhere else.
“I… ah…” He finally looked at her, though it seemed to make him even more uncomfortable. “I was not expecting…”
“Did you think I ride sidesaddle? Dear ser, I would not ride a horse sidesaddle, and it is a far shorter distance to fall from my horse’s back than my dragon’s.”
“I suppose…” Ormund frowned, then shrugged. “I suppose I had not considered that.” He offered his arm, stilted and awkward still. “I have not escorted a lady in trousers before.”
Laughing, Alyssa slipped her arm around his. “I assure you, it is quite the same. Though you will not have to suffer long; we shall only walk to the stables, then ride to the Dragon Pit.”
~~~
“You must ride often, my lady. You sit like you were born in the saddle.”
“Ah, so you are looking at me now?”
Ormund blanched.
“I jest!” Alyssa laughed, leaning out of her saddle to knock her shoulder against his. “I am happy you are not too scandalized by my rather masculine skills.”
“You are a Targaryen princess and a dragon rider; I should hardly be surprised if you say you wield a sword as well.”
The spark in her eyes made him blink.
“You do, don’t you.”
She only flashed her teeth in a wild grin and nodded.
“Well. Today I am the fool.”
“Wise is he who knows he has said something foolish and seeks to amend it.”
“Then, Princess Alyssa, I should very much like proof of your skill with a sword.”
“Of course! Not today, but yes, while you are in King’s Landing I shall demonstrate the value of my father’s lessons.”
They chattered the whole way to the Dragon Pit, and he was not insulted when she did not accept his hand to dismount, just as she was not insulted when he offered it.
Ormund Hightower did, however, take a moment to simply… blink… in the face of the yawning maw of the Dragon Pit. “Dragon” was the politest way to describe the smell. Stench. Whatever it was.
Sulfur and rancid meat, rot and ash.
But one look at Princess Alyssa, and he resolved simply to frown and breathe through his mouth.
He forgot to breathe, though, when the head appeared from the darkness of the Dragon Pit’s entrance.
Aye, the color was beautiful; the bronze scales flashed in the sunlight; the teeth glittered like swords; but the eyes were not the calm, thoughtless eyes of a cow, nor the quick, intelligent eyes of a horse, nor the devoted, loyal eyes of a dog.
They were the cynical, spiteful eyes of a cat, but just the eye, as it narrowed and leveled a glare at Ormund, was itself bigger than a whole cat.
Ormund stared, not breathing, the reek—overpowering as it was—forgotten as the bronze dragon’s head snaked closer, followed by barrel chest, broad shoulders, leather wings, iron legs, barbed-whip tail.
His eyes were wide. It was probably unwise to show fear. He did not run, did not cower or flinch, but he knew he would stink of fear as the monstrous dragon’s nostrils flared barely out of his arm’s reach.
“Vermithor,” Alyssa purred. She said something in High Valyrian and the dragon turned his attention to his rider. A hum rumbled in Vermithor’s chest and seemed to shake the very ground as he bumped his nose ever so gently against Alyssa.
She staggered backward, laughing, with the force of it, careful as the beast was.
He purred louder, for purr it was, Ormund realized, watching the dragon and his princess. The dragon’s eyes were no longer full of disdain and dislike. They looked on Alyssa with fondness.
So, an adoring hound for the lady, a scornful cat for the lord. This was not a competition he looked forward to.
He looked back at Princess Alyssa, only to see her on the other side of Vermithor’s head, one hand on his nose, the other scratching under his chin. Her lips moved, but he couldn’t make out the words as she smiled coyly at him over the dragon.
He did not like this.
And very suddenly he remembered to breathe.
Then he remembered why he hadn’t been breathing.
He did not cough, but it was a near thing.
The purring stopped. The dragon’s head whipped around and he hissed, and that helped neither Ormund’s terror nor the eye-watering stench of the whole affair.
“Oh sweet thing, you must not be jealous.”
If his heart fluttered, daring to believe that Alyssa’s words were for him, then it crashed to the pit of his stomach when the princess went on.
“No man can replace you in my heart.”
And if Ormund Hightower had not been sure the extent of his feelings about Princess Alyssa before, he was when she leapt into the dragon’s saddle and cried something in High Valyrian, and the dragon roared and sprang into the air, and the princess laughed until she was beyond hearing.
~~~
“My lord?”
Ormund had no idea who the princess’s sworn sword was. He should have, he was quite sure, as he stared at the man in the white cloak.
He swallowed, feeling as if his tongue was stuck in his throat.
“Ser Ormund?”
He finally found words. The ones that escaped, rather quietly but with certainty, were perhaps not the ones he would have chosen to share with a stranger whose duty was Princess Alyssa, but they were the only ones he had. “I love that woman, and I shall forever be competing with a lizard for her affections.”
The White Cloak chuckled.
“I regret to inform you that is a game you cannot win, my lord.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Fear not. If I may, you are not the first to dog her steps, but you are the first who she smiles to see doing it. And the first who has met her darling lizard,” the White Cloak finished with a smile.
“I suppose that is… good?” Ormund took a deep, steadying breath that did not steady him but finally set him to retching. “At least tell me you grow used to the stench,” he coughed.
The other chuckled again, shaking his head up at the sky and the sparkling speck that was Alyssa Velaryon and her bronze beast. “Thankfully it has never bothered me as much as some of the others. It does grow… less, I suppose, when you are around it every day.” He looked back at Ormund. “I have yet to stop noticing it, though.”
“Delightful,” Ormund grumbled.
“But come, there is a tavern not far, where they have truly excellent ale, and blackberries on toast.”
Ormund followed rather absently as they led the horses back to the street. “Are you not supposed to…?” He trailed off, sense of chivalry warring with the knowledge that this man’s sense of duty was equal—probably greater—than his own.
“What? Protect her?” The White Cloak snorted. “She’s safer up there than anywhere under my watch. And she always has Vermithor announce their return and then fly a lap so I have time to get back.”
Ormund nodded. There was no arguing with that logic. “And—forgive me, Ser, I feel I should know it, but—your name?”
“Ser Arrun Harrow, my lord.”
“Ah.” Yes, he should have known that. The Kingsguard was the spitting image of old Lord Harrow about twenty years ago. “Again, my apologies. Let me buy your ale as recompense.”
“No apology needed, my lord, but I’ll not turn down the ale.”
~~~
They spent the full afternoon at the tavern, a quiet place and off the beaten path, but quite nice as far as Ormund was concerned. The ale was indeed excellent, and Ser Arrun Harrow full of excellent stories and the occasional bit of advice about his charge.
With sun well on its way to the horizon, there came a thunderous roar overhead.
“Time to go,” Ser Arrun said, standing and dropping a handful of coins on the table. He drained the last of his cup and called, “My thanks, Myreela!”
“Aye, and mine to you!” the girl called back.
Ormund left his own handful of coins and a shout of gratitude. He was quite sure he had overpaid, but he felt the cost worth it and then some, even more so when Ser Arrun caught his eye as they mounted their horses and gave him a quick nod.
“I suspect they keep the place open for people like us, waiting for someone to return from flying. Bit close to the dragons for most folk, and the Dragon Keepers tend to keep to themselves.”
“Well, Ser, you did not overvalue the ale. Nor the blackberries,” Ormund added, letting the pleasant surprise seep into his voice. He was a bit of a connoisseur, after all.
Vermithor was winging his way back toward the Dragon Pit with a speed Ormund could hardly believe.
“By the gods, how does he move with such speed?”
He wasn’t aware he had voiced the question until Ser Arrun said, “He may have some years on him, but he knew war in his younger days, and he flies with joy, the princess says. Of course, she flies with joy too—never seen two creatures so well matched as they are. I think he likes to show off for her.” He glanced at Ormund.
“Just what I need.”
Just then, the bronze dragon swooped straight up into the air, shot a streak of red and gold flames into the sky, then tilted over into a backwards loop. Ormund’s heart stopped and the world seemed to fall silent around him.
Except for the wild laughter high over the city.
Vermithor completed his loop, flew a lazy circle around the Dragon Pit, and then landed with a grace that could only be described as feline.
The ground still shook, but Ormund had never witnessed a dragon land at anything but a distance he described as “safe” and others (his cousin’s son) had described as “ridiculous,” “cowardly,” and “nearly beyond the edge of sight,” so he suspected it was impossible for the great beasts to land with anything other than an earth-shaking tremor, but the smooth gait of the landing impressed him.
He squashed the admiration for the bronze beast down. He would not admire the thing. It was only an animal. It was his rival. It was—
Vermithor was purring again, as Alyssa, who had dismounted as gracefully as the dragon had landed, stopped by his head and scratched his chin and offered soft words.
Ormund glared.
He heard Ser Arrun snort—at his expense, he was sure—and then call, “Good evening, My Lady! How was your ride?” Then he elbowed Ormund.
The jab at his ribs didn’t hurt, it was not meant to, but it did make him jump, and school his features into something less hostile.
Alyssa looked past Vermithor and smiled her wild smile.
Ormund was finished. That was the end. He would marry this one or not marry at all. There was such joy in her eyes, in her laugh as she gave Vermithor one last stroke of his nose, even in the windblown hair she pushed from her face as she walked away from the dragon and toward Ser Arrun, who held her horse’s reins. A million ways to spend the rest of his life making her smile, making her laugh, flashed through his mind. He would abandon all other pursuits just for that, just for her. Ormund opened his mouth to say… something, he was unsure what, but a blast of hot air pushed the words back down his throat.
Alyssa laughed again, turning back to look at Vermithor.
The dragon was crouched like a cat, with his wings spread wide but not high, and his tail lashing. He narrowed his eyes, Ormund swore, and bared his glittering teeth, and growled.
Alyssa shook her head. “My sweet—” She dissolved into High Valyrian, and the dragon returned his attention to her, demeanor shifting immediately to friendly adoration.
Ormund narrowed his eyes back at the huge beast. Two could play this game. Two would play this game. Only one would win.
Alyssa said something to the Dragon Keepers, and they approached slowly but confidently, speaking to Vermithor and guiding him back toward the Dragon Pit.
Ormund quickly schooled his features again before she turned back to him, still smiling, hair even more mussed after the huff of hot dragon’s breath from behind.
Gods it stank.
But Alyssa smiled at him. “There, now you have met him, my darling dragon.”
“Indeed,” Ormund said, eyes watering.
Alyssa laughed and mounted her horse, and even Ser Arrun smiled a little at the look on his face.
“You recommend I bathe before the feast tonight then?”
“Well…” He did not know what to say to that.
“Oh, fear not, my lord, I am a Targaryen, not a savage. I bathe after I ride.” Then, with another laugh, she spurred her horse into a gallop, leaving the two men to follow.
~~~
Alyssa suspected that a full fortnight of festivities for her uncle’s nameday was excessive, but she didn’t care. She didn’t have to spend time with Aegon, that was for others. She could spend time with whoever she chose—namely, her little brothers—and eat as many sweets as she liked, and stay up as late as she liked. And as a young woman grown, she had the right to do those things anyway, but she had not been grown long, so the novelty still clung to it.
She also never turned down a good feast, or tournament, or a chance to dance with the young lords of Westeros.
And, it meant Ormund was there for nearly a month, and the days full of excuses to spend time with him, though the excuses became thinner and thinner, and were needed less and less, as the days went on.
One morning, on her way to the Dragon Pit for an early flight, she came across Ormund and Ser Gwayne after what must have been a hellishly early bout of sparring. They were both sweaty and panting, but Ser Gwayne said something and prodded at his cousin, and Ormund laughed, pushing the damp hair from his forehead.
Jace and Luke were sparring already as well, with their father watching on, and Ser Criston Cole walking himself through a duel in the other corner. Aemond was no doubt on his way to his lessons.
Alyssa strode through the middle of the yard, Ser Arrun following with a quick shout of “Your guard is too high, my prince!”
“Aye—Aarrgh!” Jace yelped in pain as, apparently, Luke’s blow got around his misplaced guard.
Alyssa laughed and shot a glance at the Hightowers, chuckling as well.
“They’ll be swordsmen yet,” Gwayne said with a good-natured smile. “Just get a few years on them.”
“And a few inches. They may be mighty, but they are small.”
“My lord Ormund, do you think it is height alone that wins a battle?” Alyssa stopped and turned to look at him, head tilted.
“It never hurt anyone,” he replied evenly. “Does having the largest claimed dragon make you feel more confident in victory?”
“It makes me feel more confident that I will never have to fight. But I shall concede the point.”
“Are you off to see him?”
“Indeed, but I do recall you wanted proof of my skill with the sword. Or,” her wild smile was back, “are you too tired for a bout?”
Gwayne choked on a laugh as Ormund flushed.
“Indeed not,” he managed. “But I do not know—”
“I would not worry about her, my lord,” Ser Arrun said mildly. “Her father is an excellent teacher.”
“I like to think so!” Laenor added before being cut off by another yelp that was more surprise than pain. “Though perhaps she is a better student than these two rascals!”
The following yelp was most certainly that of her father, as the boys abandoned their practice swords and piled on him in a tangle of vengeful limbs.
“Anyway.”
“Oh, very well,” Ormund said. “But practice swords, and I shall duel you left-handed.”
“You’ll do no such thing.” Her voice was firm. “And we’ll have to send Ser Criston away lest we offend his sensibilities.”
“Cole!” Ormund barked.
Ser Criston visibly ground his teeth, but his tone was, if not pleasant, then at least not violent, when he said, “My lord.”
“A practice sword for the princess. Then make yourself scarce.”
Ser Criston glanced at Ser Arrun, who must have given him some wordless direction that Alyssa couldn’t see, then inclined his head and turned to the rack of practice weapons.
“The one with the notch near the handle, please, Ser Criston.” He may not approve of her learning the blade, but Alyssa had never felt the need to be rude to him in return. She was a princess; she was above rudeness unless it was acutely called-for. “Thank you,” she said, when he handed her the blade.
He gave her a small bow, then went on his way out of the training yard.
There were still sounds of a scuffle from the corner in use by her brothers and father as Alyssa shrugged off the outer layer of her riding clothes. The jacket was designed for warmth, and she would not need that here. She handed it to Ser Arrun, who in turn walked to stand next to Gwayne and watch.
She twisted, stretched, weighed the blade in hand though it was as familiar to her as the saddle of her horse. Then she frowned at Ormund.
“I said not left-handed.”
“I would hate to—”
She struck without warning, and he dodged, but barely.
Gwayne laughed. “Watch your guard, cousin, or I shall be the next Lord of Oldtown!”
Ormund had not the time for a scathing—or otherwise—remark. He leapt away from Alyssa as she swung again, fast as a viper.
She did not laugh, but the light of battle flashed in her eyes. Her father said that was her greatest strength—her joy, her inability to be weighed down by anything. It made her fearless, he said, but in the best way. It was why she flew with such wild abandon, why she learned to fight. She was outmatched, this she knew, but she could still dance around him, show him she certainly wasn’t helpless even without Vermithor snarling at her back.
Alyssa’s defenses were not too high, that lesson she had learned early and well, but pound for pound, she hadn’t the muscle to block every swing once Ormund had sized her up and began to strike back. He hit like a hammer.
She ducked a high swing and managed to whack him across the shin, only to find herself too slow to block the strike from overhead. Her arms buckled against the crushing force.
As soon as she gave way, it stopped.
“Yield?” Ormund grinned.
“Oh, aye,” she panted.
“Well-fought, my lady.”
“You as well. And I thank you for not going easy on me.”
He bowed a little. “The least I can do, when my competition for your attention is a dragon.”
Gwayne choked on something, a laugh or a comment or pure surprise, and Ser Arrun suddenly became very interested in the stitching on Alyssa’s jacket.
“You are welcome to accompany me, if it would make you feel better.”
“It may very well.”
~~~
It did not.
Vermithor glared at him, but only when Alyssa’s back was turned.
Ormund glared back, also only when Alyssa’s back was turned.
And gods, the smell.
But he accompanied Ser Arrun to the tavern once again, and when Vermithor roared overhead an hour later, they went back to the Dragon Pit.
Vermithor landed with his usual and surprising grace, and he growled at Ormund, and Ormund crossed his arms and scowled back, until Alyssa looked at him, and then he was the picture of polite interest.
But gods, the smell seemed to cling to her.
“I will bathe,” she promised with a laugh, seeing his nose wrinkled despite his best efforts. “I will bathe, and then I shall smell of tulips, or whatever it is, and we shall have a lovely time at the feast tonight.”
“Tulips,” he snorted. “You speak as if you’ve never had a flower garden.”
Alyssa shrugged. “Gardens are not my realm, Ormund.” She looked up at the clouds. Then she smiled. “That is. And I hope you understand that.”
He couldn’t believe he was saying it. “I do. And I would have you no other way.”
Her wild smile was back. “Except perhaps cleaner.”
“Seven Hells, please.”
~~~
He danced with her after supper that night. “Lilac.”
“I’ll not lie to you, I asked my maid and she recommended it.” Alyssa gave him a mischievous look. “I told her I needed to not smell like dragon. Though, I do not think I do most days. I suppose I am used to it.”
“I suppose you are, but I cannot understand how—”
“Oh hush!” She gave his chest a playful smack that lingered a heartbeat too long.
Ormund cleared his throat.
Alyssa blinked. She had quiet forgotten what they were talking about. Lilacs and dragons and Ormund Hightower knew far more about her bathing habits than was proper and—
“Your mother is staring at us,” Ormund murmured, putting an end to her line of thought.
“Oh?” They turned with the music and indeed, Princess Rhaenyra was watching them, hiding a smile behind the lip of her wine goblet. “Good. Perhaps she is getting ideas.”
He returned her mischievous look, a spark in his eye. “I would hate for us to have others concoct such ideas for us.”
“Then tell me now, and I shall tell you mine.”
The music changed, but the two stayed doggedly in each other’s arms. Otto Hightower tapped his brother’s shoulder and jerked his chin at the pair.
“I would build a grand Dragon Pit, but downwind from the prevailing winds of Oldtown, of course.”
Alyssa snorted. “Of course.”
“And whatever your Dragon Keepers would require. And the finest silk gowns as can be had this side of the sea.” Ormund leaned closer, their noses nearly brushing. “And I shall, every day, make you smile that wild, joyous smile of yours, even if it is at my expense.”
“And in return, I would make Oldtown my home, until the Iron Throne passes to me.”
Ormund blinked.
“For that is the other thing I ask of you.” The music was loud; Alyssa’s voice quiet. “When my grandfather dies, some will try to put Aegon on the throne because he is the son of Viserys. But he is not the heir. Grandfather has made it quite clear that my mother is to sit the throne. And I am her heir. That must be something you can make your peace with, or—”
“Make my peace with the fact that our children will sit the throne? Yes, what terrible knowledge. Truly, Alyssa, it had not crossed my mind to rebel against you. I do not know if I could. For one thing, your dragon would eat me and be glad of the excuse to finally do it.”
Alyssa laughed, bright and unbidden out of surprise.
“Having said all that,” Ormund became serious again, “it has been long since Oldtown has had a lady, and I ask if you would consider it. If you would be my wife, and I your husband. Even though all the flowers whose names you do not know will be shamed by your bright smile, I will consider it well worth the cost.”
“Flatterer.” Alyssa wrinkled her nose with a grin. “Yes, my heart. I look forward to it.”
~~~
She woke the next morning with her heart singing. Ormund met her in the stables, and rode with her to the Dragon Pit, and glared at Vermithor when he thought she wasn’t looking. She could only smile when Vermithor growled back.
She flew perhaps longer than she meant, but she truly did not know what else to do with all the unbridled joy she felt.
Ser Arrun was there alone when Vermithor landed. Alyssa cocked her head, more than a little disappointed she could not stand too close to Ormund just to annoy him with the dragon-smell clinging to her like it always did.
Ser Arrun smiled. “He wanted time to ready himself for the tourney. Something about how Ser Gwayne couldn’t be trusted to oversee preparations.”
That sounded like him.
She wore the blue dress, for variety, the blue dress with shimmering bronze thread stitched into it in patterns of scales and flames, and she did something she had never done before, which was refusing to give her favor to the first knight who asked for it (usually this was her father, but today Laenor had suspiciously looked right past her and smiled at his own mother, and Princess Rhaenys had smiled back and bestowed her favor upon him).
By the time Ormund entered the lists, she knew he was frustrated to the point of violence. Certainly he knew of the others who had asked. It would annoy him to no end, to know that others were looking at her, smiling at her, making vain little attempts to woo her, when he was stuck, waiting.
The wait would be worth it. She would make sure of it.
At least, it would be for her.
Ormund unhorsed one of the Baratheons easily. And finally—finally—he spurred his horse to the box.
He pulled off his helmet, hair delightfully disheveled. “Princess Alyssa!”
“My lord.” She stood and walked to the front of the box.
“May I have your favor? I think I shall need it before the day is up.”
Alyssa nearly laughed. So he hadn’t done it last night then; he was waiting until after today’s tourney to enquire of his father about a marriage to the Velaryon princess.
“You shall have it.” She smiled and set the hoop over the tip of the lance. It slid to his waiting hand, and she watched as he held it up, ostensibly to admire it, but she knew…
Ormund coughed suddenly, lowering the lance, and shot a very annoyed but fond nonetheless glare at Alyssa.
She laughed, waved him away, and returned to her seat.
Next to her, her mother leaned close. “What did you do?”
“I flew with it this morning. I may have rubbed it along Vermithor’s chin.”
“Little dragon, I do not understand you in the least.” Rhaenyra leaned closer still. “But I suspect a proposal is on the way, if I know Otto.”
“It has already been accepted,” Alyssa whispered back, as a Lannister and another Baratheon crashed into each other. “Only it is perhaps not official.”
“Well,” Rhaenyra took her daughter’s hand and squeezed it, “then I suppose congratulations are in order. And well done, beating Otto to the punch.”
~~~
Alyssa found him after the tourney. He had not won, but it was a respectable showing, and he would not begrudge Gwayne his victory.
“My lord Ormund,” she smiled sweetly, standing outside the tent as his squire helped strip him of his armor, “you seemed distracted after your first bout. Was something wrong?”
“Oh, as you know very well, wild girl.” He waved the boy off. “Go help Ser Gwayne, he has always been inept when it comes to these things.” Ormund shrugged out of another sweaty, stinking layer as the boy jogged away. “Gods.” He wrinkled his nose.
Alyssa shook her head. “Your poor delicate nose.”
“Does it truly not bother you?” He started, incredulous.
“No.” She came closer, knocking her shoulder against his in that familiar way of hers. “It truly never has. But I come from fire and blood, not tulip gardens.”
The glare on his face had no menace in it. “One day, Princess Alyssa, I shall knock you with my shoulder instead of the other way ‘round, and then you shall be sorry.”
“Is it because I insulted your tulips?”
He took a deep breath. “My sweet, I begin to suspect you do not know what a tulip is.”
~~~
Otto Hightower could not have planned a better match given the rest of his life and unlimited coin. As it was, he planned the grandest wedding celebration his brother’s considerable coin could manage. At least, what was left after a fair percentage went to building his nephew’s betrothed a Dragon Pit. It was still a grand and glorious and raucous celebration, with feasts and tourneys for days and days.
Even amongst all his political scheming, when he heard the pair of them talking between dances before the ceremony, and Princess Alyssa flashed Ormund a grin that spoke of trouble and said, “I went flying yesterday afternoon, while you were hunting, and I shall have you know I bathed last night and again this morning, just for the comfort of your delicate nostrils,” and Ormund laughed and pulled her close, Otto Hightower smiled at the simple joy that was… this.
~~~
Vermithor landed, like he always did, with that catlike grace even as he shook the very earth beneath his claws. Alyssa slid down his side and scratched his chin on her way by, speaking to him quiet words of High Valyrian that made him purr and rub his nose against her.
The moment she had her back to him, the bronze dragon bared his teeth and flared his wings and lashed his tail, contemptuous gaze fixed on his princess’s husband. Ormund shot a glare back, then smiled at his wife, then wrinkled his nose, like he always did.
They rode home, and he returned to the study while she stayed in the stable a while, brushing the horses and sneaking treats to her favorites.
She returned, like she always did, striding through the study with its windows thrown wide to the gardens below, in her riding leathers that stank of dragon, with her hair still tousled and windswept and also stinking of dragon.
Standing by the window, he couldn’t help but stare.
Gods, she was beautiful.
Gods, the reek was awful.
But Alyssa just caught his eye and laughed. “Your poor delicate nose, sweet husband!”
“How the entire household does not go running when you return from flying—”
“Oh you bother so much about it! I am on my way to a bath, my love.” Knowing it would annoy him, she stretched to the tips of her toes and kissed his nose.
His nose wrinkled, but there was still a fond look in his eyes.
Alyssa smiled and started up the stairs, casting a glance over her shoulder. “And you are welcome to join me, should you be able to tolerate the smell.”
She shrieked with laughter and ran as he bounded up the stairs three at a time behind her.
Very aware of the smell of dragon, and somehow not caring, Ormund Hightower caught his wife around the waist and tossed her over his shoulder, carrying her, laughing, to their rooms and the waiting bath.
With every passing week of Mr Mansplain Manipulate Manslaughter himself, I have a creeping awareness of "Oh, babe, if Alyssa existed in HotD canon, she actually would have fed you to Vermithor." But, they're fictional characters and they can do whatever I want them to.
All it takes is one feisty wife who can totally out-scheme him but doesn't need to because she refuses to put up with his shit, and Ormund Hightower has been fixed.
Part 2 coming soon, the minute I get done wrangling these TargTower babies and their dragons 😊
Me, fourteen and making OCs: okay she can’t be a Mary Sue! I can’t make her too cool or everyone will think she’s unbelievable and hate her :((
Me, thirty-two and making OCs: Every person I think is hot in this video game is into this OC and also she gets to be a Special Princess. I’ll commission a propaganda portrait of her as an imperial saint.
Ormund Hightower would do anything for Alyssa Velaryon. Anything but become friends with her dragon. Vermithor feels similarly.
Hey @daenysthedreamer101 this one's for you. I had a similar idea and then saw your post about ten minutes later, and who am I to deny the people?
A/N: This man. I cannot. He's just so pretty and delicate and he has such big muscles and I want to kiss his nose. Also sorry this is not a Reader x____, I don't do those. You'll get third person and you'll like it!! Also also I wrote a lot of this at work on my phone, then kicked it over to Word for the briefest of proofreads and to get a word count, so... yeah. Also also also, would Rhaenyra name her daughter Alyssa? Unlikely! But they're fictional characters, so they can do whatever I want them to!
Warnings: None. Fluff, Wife Guy Ormund, Sunshine Targaryen (Velaryon) OC, Grumpy Vermithor (Boy Cat and His Mommy vibes), fuck the timeline and the Dance (AND WHOEVER IS RESPONSIBLE FOR NOT GIVING US A GOOD CLOSEUP OF VERMITHOR YET). Once instance of anti-Dornish racism, but like... no slurs, just grumpiness.
Word count: 6K
Vermithor liked him about as well as Vermithor liked anyone, which was to say, not at all.
It had started as a joke, in the early days of Princess Alyssa Velaryon’s playful advances toward the future Lord Hightower.
“You must meet him! He is truly magnificent and a perfect gentleman to me. He was my great-great-grandfather’s dragon, you know.”
“Impressive history or not, I’ll wager he still smells worse than a wet dog in a marsh.”
Alyssa laughed. “Well now he will not like you, if you insult him so! And no, my lord Ormund, he does not smell of wet dog,” she scoffed, daring to bump her shoulder against his. To the surprise of neither, she bounced off and he hardly moved, though he did smile. She went on, “He smells of woodsmoke and roast deer and salt and leather and—”
“Dragon?” Ormund cut in dryly, eyebrows raised in answer to his own question.
“Well we cannot all smell of—tulips!” Alyssa fumbled. She had never greatly cared for the feminine art of identifying flowers merely by their aroma.
“Tulips!” It was Ormund’s turn to be affronted. “Good gods, girl!” He immediately realized the error—or at least the informality—of his words, dipping his head in a little bow. “Apologies, Princess Alyssa, I meant no offense—”
She laughed again, throwing her head back before returning her gaze to meet his. “I take none. I may be a dragon and a rather vain creature, but I assure you I am neither thin-skinned nor averse to familiarity.”
It had perhaps been the wrong word, if only just, but she could not bring herself to regret it, not when his lips brushed her knuckles as they parted, even if their stroll ended without their having visited the Dragon Pit.
Vermithor would be there tomorrow.
~~~
“You would tell me if it is foolish.”
“I will tell you it is something I would not do even were my other choice to swim to Essos.”
“Mother!” Alyssa laughed.
Jace and Luke glanced up from their toy dragons, waging a magnificent war against the small wooden boats of the Triarchy, carved by Father, but just as quickly went back to their game, far more interesting than the conversations of courtship.
“Besides, I would fly to Essos. It would be short work for my bronze gentleman!”
“Indeed. And the flight from Oldtown to King’s Landing?” Rhaenyra gave her a knowing look.
“Even shorter.” Alyssa shook her head and smiled. “I fear for their sheep, perhaps, but it is an easy trade.”
Her mother took her hand. “You scheme too much, my little dragon. I wish you might seek for… for a…”
Alyssa laughed again, an easy, genuine thing. “Mother, you speak as though marrying Ormund Hightower is the worst punishment you can imagine.”
“Not the worst,” the crown princess said slowly, “but certainly I would consider it a punishment. You need not do it on my account. It is too much to ask of you.”
“Would you say it is too much, then, for me to ask for a handsome husband? I do not seek him only to secure your throne—though it will help, I grant—I seek him because I cannot help but stare every time he walks into a room, and he is endlessly polite—”
Her mother’s eyes rolled.
“—I know what you would say, but let me finish! He is endlessly polite at feasts and in the box at tourneys and when we dance, but he is not afraid to jest with me, unlike all the others! I am fire and blood, not silk and glass!”
“And he knows it,” Rhaenyra said with a soft smile.
“And he knows it.”
Then Rhaenyra truly smiled, the one she saved for her daughter. “Vermithor will not like him, you know.”
Once more, Alyssa laughed. “I had forgot what we were started about, with all this talk of marriage. Ah, but no, Vermithor will not like him. Big cat that he is, he will bare his teeth and lash his tail and hiss, and he smells of dragon, so Ormund will not like him either, and we shall proceed from there!” Her bright smile would have been enough to light the room had the sun not shone in through the open windows, and Rhaenyra could only return it.
“I wish you luck then, little dragon.”
~~~
“Will you come meet him?”
“Indeed, since he—” Ormund stuttered to stop as he turned to see Alyssa striding up behind him. “Hh-hm.”
Alyssa’s eyes glittered at his obvious discomfort. “My lord, they are riding leathers. It is not as if you can see my kneecaps.” She stopped in front of him, spread her arms, and twirled as if to show off the finest new dress gold could buy rather than a set of aging and slightly dirty leathers. The boots were new, but he wouldn’t even meet her gaze, let alone let his eyes drift anywhere else.
“I… ah…” He finally looked at her, though it seemed to make him even more uncomfortable. “I was not expecting…”
“Did you think I ride sidesaddle? Dear ser, I would not ride a horse sidesaddle, and it is a far shorter distance to fall from my horse’s back than my dragon’s.”
“I suppose…” Ormund frowned, then shrugged. “I suppose I had not considered that.” He offered his arm, stilted and awkward still. “I have not escorted a lady in trousers before.”
Laughing, Alyssa slipped her arm around his. “I assure you, it is quite the same. Though you will not have to suffer long; we shall only walk to the stables, then ride to the Dragon Pit.”
~~~
“You must ride often, my lady. You sit like you were born in the saddle.”
“Ah, so you are looking at me now?”
Ormund blanched.
“I jest!” Alyssa laughed, leaning out of her saddle to knock her shoulder against his. “I am happy you are not too scandalized by my rather masculine skills.”
“You are a Targaryen princess and a dragon rider; I should hardly be surprised if you say you wield a sword as well.”
The spark in her eyes made him blink.
“You do, don’t you.”
She only flashed her teeth in a wild grin and nodded.
“Well. Today I am the fool.”
“Wise is he who knows he has said something foolish and seeks to amend it.”
“Then, Princess Alyssa, I should very much like proof of your skill with a sword.”
“Of course! Not today, but yes, while you are in King’s Landing I shall demonstrate the value of my father’s lessons.”
They chattered the whole way to the Dragon Pit, and he was not insulted when she did not accept his hand to dismount, just as she was not insulted when he offered it.
Ormund Hightower did, however, take a moment to simply… blink… in the face of the yawning maw of the Dragon Pit. “Dragon” was the politest way to describe the smell. Stench. Whatever it was.
Sulfur and rancid meat, rot and ash.
But one look at Princess Alyssa, and he resolved simply to frown and breathe through his mouth.
He forgot to breathe, though, when the head appeared from the darkness of the Dragon Pit’s entrance.
Aye, the color was beautiful; the bronze scales flashed in the sunlight; the teeth glittered like swords; but the eyes were not the calm, thoughtless eyes of a cow, nor the quick, intelligent eyes of a horse, nor the devoted, loyal eyes of a dog.
They were the cynical, spiteful eyes of a cat, but just the eye, as it narrowed and leveled a glare at Ormund, was itself bigger than a whole cat.
Ormund stared, not breathing, the reek—overpowering as it was—forgotten as the bronze dragon’s head snaked closer, followed by barrel chest, broad shoulders, leather wings, iron legs, barbed-whip tail.
His eyes were wide. It was probably unwise to show fear. He did not run, did not cower or flinch, but he knew he would stink of fear as the monstrous dragon’s nostrils flared barely out of his arm’s reach.
“Vermithor,” Alyssa purred. She said something in High Valyrian and the dragon turned his attention to his rider. A hum rumbled in Vermithor’s chest and seemed to shake the very ground as he bumped his nose ever so gently against Alyssa.
She staggered backward, laughing, with the force of it, careful as the beast was.
He purred louder, for purr it was, Ormund realized, watching the dragon and his princess. The dragon’s eyes were no longer full of disdain and dislike. They looked on Alyssa with fondness.
So, an adoring hound for the lady, a scornful cat for the lord. This was not a competition he looked forward to.
He looked back at Princess Alyssa, only to see her on the other side of Vermithor’s head, one hand on his nose, the other scratching under his chin. Her lips moved, but he couldn’t make out the words as she smiled coyly at him over the dragon.
He did not like this.
And very suddenly he remembered to breathe.
Then he remembered why he hadn’t been breathing.
He did not cough, but it was a near thing.
The purring stopped. The dragon’s head whipped around and he hissed, and that helped neither Ormund’s terror nor the eye-watering stench of the whole affair.
“Oh sweet thing, you must not be jealous.”
If his heart fluttered, daring to believe that Alyssa’s words were for him, then it crashed to the pit of his stomach when the princess went on.
“No man can replace you in my heart.”
And if Ormund Hightower had not been sure the extent of his feelings about Princess Alyssa before, he was when she leapt into the dragon’s saddle and cried something in High Valyrian, and the dragon roared and sprang into the air, and the princess laughed until she was beyond hearing.
~~~
“My lord?”
Ormund had no idea who the princess’s sworn sword was. He should have, he was quite sure, as he stared at the man in the white cloak.
He swallowed, feeling as if his tongue was stuck in his throat.
“Ser Ormund?”
He finally found words. The ones that escaped, rather quietly but with certainty, were perhaps not the ones he would have chosen to share with a stranger whose duty was Princess Alyssa, but they were the only ones he had. “I love that woman, and I shall forever be competing with a lizard for her affections.”
The White Cloak chuckled.
“I regret to inform you that is a game you cannot win, my lord.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Fear not. If I may, you are not the first to dog her steps, but you are the first who she smiles to see doing it. And the first who has met her darling lizard,” the White Cloak finished with a smile.
“I suppose that is… good?” Ormund took a deep, steadying breath that did not steady him but finally set him to retching. “At least tell me you grow used to the stench,” he coughed.
The other chuckled again, shaking his head up at the sky and the sparkling speck that was Alyssa Velaryon and her bronze beast. “Thankfully it has never bothered me as much as some of the others. It does grow… less, I suppose, when you are around it every day.” He looked back at Ormund. “I have yet to stop noticing it, though.”
“Delightful,” Ormund grumbled.
“But come, there is a tavern not far, where they have truly excellent ale, and blackberries on toast.”
Ormund followed rather absently as they led the horses back to the street. “Are you not supposed to…?” He trailed off, sense of chivalry warring with the knowledge that this man’s sense of duty was equal—probably greater—than his own.
“What? Protect her?” The White Cloak snorted. “She’s safer up there than anywhere under my watch. And she always has Vermithor announce their return and then fly a lap so I have time to get back.”
Ormund nodded. There was no arguing with that logic. “And—forgive me, Ser, I feel I should know it, but—your name?”
“Ser Arrun Harrow, my lord.”
“Ah.” Yes, he should have known that. The Kingsguard was the spitting image of old Lord Harrow about twenty years ago. “Again, my apologies. Let me buy your ale as recompense.”
“No apology needed, my lord, but I’ll not turn down the ale.”
~~~
They spent the full afternoon at the tavern, a quiet place and off the beaten path, but quite nice as far as Ormund was concerned. The ale was indeed excellent, and Ser Arrun Harrow full of excellent stories and the occasional bit of advice about his charge.
With sun well on its way to the horizon, there came a thunderous roar overhead.
“Time to go,” Ser Arrun said, standing and dropping a handful of coins on the table. He drained the last of his cup and called, “My thanks, Myreela!”
“Aye, and mine to you!” the girl called back.
Ormund left his own handful of coins and a shout of gratitude. He was quite sure he had overpaid, but he felt the cost worth it and then some, even more so when Ser Arrun caught his eye as they mounted their horses and gave him a quick nod.
“I suspect they keep the place open for people like us, waiting for someone to return from flying. Bit close to the dragons for most folk, and the Dragon Keepers tend to keep to themselves.”
“Well, Ser, you did not overvalue the ale. Nor the blackberries,” Ormund added, letting the pleasant surprise seep into his voice. He was a bit of a connoisseur, after all.
Vermithor was winging his way back toward the Dragon Pit with a speed Ormund could hardly believe.
“By the gods, how does he move with such speed?”
He wasn’t aware he had voiced the question until Ser Arrun said, “He may have some years on him, but he knew war in his younger days, and he flies with joy, the princess says. Of course, she flies with joy too—never seen two creatures so well matched as they are. I think he likes to show off for her.” He glanced at Ormund.
“Just what I need.”
Just then, the bronze dragon swooped straight up into the air, shot a streak of red and gold flames into the sky, then tilted over into a backwards loop. Ormund’s heart stopped and the world seemed to fall silent around him.
Except for the wild laughter high over the city.
Vermithor completed his loop, flew a lazy circle around the Dragon Pit, and then landed with a grace that could only be described as feline.
The ground still shook, but Ormund had never witnessed a dragon land at anything but a distance he described as “safe” and others (his cousin’s son) had described as “ridiculous,” “cowardly,” and “nearly beyond the edge of sight,” so he suspected it was impossible for the great beasts to land with anything other than an earth-shaking tremor, but the smooth gait of the landing impressed him.
He squashed the admiration for the bronze beast down. He would not admire the thing. It was only an animal. It was his rival. It was—
Vermithor was purring again, as Alyssa, who had dismounted as gracefully as the dragon had landed, stopped by his head and scratched his chin and offered soft words.
Ormund glared.
He heard Ser Arrun snort—at his expense, he was sure—and then call, “Good evening, My Lady! How was your ride?” Then he elbowed Ormund.
The jab at his ribs didn’t hurt, it was not meant to, but it did make him jump, and school his features into something less hostile.
Alyssa looked past Vermithor and smiled her wild smile.
Ormund was finished. That was the end. He would marry this one or not marry at all. There was such joy in her eyes, in her laugh as she gave Vermithor one last stroke of his nose, even in the windblown hair she pushed from her face as she walked away from the dragon and toward Ser Arrun, who held her horse’s reins. A million ways to spend the rest of his life making her smile, making her laugh, flashed through his mind. He would abandon all other pursuits just for that, just for her. Ormund opened his mouth to say… something, he was unsure what, but a blast of hot air pushed the words back down his throat.
Alyssa laughed again, turning back to look at Vermithor.
The dragon was crouched like a cat, with his wings spread wide but not high, and his tail lashing. He narrowed his eyes, Ormund swore, and bared his glittering teeth, and growled.
Alyssa shook her head. “My sweet—” She dissolved into High Valyrian, and the dragon returned his attention to her, demeanor shifting immediately to friendly adoration.
Ormund narrowed his eyes back at the huge beast. Two could play this game. Two would play this game. Only one would win.
Alyssa said something to the Dragon Keepers, and they approached slowly but confidently, speaking to Vermithor and guiding him back toward the Dragon Pit.
Ormund quickly schooled his features again before she turned back to him, still smiling, hair even more mussed after the huff of hot dragon’s breath from behind.
Gods it stank.
But Alyssa smiled at him. “There, now you have met him, my darling dragon.”
“Indeed,” Ormund said, eyes watering.
Alyssa laughed and mounted her horse, and even Ser Arrun smiled a little at the look on his face.
“You recommend I bathe before the feast tonight then?”
“Well…” He did not know what to say to that.
“Oh, fear not, my lord, I am a Targaryen, not a savage. I bathe after I ride.” Then, with another laugh, she spurred her horse into a gallop, leaving the two men to follow.
~~~
Alyssa suspected that a full fortnight of festivities for her uncle’s nameday was excessive, but she didn’t care. She didn’t have to spend time with Aegon, that was for others. She could spend time with whoever she chose—namely, her little brothers—and eat as many sweets as she liked, and stay up as late as she liked. And as a young woman grown, she had the right to do those things anyway, but she had not been grown long, so the novelty still clung to it.
She also never turned down a good feast, or tournament, or a chance to dance with the young lords of Westeros.
And, it meant Ormund was there for nearly a month, and the days full of excuses to spend time with him, though the excuses became thinner and thinner, and were needed less and less, as the days went on.
One morning, on her way to the Dragon Pit for an early flight, she came across Ormund and Ser Gwayne after what must have been a hellishly early bout of sparring. They were both sweaty and panting, but Ser Gwayne said something and prodded at his cousin, and Ormund laughed, pushing the damp hair from his forehead.
Jace and Luke were sparring already as well, with their father watching on, and Ser Criston Cole walking himself through a duel in the other corner. Aemond was no doubt on his way to his lessons.
Alyssa strode through the middle of the yard, Ser Arrun following with a quick shout of “Your guard is too high, my prince!”
“Aye—Aarrgh!” Jace yelped in pain as, apparently, Luke’s blow got around his misplaced guard.
Alyssa laughed and shot a glance at the Hightowers, chuckling as well.
“They’ll be swordsmen yet,” Gwayne said with a good-natured smile. “Just get a few years on them.”
“And a few inches. They may be mighty, but they are small.”
“My lord Ormund, do you think it is height alone that wins a battle?” Alyssa stopped and turned to look at him, head tilted.
“It never hurt anyone,” he replied evenly. “Does having the largest claimed dragon make you feel more confident in victory?”
“It makes me feel more confident that I will never have to fight. But I shall concede the point.”
“Are you off to see him?”
“Indeed, but I do recall you wanted proof of my skill with the sword. Or,” her wild smile was back, “are you too tired for a bout?”
Gwayne choked on a laugh as Ormund flushed.
“Indeed not,” he managed. “But I do not know—”
“I would not worry about her, my lord,” Ser Arrun said mildly. “Her father is an excellent teacher.”
“I like to think so!” Laenor added before being cut off by another yelp that was more surprise than pain. “Though perhaps she is a better student than these two rascals!”
The following yelp was most certainly that of her father, as the boys abandoned their practice swords and piled on him in a tangle of vengeful limbs.
“Anyway.”
“Oh, very well,” Ormund said. “But practice swords, and I shall duel you left-handed.”
“You’ll do no such thing.” Her voice was firm. “And we’ll have to send Ser Criston away lest we offend his sensibilities.”
“Cole!” Ormund barked.
Ser Criston visibly ground his teeth, but his tone was, if not pleasant, then at least not violent, when he said, “My lord.”
“A practice sword for the princess. Then make yourself scarce.”
Ser Criston glanced at Ser Arrun, who must have given him some wordless direction that Alyssa couldn’t see, then inclined his head and turned to the rack of practice weapons.
“The one with the notch near the handle, please, Ser Criston.” He may not approve of her learning the blade, but Alyssa had never felt the need to be rude to him in return. She was a princess; she was above rudeness unless it was acutely called-for. “Thank you,” she said, when he handed her the blade.
He gave her a small bow, then went on his way out of the training yard.
There were still sounds of a scuffle from the corner in use by her brothers and father as Alyssa shrugged off the outer layer of her riding clothes. The jacket was designed for warmth, and she would not need that here. She handed it to Ser Arrun, who in turn walked to stand next to Gwayne and watch.
She twisted, stretched, weighed the blade in hand though it was as familiar to her as the saddle of her horse. Then she frowned at Ormund.
“I said not left-handed.”
“I would hate to—”
She struck without warning, and he dodged, but barely.
Gwayne laughed. “Watch your guard, cousin, or I shall be the next Lord of Oldtown!”
Ormund had not the time for a scathing—or otherwise—remark. He leapt away from Alyssa as she swung again, fast as a viper.
She did not laugh, but the light of battle flashed in her eyes. Her father said that was her greatest strength—her joy, her inability to be weighed down by anything. It made her fearless, he said, but in the best way. It was why she flew with such wild abandon, why she learned to fight. She was outmatched, this she knew, but she could still dance around him, show him she certainly wasn’t helpless even without Vermithor snarling at her back.
Alyssa’s defenses were not too high, that lesson she had learned early and well, but pound for pound, she hadn’t the muscle to block every swing once Ormund had sized her up and began to strike back. He hit like a hammer.
She ducked a high swing and managed to whack him across the shin, only to find herself too slow to block the strike from overhead. Her arms buckled against the crushing force.
As soon as she gave way, it stopped.
“Yield?” Ormund grinned.
“Oh, aye,” she panted.
“Well-fought, my lady.”
“You as well. And I thank you for not going easy on me.”
He bowed a little. “The least I can do, when my competition for your attention is a dragon.”
Gwayne choked on something, a laugh or a comment or pure surprise, and Ser Arrun suddenly became very interested in the stitching on Alyssa’s jacket.
“You are welcome to accompany me, if it would make you feel better.”
“It may very well.”
~~~
It did not.
Vermithor glared at him, but only when Alyssa’s back was turned.
Ormund glared back, also only when Alyssa’s back was turned.
And gods, the smell.
But he accompanied Ser Arrun to the tavern once again, and when Vermithor roared overhead an hour later, they went back to the Dragon Pit.
Vermithor landed with his usual and surprising grace, and he growled at Ormund, and Ormund crossed his arms and scowled back, until Alyssa looked at him, and then he was the picture of polite interest.
But gods, the smell seemed to cling to her.
“I will bathe,” she promised with a laugh, seeing his nose wrinkled despite his best efforts. “I will bathe, and then I shall smell of tulips, or whatever it is, and we shall have a lovely time at the feast tonight.”
“Tulips,” he snorted. “You speak as if you’ve never had a flower garden.”
Alyssa shrugged. “Gardens are not my realm, Ormund.” She looked up at the clouds. Then she smiled. “That is. And I hope you understand that.”
He couldn’t believe he was saying it. “I do. And I would have you no other way.”
Her wild smile was back. “Except perhaps cleaner.”
“Seven Hells, please.”
~~~
He danced with her after supper that night. “Lilac.”
“I’ll not lie to you, I asked my maid and she recommended it.” Alyssa gave him a mischievous look. “I told her I needed to not smell like dragon. Though, I do not think I do most days. I suppose I am used to it.”
“I suppose you are, but I cannot understand how—”
“Oh hush!” She gave his chest a playful smack that lingered a heartbeat too long.
Ormund cleared his throat.
Alyssa blinked. She had quiet forgotten what they were talking about. Lilacs and dragons and Ormund Hightower knew far more about her bathing habits than was proper and—
“Your mother is staring at us,” Ormund murmured, putting an end to her line of thought.
“Oh?” They turned with the music and indeed, Princess Rhaenyra was watching them, hiding a smile behind the lip of her wine goblet. “Good. Perhaps she is getting ideas.”
He returned her mischievous look, a spark in his eye. “I would hate for us to have others concoct such ideas for us.”
“Then tell me now, and I shall tell you mine.”
The music changed, but the two stayed doggedly in each other’s arms. Otto Hightower tapped his brother’s shoulder and jerked his chin at the pair.
“I would build a grand Dragon Pit, but downwind from the prevailing winds of Oldtown, of course.”
Alyssa snorted. “Of course.”
“And whatever your Dragon Keepers would require. And the finest silk gowns as can be had this side of the sea.” Ormund leaned closer, their noses nearly brushing. “And I shall, every day, make you smile that wild, joyous smile of yours, even if it is at my expense.”
“And in return, I would make Oldtown my home, until the Iron Throne passes to me.”
Ormund blinked.
“For that is the other thing I ask of you.” The music was loud; Alyssa’s voice quiet. “When my grandfather dies, some will try to put Aegon on the throne because he is the son of Viserys. But he is not the heir. Grandfather has made it quite clear that my mother is to sit the throne. And I am her heir. That must be something you can make your peace with, or—”
“Make my peace with the fact that our children will sit the throne? Yes, what terrible knowledge. Truly, Alyssa, it had not crossed my mind to rebel against you. I do not know if I could. For one thing, your dragon would eat me and be glad of the excuse to finally do it.”
Alyssa laughed, bright and unbidden out of surprise.
“Having said all that,” Ormund became serious again, “it has been long since Oldtown has had a lady, and I ask if you would consider it. If you would be my wife, and I your husband. Even though all the flowers whose names you do not know will be shamed by your bright smile, I will consider it well worth the cost.”
“Flatterer.” Alyssa wrinkled her nose with a grin. “Yes, my heart. I look forward to it.”
~~~
She woke the next morning with her heart singing. Ormund met her in the stables, and rode with her to the Dragon Pit, and glared at Vermithor when he thought she wasn’t looking. She could only smile when Vermithor growled back.
She flew perhaps longer than she meant, but she truly did not know what else to do with all the unbridled joy she felt.
Ser Arrun was there alone when Vermithor landed. Alyssa cocked her head, more than a little disappointed she could not stand too close to Ormund just to annoy him with the dragon-smell clinging to her like it always did.
Ser Arrun smiled. “He wanted time to ready himself for the tourney. Something about how Ser Gwayne couldn’t be trusted to oversee preparations.”
That sounded like him.
She wore the blue dress, for variety, the blue dress with shimmering bronze thread stitched into it in patterns of scales and flames, and she did something she had never done before, which was refusing to give her favor to the first knight who asked for it (usually this was her father, but today Laenor had suspiciously looked right past her and smiled at his own mother, and Princess Rhaenys had smiled back and bestowed her favor upon him).
By the time Ormund entered the lists, she knew he was frustrated to the point of violence. Certainly he knew of the others who had asked. It would annoy him to no end, to know that others were looking at her, smiling at her, making vain little attempts to woo her, when he was stuck, waiting.
The wait would be worth it. She would make sure of it.
At least, it would be for her.
Ormund unhorsed one of the Baratheons easily. And finally—finally—he spurred his horse to the box.
He pulled off his helmet, hair delightfully disheveled. “Princess Alyssa!”
“My lord.” She stood and walked to the front of the box.
“May I have your favor? I think I shall need it before the day is up.”
Alyssa nearly laughed. So he hadn’t done it last night then; he was waiting until after today’s tourney to enquire of his father about a marriage to the Velaryon princess.
“You shall have it.” She smiled and set the hoop over the tip of the lance. It slid to his waiting hand, and she watched as he held it up, ostensibly to admire it, but she knew…
Ormund coughed suddenly, lowering the lance, and shot a very annoyed but fond nonetheless glare at Alyssa.
She laughed, waved him away, and returned to her seat.
Next to her, her mother leaned close. “What did you do?”
“I flew with it this morning. I may have rubbed it along Vermithor’s chin.”
“Little dragon, I do not understand you in the least.” Rhaenyra leaned closer still. “But I suspect a proposal is on the way, if I know Otto.”
“It has already been accepted,” Alyssa whispered back, as a Lannister and another Baratheon crashed into each other. “Only it is perhaps not official.”
“Well,” Rhaenyra took her daughter’s hand and squeezed it, “then I suppose congratulations are in order. And well done, beating Otto to the punch.”
~~~
Alyssa found him after the tourney. He had not won, but it was a respectable showing, and he would not begrudge Gwayne his victory.
“My lord Ormund,” she smiled sweetly, standing outside the tent as his squire helped strip him of his armor, “you seemed distracted after your first bout. Was something wrong?”
“Oh, as you know very well, wild girl.” He waved the boy off. “Go help Ser Gwayne, he has always been inept when it comes to these things.” Ormund shrugged out of another sweaty, stinking layer as the boy jogged away. “Gods.” He wrinkled his nose.
Alyssa shook her head. “Your poor delicate nose.”
“Does it truly not bother you?” He started, incredulous.
“No.” She came closer, knocking her shoulder against his in that familiar way of hers. “It truly never has. But I come from fire and blood, not tulip gardens.”
The glare on his face had no menace in it. “One day, Princess Alyssa, I shall knock you with my shoulder instead of the other way ‘round, and then you shall be sorry.”
“Is it because I insulted your tulips?”
He took a deep breath. “My sweet, I begin to suspect you do not know what a tulip is.”
~~~
Otto Hightower could not have planned a better match given the rest of his life and unlimited coin. As it was, he planned the grandest wedding celebration his brother’s considerable coin could manage. At least, what was left after a fair percentage went to building his nephew’s betrothed a Dragon Pit. It was still a grand and glorious and raucous celebration, with feasts and tourneys for days and days.
Even amongst all his political scheming, when he heard the pair of them talking between dances before the ceremony, and Princess Alyssa flashed Ormund a grin that spoke of trouble and said, “I went flying yesterday afternoon, while you were hunting, and I shall have you know I bathed last night and again this morning, just for the comfort of your delicate nostrils,” and Ormund laughed and pulled her close, Otto Hightower smiled at the simple joy that was… this.
~~~
Vermithor landed, like he always did, with that catlike grace even as he shook the very earth beneath his claws. Alyssa slid down his side and scratched his chin on her way by, speaking to him quiet words of High Valyrian that made him purr and rub his nose against her.
The moment she had her back to him, the bronze dragon bared his teeth and flared his wings and lashed his tail, contemptuous gaze fixed on his princess’s husband. Ormund shot a glare back, then smiled at his wife, then wrinkled his nose, like he always did.
They rode home, and he returned to the study while she stayed in the stable a while, brushing the horses and sneaking treats to her favorites.
She returned, like she always did, striding through the study with its windows thrown wide to the gardens below, in her riding leathers that stank of dragon, with her hair still tousled and windswept and also stinking of dragon.
Standing by the window, he couldn’t help but stare.
Gods, she was beautiful.
Gods, the reek was awful.
But Alyssa just caught his eye and laughed. “Your poor delicate nose, sweet husband!”
“How the entire household does not go running when you return from flying—”
“Oh you bother so much about it! I am on my way to a bath, my love.” Knowing it would annoy him, she stretched to the tips of her toes and kissed his nose.
His nose wrinkled, but there was still a fond look in his eyes.
Alyssa smiled and started up the stairs, casting a glance over her shoulder. “And you are welcome to join me, should you be able to tolerate the smell.”
She shrieked with laughter and ran as he bounded up the stairs three at a time behind her.
Very aware of the smell of dragon, and somehow not caring, Ormund Hightower caught his wife around the waist and tossed her over his shoulder, carrying her, laughing, to their rooms and the waiting bath.
Friends, Romans, countrymen, and everybody else here not sitting on a cushion,
I have finished Sunrise on the Reaping, and, as is to be predicted, the Hunger Games bug is back. Which is great, because it's finally gotten me out of my horrendous writer's block of the last many months. To hold you over while I work on the next Hunger Games project, may I offer:
Tiger Shark, for those of you who would do anything for Annie Cresta. This is the story of how the Seventieth Hunger Games changed everyone, and how Annie Cresta changed everything else. Starts with Annie's Games and becomes an AU when Annie doesn't let Mags volunteer in the Quarter Quell. A canon compliant version exists here.
The Albatross, for those of you who want something a little darker and a lot earlier in the timeline. The story of Four's second victor, a girl lost to time and the fury of the Capitol.
PS- The next project is happening in, around, before, during, and maybe after Tiger Shark, for those of you who want to know why Gloss paces every night before he goes to bed, how Alvan got involved in the Mockingjay plot, and where Titus Vickers spends all that money he wins gambling on the Hunger Games.
PPS- Yes, Sunrise on the Reaping means that there are now a few (minor) inconsistencies with canon in my fanfics. I'm choosing not to deal with that at the moment, though there is one notable event in The Albatross that I will probably edit one of these days because it's noticeable enough that it will bother me. Brownie points and maybe, like, a character named after you if you figure out what it is before I fix it.
Aemond won’t take on Vermithor and Silverwing together, but also he’d have to think twice about taking on Vermithor at all. Which leads us to:
The classic "Rhaenyra’s oldest daughter" OC that everyone writes, and here she has been the rider of Vermithor since ever, and married to Aemond by choice because they hate each other but they ARE each other AND they love each other, but neither one will change sides. So they’re still fighting, the Dance goes on, the carnage is real, but in this even more complicated way because they will. not. fight. each. other. It’s the surest way to end the war, to take out the other side’s biggest dragon (and their rider, the heir to the throne), but they’re can’t do it because despite everything else that’s her husband who used to gossip in Valyrian with her and that’s his wife who took him out on dragonback when they were little before he had Vhagar. So if Daemon wants to try to fight Aemond and if Daeron wants to try to fight Rhaenyra’s daughter that’s FINE, but she will not help her father and he will not help his brother. You go to your own victory or death. So the whole strategy is now putting them where it’s dangerous, where they can protect the army just by being there because they can’t and won't attack each other and they can beat any other dragon who shows up, and they’re both politically savvy enough to not just burn whole armies.
The Dance becomes a real dance, with fighting on the fringes, the backdrop to this epic, graceful, violent dance between two lovers where no matter what happens their child will inherit the Iron Throne, but the question now is which of them will pass the Iron Throne to the child.
When Aegon dies at Rook's Rest, Aemond becomes king and must live with the consequences.
A/N: Y'all this was supposed to be funny (got to thinking more after I made this post) but I sat down and started typing and blacked out and was apparently possessed by the spirit of GRRM because... this is not funny. A version of Aemond lives in my mind that actually mellows with age but it is not this Aemond.
Warnings: Non-graphic deaths, mention of suicide, depression
Aegon didn’t deserve to be king. Aegon didn’t deserve a lot of things.
Aegon is already dead.
That’s what he tells himself when he finds them. Sunfyre is dying—Vhagar could fly him back to the Dragonpit, but why? He’ll be dead in a month anyway.
Sunfyre is dying. Aegon is already dead.
They had been friends once, hadn’t they? If they had, he can’t remember.
He remembers a pig with wings, Aegon cackling with glee as he drags Aemond through the streets on his name day, the disgust in his eyes whenever someone showed Aemond any special attention, an egg that never hatched.
No, they had never been friends. Not even as children. Certainly not now.
Aegon is already dead.
“Dracarys,” he says.
Someone shouts behind him; he barely hears it over the roar of Vhagar’s breath as she incinerates Sunfyre and Aegon.
“Aegon was already dead,” he whispers over the screams of the dying dragon.
Cole is shouting, screaming. “What the hell happened?”
“Sunfyre would never have survived.”
“But the king—!”
“The king is dead.”
~~~
Daeron crowns him.
The crown sits heavy on his brow, heavy, they say, so he who wears it never forgets the weight of his responsibility.
Well.
His shoulders are strong.
~~~
King Aemond Targaryen is not beloved by the small folk. He is not the Realm’s Delight, not the Brave, not he Conciliator, not even the Queen Who Never Was.
He is the Kinslayer and the Kingkiller, but that will be enough.
No one laughs at him now.
~~~
Helaena falls farther into grief and madness and he can do nothing for her. He and Daeron and Cole lead the army and though they are outnumbered by Rhaenyra’s dragons, he has Vhagar, and one by one they fall.
It does not matter that he is winning. Not to those around him.
All the small council worries about is who will inherit the throne, what marriage will provide the best alliance.
All Alicent says is, “Aemond, you must take a wife, produce an heir—”
But he doesn’t want a wife, he doesn’t need a wife, he needs an heir.
He has an heir.
He has Jaehaera.
Jaehaera who walks to small council meetings with him, who clambers up the steps of the throne to sit on his knee while he hears petitions, who sings to Morghul and Helaena and the cats who replaced the ratcatchers after Aegon hanged them all.
~~~
“Jaehaera,” he says quietly, leaning forward as he sits cross-legged in front of her, playing with the little wooden dragons.
She tilts her head, beaming at him.
“Jaehaera, I am proud of you. You are a brave girl, and beloved by all, and you make your family proud. When I die, you will be queen.”
She frowns, like she can’t imagine a world in which he could die.
He could. He imagines that world every day.
“And until then, I will teach you everything I know.”
So he does. He teaches her to fly, to speak High Valyrian, to fight with a sword and a spear and her words, sharp as steel even as her heart is soft.
~~~
He looks to Helaena and she knows, she knows what he did. She knows the sounds of the screams he hears in the small hours of the night.
~~~
King Aemond Targaryen is not beloved by the small folk.
And if whispers of Maegor follow him around, what does he care? Maegor had been king, had he not?
And he is not cruel—he will never be cruel—but he does rule. He is the king, after all.
~~~
King Aemond is beloved by the army. They will follow where he leads, cheering Vhagar’s shadow and Blackfyre’s flash.
Cole, however, cannot be trusted. He watches too closely. He schemed without Aegon when he was king, he is like to scheme without Aemond now.
Cole dies in an ambush, and new generals rise up to take his place.
~~~
He looks to Alicent, to Otto, to Daeron. They incline their heads. “Your Grace,” they call him, even as they tell him what to do.
“Marry,” Otto tells him. “Forge an alliance.”
“Sire heirs,” Alicent tells him. “Strengthen your claim and your line.”
“Remember your betrothed,” Daeron winks. “I hear she yet draws breath.”
He doesn’t want Floris Baratheon. He doesn’t want any of them.
He wanted Lucerys alive and locked in a dungeon somewhere, he wanted Helaena to be safe and happy, he wanted Daemon to admit he was afraid of him.
He wants now to marry Daeron off to the daughter of the first lord that comes asking. Let him have Floris Baratheon, if she still draws breath. Let him forge an alliance and sire children, but let him also be gone.
~~~
They eye the throne, all of them.
They wait for the day Aemond falls in battle so they may put another puppet on the throne just as they did when Viserys died.
Aemond does not fall.
He watches Otto live out his years, many of them, before the old man simply does not wake one morning.
Daemon and Jacaerys die above Harrenhal and Vhagar roars her victory to the Riverlands.
Helaena’s grief eats at her, a cancerous growth born of Jaehaerys’s murder and fed by every deed since. She pitches herself from the window of her room. Dreamfyre is a formidable fighter, but she will not go to battle without a rider.
Aemond and Daeron fly alone.
Rhaena disappears; Baela betrays Rhaenyra; the wild dragons and the riderless dragons fall to the small folk, and when the people of King’s Landing storm the Dragonpit and kill every dragon there, Aemond is over Dragonstone, killing Syrax and Rhaenyra.
The war—his war—takes them all. There are no dragons left but Vhagar, no Targaryens left but him and the girl who watches him with such wide eyes.
The Last Dragon, they call him to his face. To his back he is the Mad Dragon, as the years wear on, but the Keep has ears, and the Dragon knows.
No one laughs at him. Not for a long time now.
~~~
Her mother is dead and his mother is dead and there is no one left and he cries as he sits on the Iron Throne in the small hours of the night.
Sometimes Jaehaera comes down barefoot from her room and sits at the foot of the throne and stares at him, a thousand years of heartbreak in her eyes, and he stares back.
Whose eye stares from the socket, he wonders. Can he even lay claim to it anymore? Is it Lucerys’s? Does his niece see Daemon looking back at her?
She looks like Helaena but sometimes Aegon and sometimes Viserys but mostly he sees Rhaenyra when he looks at her and someday he will die and all this will be done and he wonders what would have happened had he never been born, had his egg hatched, had Aegon lived, had he sided with the Blacks to spite Aegon, had he forgiven Lucerys.
The part of my brain that's constantly AU-ing everything a million different ways: Ok so the House of the Dragon writers have the opportunity to put out an amazing Westeros What If next week featuring His Grace, King Aemond of House Targaryen, First of his Name, Kinslayer, Kingslayer, Speaker of Fluent High Valyrian Unlike *Some* People, Rider of Vhagar, etc., etc. Plot lines include increasing taxes to fund his haircare routine, telling Jaehaera that he's proud of her and she is loved, and taking Vhagar to get hearing aids.
A/N: Short one this week, but here we are.
Warnings: None
AO3
“Uhh, your… hand…?” The kid at the next stall stared at Crosshair.
Crosshair glared back. The kid finally took the hint and wandered off.
“You know you’ll have to start telling people a story about it.” Omega sat on the other end of the bench. “People kind of know you around here, and they know you haven’t always had one hand.”
“A story?” Crosshair raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah. It doesn’t have to be the truth. Just… an answer for their questions.”
“So… I lost a fight with a rancor.”
“Yeah.”
“I beat Wrecker at Fours and he bit me and it got infected.”
“Sure.”
“Echo actually lost both of his hands, so he took one of mine so now we both have one real hand and one stump.”
“You’re a bad liar.”
Crosshair held up a finger for silence. “I brought it on myself, though, because Echo was struggling with something so I said, ‘Need a hand?’ and he took me literally.”
“You mean he took your hand literally.”
“Yep.”
The silence that fell was soon interrupted by Crosshair’s snort, then Omega’s giggle, and soon they were both laughing, and for a moment it didn’t matter how many hands anyone had—or that Crosshair and Echo were, in fact, missing the same hand—only that they all had each other.
A/N: I know Jedi June is over (not in my heart), so let's just call this a happy Jedi July gift.
Warnings: The inevitable death of a pet
AO3
Plo opened the door and gestured Ky inside. She felt nervous but excited, but he remembered how he had felt, moving from the creche to the apartments. He moved to the kitchen and started on the tea.
“You have tookas?”
He chuckled. “Yes. The gray one is Kira and the brown one is Nika. Kira is friendlier, but if Nika decides she likes you, she is quite the loyal little friend.”
Ky frowned. “I thought Jedi couldn’t have attachments.”
“You must simply remember that at any moment you may have to say goodbye, perhaps forever. But a Jedi should never be lonely. Nika and Kira are my companions, and while I enjoy their company, and I would even go so far as to say they enjoy mine, I will someday bid them farewell when they become one with the Force.”
“Oh.” She frowned some more as she pondered this, looking at the pair of tookas napping under the plant in the corner.
Plo chuckled again as he retrieved two mugs from a cupboard. “Do you like seed cakes?” At her nod, he got out a pair of plates and the container of seed cakes.
“May I…?” Ky gestured vaguely toward the balcony.
“Of course.”
As he finished preparing the tea, he watched Ky lay out one of the squishier meditation mats and settle herself on the balcony. Kira sprang into her lap and settled between the girl’s crossed legs. The Force was warm with simple contentment.
Plo carried the tea and snacks to the balcony, then settled himself on another mat and patted his knee. Nika jumped onto his lap and purred as he scratched her chin, carefully sipping his tea through his mask with his other hand.
“Tell me about yourself, Ky.”
He listened to her likes and dislikes, skills and shortcomings, her desire to visit Montella to see the moons and the galaxy-famous aurorae they caused, and all the while he kept half a thought to the Force and how it moved around her.
She reminded him a bit of his first tooka, Skadi, who had acted like a kitten for all of his years—always bouncing, pouncing, purring, and playing. She also reminded him of the time he had been on Naboo and seen a wild gualaar herd. The new colts bucked and played and they felt so alive. They were not passive, and he could tell that Ky Ydarra was not and would never be passive either.
When he returned from supper that night, Plo sat with the tookas. He couldn’t read their minds—no one could do that with animals—but he could feel their feelings, catch the drift of their intentions. He impressed upon them the idea of inviting their new acquaintance for tea again. Kira purred excitedly and even Nika perked up her ears.
Plo chuckled to himself, scratching the tookas’ chins. “Very well, I shall see if she is willing to come visit us again tomorrow.”
*****
The tookas felt almost excited that Ky would care for them while Plo was gone. They would miss him, but not perhaps as much as he would have liked. He could feel Kira waiting, pacing in front of the door, waiting for Ky to come see them—even though Plo wasn’t even at the end of the hallway to take the lift down to the entrance level yet.
He was glad they liked Ky; it made leaving them easier, knowing that they would be well cared for and not miserable during his absence. He also thought it would be good for Ky to have a responsibility that was hers and hers alone. It would be a way to put all that gualaar colt excitement to use.
*****
Kira and Nika were excited to see him. They had nothing but good memories of Ky, coming to visit them three times a day, giving them many chin scratches, letting them nap on her lap or sometimes on her chest on the days Ky took a nap on the couch.
Animals spoke volumes, if only one knew how to listen.
*****
They were meditating, Plo so deep in the sluggish current of the Force that he could only vaguely feel the warm contentment of the tookas and the muted excitement that passed for peace when Ky was involved.
The current turned ice cold. Nika yowled. Ky crashed backward into the couch.
Plo did not know when she had stood up, but he did know she toppled backward, the brown tooka scrambling away from her, claws digging into her legs. “Ky?” He lurched to his feet in front of her. “Ky!”
Her eyes slid far out of focus and her presence retreated deep into the Force, beyond his reach, searching for something.
“Ky!” He knelt in front of her and grabbed her elbows, hoping to anchor her in any way he could.
“Help,” she whimpered, though he thought not to him. Then she sucked in a gasping breath and her eyes refocused, staring at him.
“Ky?” Plo asked gently.
Still breathing hard, she whispered, “Thanks.”
He frowned and tilted his head. “For what?”
“For…” Ky trailed off. He could sense a dawning realization that she had felt someone in the Force, an anchor that hadn’t been him. “For being my friend.”
Plo moved to sit on the couch next to her. “Ky, are you all right? Do you need to see a Healer?”
“No.” She pulled her knees to her chest, wincing, belying her answer even as she gave it. “No, I’m okay. I just hadn’t felt anything that strong before. I didn’t know what to do. My lessons didn’t really work, so I… did my best.”
He nodded and rose to his feet. Refilling her tea mug, he said, “That is all any of us can do.” He passed the mug back to her and cast a glance at her legs, a scattering of red droplets bleeding through the tan fabric showing the trail of Nika’s claws as she fled Ky’s… vision? Was that what it was? He wasn’t sure. It didn’t particularly matter. “I’ll get you a bacta patch for that.”
“Sorry I scared Nika.”
Halfway to his bedroom, Plo said, “She’ll be fine. She knows you didn’t mean it.” A quick foray into the tooka’s thoughts proved it true, and by the time Plo returned with bacta patches, Kira was curled on Ky’s lap and Nika sprawled against her leg.
They would forgive her a great many things in exchange for that warm sunny spot in the Force and the way it seeped into the physical world.
*****
This time it was Ky who was offworld. Plo missed their evening tea and meditations, and the tookas missed their chin scratches.
Still, he knew Ky was the right Jedi for this mission. She would do well, and hopefully she would be back sooner rather than later.
It was a selfish hope, perhaps, but also as selfless as it could be.
He stroked Nika’s back, her brown sides rising and falling more slowly these days, the tips of her ears turning gray. Kira rasped her tongue over the other tooka’s shoulder, offering what comfort she could. Plo took a deep breath, released it and with it his sadness for the inevitable.
*****
Nika’s breath rasped. Plo petted her gently and closed his eyes, feeling her presence in the Force, looking for something—anything—he could do to provide her some little comfort in these last moments. What he found was sunshine and a warm lap, human fingers scratching her chin, the smell of Ky’s favorite tea.
Plo took a deep breath, concentrating on the memory, pressing against Nika’s consciousness.
He could not bring Ky back to the Temple, as much as he might want to, but he could give his little friend one last memory of her.
Hello, pretty kitty, the memory of Ky said across his thoughts. You’re such a good girl, yes you are. Oh, do you need chin scratches? Yes, yes.
Plo opened his eyes to see Nika stretch, leaning into a hand that wasn’t there. She purred, and her eyes drifted shut.
From Nika he felt only peace, then the fluttering of a candle at its end. From Kira he felt profound sadness.
“Goodbye, Nika,” he said quietly. “You have been a most excellent friend. We will not forget you.”
Prompts: Cadets & “You really think you’re going without me? Not going to happen.”
A/N: Flashbacks for this and Jedi June? Apparently. Also I'm a day late. These prompts were a struggle for me (idk man) and I'm still not totally sold on this one but in the spirit of not getting bogged down, I'm posting it and moving on.
Warnings: Not-so-fond memories of Kamino, Crosshair gets to swear a little, as a treat
AO3
“How do you know him?” Omega asked as the recorded holo came to an end.
Zara, arms crossed, frown etched on her face, said, “I’ve known him for a long time.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s safe to go running when he asks nicely,” Hunter said with an equal frown.
“He’s not going to turn me—”
“I knew Cid for a long time, and look what she did,” Echo growled. “I vote no.”
“It’s not a kriffing vote.” Zara ground her teeth. She liked the guys, but she was an adult, and a trained Jedi, and didn’t need them to always be babying her and breathing down her neck in the name of keeping her safe. “I’m going, because my people asked me to.”
“Oh, he’s ‘your people’ now?”
“What about us?”
“Listen!” she snapped. “Last time I saw him was years ago on Kamino, telling the shinies stories about flying fighters in—” She stopped at the looks on their faces. “What?”
“Kamino?” Crosshair hissed.
Hunter worked his jaw. “So he was a bounty hunter.”
“No, he wasn’t then and I’d bet you the bounty I’m worth that he’s not now—”
“That is precisely the issue,” Tech said. “As a Jedi, you are worth a substantial bounty, one that would make almost any galactic citizen willing to turn you over to the Empire. What is to say this one won’t seize the opportunity?”
She shook her head. “I’m going.” She slammed a datachip on the table. “This will decode in two weeks. If I’m not back and you haven’t heard from me by then, you can go to the coordinates and start looking for me. Got it?”
Zara didn’t wait to hear their answers before stalking off to the ship, immensely glad they refueled when they got home from the last trip so she could just leave right now.
*****
“How did it go today?”
Crosshair shrugged as he finished reassembling his rifle after cleaning and polishing it.
“How about you, Wrecker?”
“Hungry,” Wrecker mumbled. “They made me train through lunch.”
“Here.” Tech held out a ration bar, one of the many 99 had smuggled to them over the last several months since their training had intensified.
Wrecker inhaled it, then started recounted his day, his eyes lighting up the way they always did when he got to talk about wiring explosives and timing detonators. “He actually said I did good today! Got to wire a domino string for blowin’ up walls and dams and long stuff like that. Said I was a natural.”
“Well… you are,” Tech tilted his head quizzically. It looked like he was wondering why the instructor had bothered pointing out such an obvious fact.
Crosshair elbowed him on his way to his bunk.
“Wh—”
“That’s good, Wrecker,” Hunter said quickly. “Really good.”
What none of them said, what they never mentioned, was how normal it was for Wrecker to train right through meal times, for Hunter to get back to their barracks at the end of the day with a splitting headache, for Tech to alternately babble without end all the words he wasn’t allowed to say during training or sit in silence with his datapad either ignoring or not even hearing conversation directed his way, for Crosshair’s eyes to burn from strain and his legs to twitch and bounce from pent-up nervous energy.
For the words they all heard, all day, from the bounty hunters the Kaminoans hired to train them.
Words that even the other cadets, who harbored mixed feelings about the enhanced cadets, wouldn’t repeat—not even to tease them. The other cadets didn’t hate them, but it kriffing felt like the instructors did.
Words sneered at eight-year-old children.
“Surely you can do better than that.”
“Faster—you can’t hesitate to pull the trigger.”
“You should know this.”
“If you can’t handle this, maybe we should decommission you right now and save ourselves the trouble.”
Crosshair’s eyes felt like the eye drops one of the medic trainee cadets had given him had been replaced with liquid tibanna. He couldn’t even remember how far he’d been shooting today—just that it seemed unnecessarily far—
“Hey.”
Wrecker’s weight settled onto Crosshair’s bunk.
“You okay?”
Crosshair rolled over to face the wall in response.
“Don’t let ’em get to ya,” Wrecker said quietly. “We know you’re the best, no matter what those bounty hunters say.” Then he stood up, and something small took his place.
Crosshair stayed there, curled on his side with his eyes squeezed shut toward the wall until the others had finished their nightly routines and one of them clicked off the lights. When it had been dark and quiet for several minutes, he rolled over.
There was Lula.
*****
It was her first time in hyperspace.
No, it wasn’t.
The first time she had been only one, and Master Depa had been bringing her from Mandalore to Coruscant. Zara didn’t really remember it. She remembered being sad, though with the benefits of age and hindsight and knowledge of the Force, she had later become sure that it wasn’t her sadness, but his.
This trip, though, this trip she would remember forever. The joy running rampant through the Force between her and her clanmates and the excitement that Padawan Swan felt at this great responsibility and honor that had been given to her.
Nahdar bounced in place next to her. On the other side of the room, Anakin and Aayla wrestled to burn off some energy.
Zara looked down at her datapad and its collection of sketches. Soon she would be building it, the lightsaber in her designs, and then she would be carrying it on her hip like the big Jedi did, and then she would be learning as someone’s padawan! Her eagerness was palpable, she was sure, but she didn’t care. She was surrounded by friends and today was the first big step on their way to becoming Jedi.
*****
“Force, you’re stressed.” Zara nudged the wall panel, opening the door to the supply closet and revealing Crosshair sitting in a nest of blankets. She dropped a couple of ration bars into his lap. “And you’re here, when I recall all of you saying you didn’t want me here, so go ahead and explain that.”
“You said you knew this guy on Kamino. But did you know what he was like on Kamino?” Crosshair shook his head. “They were awful. All of them. Acted like they’d rather be anywhere else and getting their toenails ripped out than teaching us. Made life hell for us in exchange.”
“I was there,” she said quietly, trying to be patient. “I was on Kamino several times during the war. I know what it was like—”
“No you don’t!” he snapped. “We grew up there! We only had each other and the mudscuffers training us, and they were—No.”
“No what?” Zara snapped back.
“You’re not—You insist on going to see this man? Fine, whatever. But you really think you’re going without me? Not going to happen.”
“Is that what you’ve got the whole entire Force churning about?”
He leveled a glare at her.
“No, I’m serious. You snuck on the ship with me and now you’re sitting here stewing because I’m going to visit my uncle, the Protector of Concord Dawn, who happened to train fighter pilots on Kamino, because you think he’s the same person as kriffing Bric Sykevi—”
*****
“Yes, Master Chief.”
“Sorry, Master Chief.”
“I’ll do better next time, Master Chief.”
It made him feel better that the regs were terrified of Master Chief too, but it didn’t make him any less scared of the man, or of the punishments he could dole out and the threats he could make that only took one misstep to turn into actions taken.
He couldn’t wait to graduate, to get promoted from cadet to private or whatever they wanted to call him, to leave Kamino and never see those instructors again.
*****
“Bric—!” He was on his feet, pile of blankets left behind as he towered over Zara. He dropped his voice and growled, “Bric Sykevi is the lowest piece of bantha shit in the galaxy. If he died right now, I would only mourn because I didn’t get to kill him myself.”
“Whoa…” Zara breathed, leaning away until she bumped the wall.
“And anyone who willingly worked for him—I just—I can’t—”
“Please take a deep breath.”
He hauled in a breath through gritted teeth. “I was raised by bounty hunters hired, first by the Kaminoans and then by Bric Sykevi, to turn us into cold-blooded killing machines. That is my experience with what you might call ‘parental figures.’”
*****
Ky and Master Obi-Wan were laughing so hard tears ran down their faces.
“So Quin—Quin—” Ky wheezed, completely unable to finish her embarrassing story about Master Quinlan, but Master Ob-Wan didn’t need her to. They had known Master Quinlan since they came to the Temple as children.
“Let me guess—he tried to sweet-talk—”
“He tried to sweet-talk the guard!”
Master Obi-Wan roared, leaning against Ky as she howled.
Zara smiled. Their quiet afternoon of meditation had turned into Anakin napping in the grass—Master Obi-Wan said he needed it after their morning spar—and Ky and Master Obi-Wan trading stories about their adventures in the wide galaxy while Zara sat and listened and basked in the sunshine of the Force.
In moments like this, she could remember more clearly. A blue-eyed boy, his tongue sticking out and his eyes crossed. A red-haired man picking her up and tossing her high over his head, then catching her and spinning her around and around as she laughed.
*****
“So you decided to stow away? To what? Protect me from my actual family member because you had horrible people paid to raise you?”
*****
Crosshair remembered pain and fear and exhaustion, learning to check corners not for enemy soldiers but for angry trainers looking to take out any and all frustration on him. The only real safety was to be found with his brothers, their little band with its four members, four sides in stable square, with no blind corners.
*****
“I came along because none of us had to be alone on Kamino. We had each other. I don’t want you to—”
*****
Zara remembered sunshine and laughter and safety, the knowledge that everyone in the Temple wanted what was best for her and for her to become the best Jedi she could be. She had her creche mom and her master and her master’s master and her master’s friends and her friends’ masters and all of them working to better each other and her and the galaxy around them and expecting nothing in return.
*****
“You don’t want me to trust someone I shouldn’t? Who gets to make that choice? Do you need him to fill out an application? Run a background check? If that’s the case, you might want to run one on me too—I’ve done some questionable shit, you know!”
“You just—trust—everyone!”
Zara clenched her fists and inhaled sharply. “Actually,” she growled, “I trust very few people, but I value the ones I do trust, and I work to maintain a mutual level of trust. Fenn Rau is the only person alive who I knew more than ten years ago. And the other two people I’ve known for even halfway close to that long are bounty hunters. Everyone from my old life is dead. I will not turn away from this last person. Not now.”
She took four steps back down the hallway before spinning on her heel and storming back. “And you, Crosshair—” she jammed a finger in his chest, “—you had better learn how to trust people, because it’s a big kriffing galaxy, and it’s a terrible place to be alone. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
*****
He remembered late nights in the barracks, talking and laughing with the other three, the worries and stresses of the day forgotten in those moments over games of dejarik and smuggled snacks from 99.
He was never quite sure if it was because of or in spite of their training that they were so inseparable, so united, so devoted to each other. Maybe both. No matter the pain it took, cadet-hood had forged their bond as brothers, and they would never be alone.
A/N: When I saw the prompt list for this back in mid-May-ish, I thought no way would I pick "letting go" over "cross lineage mentorship," which is one of my favorite dynamics. Yet here we are. I may still bust something out for the other prompt, but I stand by this little story.
Warnings: Off-screen and pre-events-of-story deaths. Not graphic, just mentioned, and the driving force of this work. Dealing with loss and grief.
AO3
Le’Kal watched the two young Jedi, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the pyre. The war had taken much, and now this.
Le’Kal was nearly a hundred years old, and her old master was still alive and thriving and causing unimaginable mischief as a semi-retired teacher of younglings.
Ky was thirty-six, and her old master was one with the Force.
The master she had worked so hard to connect with. The master who had taught her so much, shaped her into the Jedi she had become, raised her from a sometimes overly passionate crecheling to a strong, capable, and self-possessed Jedi Master.
Now he was gone. The war had taken him, like it had taken so many others.
*****
Not many humans could make Ky look short, but the one standing next to her nearly managed it. His dark hair had grayed a great deal since he had known her, and she had grown a surprising number of inches since she had known him.
Le’Kal glanced across the room. Obi-Wan stared blankly through the floor near Master Yoda’s feet. Twenty-five, and his master was one with the Force.
Sith.
Said like a dirty word, whispered the way younglings sometimes said kriff for the first time when they weren’t sure what it meant but they knew it was serious.
*****
Jedi were not meant to be alone, but how often was it that they stood at a funeral pyre, surrounded and yet adrift like a raft on the surface of Dac?
Let go, they were told, as soon as they could form attachments.
There is no death, there is the Force, they were taught, as soon as they could understand the concepts.
Le’Kal understood this, and she knew the two Jedi across from her understood this as well. She had raised them, taught them, helped them on their way to making the Order and the galaxy a better place.
But as Ky finally broke and let out a silent sob before turning to bury her head in Obi-Wan’s shoulder and his eyes filled with an eleven-year-old grief as he wrapped his arms around her in quiet comfort, Le’Kal was reminded that knowledge and practice were two very different things.
It was hard for her to let go of the little ones in each creche clan when they moved to the apartments and became padawans. How impossibly hard was it for young knights to stand at the funeral pyre of the Jedi who had taught them, raised them, shared jokes and snacks and the occasional speeding ticket with them?
*****
Ky shared a quick hug with the man next to her, then at his nod hurried to Obi-Wan and hugged him as well. His forehead leaned heavy on her shoulder and her arms wrapped tight around his torso.
Obi-Wan might be stoic for everyone else, but for Ky he had always been different. He laughed more easily, bent the rules a little more smoothly, let down his guard with less shame.
They were good for each other, just as Le’Kal had hoped they would be, when Ky joined Wolf Clan all those years ago. She wished they didn’t have to be. She wished very much that he didn’t need her support, that she didn’t need to be his anchor, that Qui-Gon was still alive.
But he was not, and now, somehow, Obi-Wan would have to let go, to accept the maxim that there is no death, there is the Force. It was something not everyone could do. More than one Jedi in recent memory—and not just young ones—had left the Order after finding themselves unable to do so.
She had to admire them. It was the height of self-awareness and showed a great deal of maturity. She hoped every day that none of her once-crechelings would become one of them, but she was not in a position to help them work through the grief of losing a master—hers was still alive. In fact, barring some freak accident, her master would outlive her by several decades. Most Jedi were not that lucky.
Obi-Wan was perhaps the unluckiest of all.
*****
As the fire burned itself to ash, Le’Kal approached Ky and Obi-Wan. She was almost within earshot when Obi-Wan turned his head a little and whispered something to Ky. She let out a choked laugh and finally looked at him.
Though there were tears in Ky’s eyes, Le’Kal felt none of the overwhelming undertows of uncontrolled and uncontrollable grief, just a cool current of sad acceptance. It was a shocking change from Ky’s usual presence in the Force—what more than one Jedi had compared to a frolicking and perhaps over-energetic gualaar colt.
Ky noticed her then and detached herself from Obi-Wan to approach her old creche mom. Le’Kal stood on her tiptoes as Ky leaned down and the two embraced.
It was customary to say something about how the deceased was now one with the Force, and how the Force was all around everything, but Le’Kal always thought those words must sound hollow to the ones closest to the deceased, so she said nothing.
Ky, though, whispered, “He’s one with the Force now, which means he can always see the bad decisions I’m making, and I’m not sure if that makes me want to make more or less of them.”
Le’Kal squeezed her tighter. “Never stop sneaking pretzels into the Archives, and his memory will live on through that alone.”
Ky chuckled. “That’s what Obi-Wan said too. We must not have been very good at smuggling snacks if everyone knew about it.”
*****
Jedi were not meant to be alone. They were not to have attachments, but that was different. They were part of a community. They had each other’s backs, in everything from team board games to—these days—armed combat.
Death was a part of life. A part they were coming to know with increasing frequency, but there was balance in all things.
There was still light in the galaxy, and there always would be.
*****
“I’m one with the Force, and the Force is with me.”
Le’Kal whispered the words to herself over and over that night, meditating in her bedroom, torn between wanting to remember all the friends who were now one with the Force and trying to forget the pain that came with their deaths.
There would always be pain and loss, she would have to be a fool to believe any of them could become immune to such feelings. But there was also joy in the knowledge that death was not the end, but merely a new step, a journey into greater communion with the Force.
Le’Kal felt all this, as she knew Ky did, as she knew Obi-Wan had eleven years ago, and she simply kept breathing. There was nothing else to do. No power—no emotion—in the galaxy, no matter how strong, could bring back the dead. Memories could be honored, stories told, kyber crystals given to the Keeper of the Arch, but those lives were gone.
