Chapter Text
Smoke lingered in the Reach's sky as night descended upon the Green Army's encampment.
At its heart stood the great pavilion of Ser Ormund Hightower, surrounded by a sea of lesser tents. The canvas walls shook with every roar of laughter and thunderous cheer that rose from within.
Prince Daeron Targaryen watched it all from the high table, turning a goblet of Arbor red between his fingers.
The raucous soldiers drank and feasted and grabbed at the serving girls, as though they wouldn’t be rotting flesh right now on the banks of the Honeywine if his girl hadn’t saved them all.
Scarcely twelve hours had passed since the battle ended in victory.
Daeron glanced at Ser Ormund, sitting only three seats away at the head of the table, well into his cups.
His face was flushed and shining with sweat. Ser Gwayne must have said something very funny, for both men threw their heads back and laughed uproariously, wine sloshing from their goblets.
It was all laughter now, but Daeron remembered the terror that had swept through their ranks when the Black host emerged from every direction that morning.
Some men had pissed themselves where they sat their horses. Dozens in the vanguard tried to jump into the Honeywine and swim away, only to be the first ones killed by Black longbows.
The Two Alans, along with Thaddeus Rowan and the Bastard of Bitterbridge, had surrounded them within minutes.
The damned Blacks had been tormenting their host for months now.
Every morning brought some fresh horror: riderless horses would wander back to camp with the heads of scouts in their saddlebags, the enemy raided their encampment day and night without respite, and obstacles like felled trees and brush fires constantly halted their line of advance.
Ser Ormund accepted whatever reports he was brought with little outward emotion. When he rode, hunted, and fought at arms, he remained more composed than even the King's Hand, Ser Criston Cole, who seldom smiled and spoke even less.
Not once had Daeron witnessed Ser Ormund afraid. He’d been squiring for the knight ever since he was a boy. Ser Ormund was calm, always. Calculated and measured.
Until that morning, when he turned to Daeron beside him, face pale and drawn, and yelled in a quivering voice, “Go, my prince! Go!”
Daeron had yanked upon the reins of his stallion and rode like the wind for his dragon.
In his panic he’d nearly forgotten which green field Tessarion lay in. Due to the constant raids, Daeron had been forced to move her nearly every night so that she would not be harmed by rebels. But when he caught sight of her brilliant blue wing shining over a distant hill, he turned his horse in that direction with a broken, “Hyah!”
Tessa was far enough from the riverbank that the men guarding her had no idea a battle had commenced. They lounged among the tall grass as if they were ladies on a picnic. One might have even been napping, by the still look of him.
They sprang to their feet when Daeron crested the hilltop.
Feverish apologies were issued, but he paid them no heed. If it were any other time, Daeron might have stripped these louts of their swords, possibly even taken a hand. But there was a battle on, and a roaring in his ears, and so little time.
He leapt from his horse before she came to a full stop, his armor rattling. He chucked his helm off. Couldn’t see out of the damned thing, anyway.
When Tessa saw her rider, she rose from her resting position with a low rumble.
His dragon was a shimmering cobalt blue, inlaid with bright copper-gold scales that shone in the sun. She reminded him of a burnished goddess on the prow of one of Corlys Velaryon’s ships, cutting through the deepest blues in the Summer Sea.
The Blue Queen, she was called, and no name suited her better.
“Zȳharys, Tessarion!” cried Daeron. To battle.
She released a pitchy wail, prettier than any song, and extended an enormous, membranous wing to him.
Daeron scrambled up into his saddle. He did not bother to strap himself in, as his brother Aemond always took care to do. If the dragonlords of Old Valyria had flown without such precautions, so would he.
At his command, Tessa jumped into the sky. The higher they climbed, the lighter Daeron felt, as he always did when flying. Fear belonged to those on the ground. To those who did not have a dragon.
Daeron guided her towards the battlefield with his reins. As they neared, his view provided him with just how dire the situation below was; a cavalry force that alone outnumbered their host approached from the northeast, while a slightly smaller force of foot soldiers approached from the south. Together, they backed Ser Ormund’s army into the Honeywine.
Already the Greens had suffered heavy losses.
Their lines were buckling, dozens of banners had disappeared. The clash of steel rang out amidst curdling screams. Daeron could spot hundreds of bodies already floating in the Honeywine, turning the water to blood.
He turned Tessarion in a sweeping half-circle over the battlefield, analysing which side to attack first. The southern force—the one on foot—would be quicker to kill and take longer to flee. Sensing his intentions, Tessarion screeched and folded her wings close to her body, hurtling towards the southern host faster than an iron bolt.
Wind beat at Daeron’s face so brutally that his cheeks flapped. In that moment he was thankful to have cut his hair short enough that it would not be ripped out by sheer force.
Daeron gritted his teeth and gripped the saddle with white knuckles as they dived towards the earth.
Then, when he was sure they were close enough, the command tore from his throat.
“Dracarys!”
Tessarion reared her head before unleashing a white-hot jet of flame upon the army below.
The resulting explosion was so devastating, so hot that Daeron could feel the searing heat envelop his body from high above. He whooped a battle cry that was immediately drowned out by Tessarion’s.
Again and again, Daeron swept over the riverbanks, ordering his Blue Queen to decimate the enemy forces below. Black smoke crept into the sky like clouds of death. The scent of burnt flesh and boiled blood invaded Daeron’s nostrils no matter where he flew.
After a time he spotted what was left of the northeastern force retreating. Ser Ormund’s men gave chase, and for a fleeting moment, Daeron wished he was on the ground, if only to hear the cheers that greeted the turning of the tide.
The same cheers had yet to die. They followed Daeron as he dismounted Tessa, as soldiers weeping with relief hoisted him onto their shoulders, and even now as he sat at the high table watching his blood-soaked comrades slip deeper into their revelry.
A sudden banging had him sitting up straight. It was Ser Ormund, hammering his fist against the wooden table, attempting to quiet the high lords and landed knights crowding the tent.
“Men! Men!” Ser Ormund bellowed, to no avail. The roar in the pavilion did not abate.
Ser Gwayne rose unsteadily and unsheathed his sword with a giggle, slamming its hilt upon the table hard enough to rattle the cutlery. Beside him, Ser Criston dragged a hand over his mouth in annoyance.
But it worked—the noise gradually died until there was nothing but murmurs and grunts.
“Men,” said Ser Ormund, softer now, more reverently. “This morning, I looked upon our enemies and thought we were lost. I saw hosts on every horizon and a river at our backs. I saw brave men prepare to meet the Stranger, and I feared many of us would before the sun had set.
“But you stood. You held your ground when lesser men would have fled. You fought for your king, for your brothers, and for one another. And none of it, none of it, would have been possible without Prince Daeron!”
Daeron started as two hundred eyes fell upon him. The entire tent erupted, men slapping backs and raising goblets everywhere he looked. He could have sworn House Peake’s soldiers were crying.
“Prince Daeron, rise.”
Ser Ormund was drunk, but his face was solemn. Daeron set his goblet down and stood. His knight beckoned him round the table. He went at once, ever the loyal squire.
“Kneel.”
Gods, it was happening.
Daeron's heart thundered as he took a knee.
His elder brothers, Aegon and Aemond, were known throughout the realm as fearsome dragonriders, but neither were knighted warriors. Daeron had waited for this moment since he arrived in Oldtown all those years ago.
He was grateful his face was turned towards the ground, or else the hot tears lining his eyes might be noticed.
There was a shuffling above him. Miraculously, and for the first time Daeron could recall, an entire tent full of victorious warriors fell completely silent.
Ser Ormund drew his sword and touched the blade to Daeron's right shoulder.
“In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.”
The sword moved to his left shoulder.
“In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.”
Back to the right. A tear struck down Daeron’s cheek.
“In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent.”
The left.
“In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women.”
The blade rested lightly upon his shoulder.
“Arise, Ser Daeron Targaryen, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms.”
For a heartbeat, the tent was silent. Then the cheering began anew.
Men surged to their feet, pounding their swords, cudgels, and goblets against the tables. The sound was deafening. Cries of “Ser Daeron!” and “Prince Daeron!” echoed beneath the canvas.
Daeron scarcely had time to regain his feet before a grizzled knight seized him by the shoulder and shook him so hard his teeth clicked.
“Seven save us, lad!” The man boomed. “You nearly came too late!”
Another thrust an overflowing goblet into his hand. A third clapped him on the back hard enough to stagger him forward.
Despite his knighthood, despite the adulation, Daeron couldn’t help but shake his head vigorously.
“Hey! Oy!” Ser Ormund shouted. “Let our prince speak! Ser Daeron the brave—no—Ser Daeron the Daring!”
Ser Daeron the Daring! Ser Daeron the Daring! The shouts battered the canvas overhead.
Daeron smiled, unable to help it. He raised his arms again. That was all it took for silence to follow once more. Ser Ormund led the army, but Daeron was a prince of the realm, and that alone brought the pavilion to order.
“My Lord is kind to say so,” said Daeron, “but the victory belongs to Tessarion!”
With that, he drew his blade and thrust it in the air, and the tent burst with cries and applause so loud that Daeron was sure they could be heard all throughout the Reach.
When the lords and knights returned to their cups, Daeron sat amongst them for a time, happier than he’d ever been.
The celebration was much needed; news from King's Landing was dire of late.
His brother and king, Aegon II, had been grievously injured at Rook’s Rest after falling from his glorious beast, Sunfyre. It was said that burns covered his entire body, and both his legs had been snapped in two.
He laid somewhere within the Red Keep as an invalid. It was a dangerous time to be useless.
Daeron’s half-sister Rhaenyra was planning to march on King’s Landing any day, which put his mother in harm’s way. Helaena was lost in her grief after the death of her eldest son. Daeron couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard of her taking to the skies on Dreamfyre.
Aemond stalked the Riverlands, hoping to kill Prince Daemon and Ceraxes.
His family faced many trials, yet they did not call on him.
Daeron would never have dared argue with the Dowager Queen when she sent him to squire in Oldtown, and for the most part, he’d enjoyed every gruelling moment of it.
But it was not as though he was half a world away. King's Landing, Harrenhal, and Dragonstone all lay within reach of Tessarion's wings.
Why did they not call on him?
It ate at him. Worse still, whenever his mother replied to his letters, she implored him to stay where he was.
An order not by his king, but by Alicent Hightower.
It did not help to ruminate on such things. It only served to make him angrier, and a little sad.
If the Reach was where he was needed, then the Reach was where he would remain.
He drained his cup and thought of his mother. The news of his knighting would surely bring a rare smile to her lips. Daeron had not seen her in many years, but he knew that much.
There was a commotion at the entrance of the tent.
Six soldiers dragged three bound and gagged women along the aisles. Seeing this, Ser Ormund set his goblet down and hooked two thumbs into his swordbelt, watching as they drew near. Daeron came to his side, as he always did when Ser Ormund was to parley.
“You realise you don’t have to do that anymore, don’t you?” Ser Ormund muttered out of the corner of his mouth.
Daeron didn’t realise. It was purely habit.
Ser Ormund’s eyes crinkled at the corners. He stuck his arm round Daeron’s shoulders and patted twice, a fatherly gesture that both had grown accustomed to.
“What have we got here?” Ser Ormund asked the soldiers when they arrived at the head table.
Two of the girls were frightened enough that they shook all over. Their wide, innocent eyes flew about the tent as they tried to take it all in. Any whimpers they made were stifled by the white gags in their mouths. They couldn’t have been older than fifteen.
The third girl was quiet. She was gagged just the same, but she made no noise. She did not shake, or try to wriggle from the grips of her captors. Her honey-brown eyes narrowed on Ser Ormund and did not move.
The soldier holding her elbow shoved her forward unceremoniously. “This one here is Lady Rosamund Rowan, daughter of Thaddeus Rowan.” Then, almost like an afterthought, he added, “and two of her ladies.”
The men close enough to hear this fell silent.
The enemy’s daughter, a prisoner?
Daeron looked her up and down. Her hair was wild and unkempt, her blue silk dress was torn in three places, and there was a bit of dirt on her face. Other than that, she appeared relatively unscathed.
Why was she here? Was she travelling with her father’s host? Did he know she had been taken captive?
Ser Ormund appeared to have the same questions. He gestured for the soldier to lower her gag.
“What are you doing here, Lady Rosamund?” Ser Ormund asked softly.
Daeron knew that tone. It was the one he adopted when he was about to play with a meal.
Rosamund Rowan’s newly-freed lips clamped shut. She stared at Ser Ormund with murder in her eyes.
“Ah.” Ser Ormund chuckled a bit, then descended three steps.
Without warning, he wound his elbow back and brought a fist hard into Rosamund’s belly, causing her to scream and double over in pain.
Daeron fought the urge to wince. She was an enemy, it was true, but his appetite for violence never found its way to women. It was a matter he and Ser Ormund differed on.
“Let’s try that again, my lady. How did you come to be on our battlefield?”
Ser Ormund tilted his head playfully as Rosamund struggled to straighten. When she did, she opened her mouth to speak, her voice strained and full of air.
“I travelled with my father’s host,” she groaned.
“She was captured trying to flee their camp on horseback, my Lord,” one of the soldiers supplied.
“Well, that was very stupid, wasn’t it?” Ser Ormund stuck a finger under her chin. Her face lifted defiantly. “You are a prisoner now. You and your ladies. Spoils of war.”
At the last of his words, Lady Rosamund finally blinked in fear.
“Ser Gwayne!”
Daeron’s uncle came stumbling round the table, coming to an eager stop on Ser Ormund’s other side.
“Pick one of the two girls,” Ormund said, gesturing lazily between the terrified ladies of Rosamund Rowan.
Ser Gwayne was no better than a hound with its tongue out. He picked the blonde one, slung an arm round her shoulders, and steered her out of the tent.
“Ser Criston!” Ormund called next, but Criston, ever dour, only held up a hand in refusal. He drank from his goblet.
“Fuck’s sake, Cole,” muttered Ser Ormund. “Should’ve known. Lord Fairbury! You get the other one.”
He laughed as a lumbering bannerman from House Hightower tried to take the other girl away. She put up a fight, attempting to clutch onto Lady Rosamund’s arm, but Lord Fairbury yanked her roughly away, causing Rowan’s daughter to choke out a sob.
Ser Ormund ran a finger over her face. Blood and dirt still clung beneath his nail; he and Daeron had washed their faces and nothing else. Lady Rowan glared at him, but shivered nonetheless.
“You, dear girl, came on an auspicious night. You shall go to the best of us.” Ormund turned to Daeron, his grey-blue eyes glazed with amusement. “My prince?”
Lady Rosamund’s eyes snapped to Daeron. He stared at her, stunned, as whoops and hollers rose around them.
Daeron slowly stepped down the stairs.
The men who had clapped his shoulders to congratulate him on his knighthood now did it for another reason. All around him were drunken, cherry-red faces and cat-like grins. Ser Criston was the only one who did not cheer.
His black eyes followed Daeron with something like dread.
Daeron came to a hesitant stop in front of Lady Rowan. Her eyes flared, but her shoulders remained pin-straight. Her hands curled into fists at her side.
She must be the same age as him, thought Daeron, right before she spat directly into his face.
He staggered back, numb with shock, right into Ser Ormund’s arms.
“A hellcat, my prince!” Ormund hissed excitedly into his ear while the men oooo’d. Someone on Daeron’s left shoved a fresh cloth into his face. He wiped the spittle away, simultaneously disgusted and impressed by the small young woman before him.
Spitting in a Targaryen’s face was rather a choice.
“Take her to your tent, Ser Daring!” Ormund called, piercing Daeron’s consternation. He leant down to mutter in his ear. “She is good bait, Daeron. If Lord Rowan is out there, he will bend the knee to get her back. Don’t let her escape.”
Daeron did not want to take this girl at all.
He was looking forward to a hot bath and a quiet meal, in fact. There were letters to write. He wanted to bid goodnight to Tessarion. He had no desire to hold an enemy in his tent.
But there were eyes on him, watching his next move. He was Daeron the Daring now.
So he clenched his jaw and seized Lady Rosamund by the elbow. He pulled her through the tent with great difficulty. She protested with every step, shouting at him to stop. She even attempted to kick him, the bloody wretch.
When her efforts caused them to nearly stumble into a table of House Peake’s bannermen, Daeron had had enough. He whipped around and shoved his face to hers.
“I won’t hurt you, but stop fighting me!”
Lady Rosamund did stop. Perhaps it was his tone, or his promise of safety, but her lips parted in surprise. Her eyes widened like an owl. Daeron was close enough to see the light freckles dusting her cheeks and nose.
It took him a moment to register that she’d given up the fight, but when he did, he resumed his path out of the tent.
Daeron could not have predicted the course this day would take when he woke that morning. Not the battle, nor the knighting.
He certainly never imagined he would end it by dragging Lady Rosamund Rowan out of Ser Ormund’s tent and into the smoky night.