117 AC, Driftmark
The Lady Laena Velaryon was deceptively strong for her diminutive size. Daemon might have found it within himself to fight her off – if he had not been so taken by the fire in her eyes, of course – if not for the ache in his chest and the way his entire body felt like it had been dipped in molten dragon spit. So he allowed her to lead him away from the prying eyes of the Tourney, dazed and confused and feeling like he might vomit at any moment.
He stumbled over his own feet, closing his eyes as the walls and floor and ceiling seemed determined to take the places of one another.
She could be carting him off to kill him, for all he knew, and he was scarcely able to do more than stay upright.
Daemon could not say it was the least dignified few hours he had ever had, but it was certainly high up on the list. It was nestled right in between the time he drank too much and shat himself on horseback and the night he spent with Rhea Royce.
He collapsed against the stone wall and dropped his hands to his knees, practically wheezing. His open wound, courtesy of the exact same woman currently rushing around the room to close all the curtains in sight – still bled. As soon as she was done closing the curtains, for reasons he could not fathom, she appeared at his side and immediately began to unclip his armor.
How it found itself back on his body, he could never be sure.
How he found himself upright, he was even less sure of.
Daemon existed in a fog, choked by a heady combination of his own aching chest, the smell of shit and piss that always permeated the Tourney yard, and the salty smell of her skin.
The floor and ceiling flipped, finally making good on their threats to do so for the last ten minutes, and Daemon collapsed the rest of the way down.
"Honestly, I did not cut you that deep," She said, sighing as she bent down to help turn him over.
"I do not think it is your cut," He moaned, concerned with how inclined he felt to be honest with someone he now trusted about as much as Otto Hightower.
Perhaps less.
Otto Hightower had never tried to kill him.
At least, that he knew of.
"Where is Ophaella? And Dark Sister?" He asked, realizing quite suddenly, that he was a daughter short and a weapon shy. He sat up quickly and looked around the room.
"She is with Aemond. They are both safe."
"I do not give a shit about their safety. I want to know what she did to my armor." Daemon pushed her arm back and stood to his feet, forcibly tamping down his wooziness. He lumbered across the room to his breast plate and picked it up, holding it towards the only light - an old seashell candle that smelled of ocean sludge and fish - in the room.
Daemon's lip curled.
Laena rolled her eyes and stepped around him, taking the plate from his hands.
"She carved a rune of protection."
Daemon snatched the armor back and turned his back to her, holding it up above his head to keep it out of her reach as he continued to look at the carvings. For a moment, he hoped she might try and jump for it, just so he could pull it back. Maybe she would jump too hard and stumble. Maybe she would trip over her own feet in the attempt and fall flat on her face.
Instead, she kept her composure and stood back.
Violet eyes, so bright against her darker skin, watched him.
"Sneaky cheeky little shit," Daemon said, propping the armor up with one hand so he could trace the crude carves with the other.
If he had been looking at Laena, he liked to think he would have ducked out of the way of the metal pot she hurled at his back. It plonked against him, echoing around the room.
He whirled around, mouth agape.
"She is trying to protect you in the only way she knows how."
"Well she could do a better job," Daemon said, holding up the breastplate and shaking it before he tossed it aside.
"Ungrateful," Laena snapped, shocking him, once against, with her boldness. She was young - younger than Rhaenyra even - and yet she stared him down in ways most men in court could not even muster. "She tried to protect you and all you can say is that she should have done a better job."
"I told her not to do it again," Daemon said, finding it very strange that he was in the position of having to explain himself.
To her, of all people.
Her, who spent more time on the back of Vhagar than in the halls of her father.
Her, who could not possibly understand how out of his depth Daemon had felt for the last two years.
Her, who seemed to want something from him and yet refused to come right out and say it.
"She has done this before?" Laena crossed her arms over her chest and stared him down. "When?"
Daemon mirrored her posture, ignoring the sting of pain in his chest when his hand brushed against the cut. It had likely started to clot. With any lucky it would soon scab over and heal without a scar. He was not a man who shied away from scars – not vain in any sense of the word when it came to that sort of thing – but he did not relish having the physical reminder of this particular encounter.
"Why are you so interested?" He asked, narrowing his eyes.
"Ophaella needs more than you can give her. She needs a proper teacher, someone who knows her gifts and how to use them safely."
Daemon bristled.
"She is my daughter. Whatever she needs, I will see to it."
"Is that what you have done?" Laena gestured to the discarded breast plate. "Seen to her?"
"I saw to it that got a dragon."
"You had nothing to do with getting her a dragon. You ferried her to an island and hoped that finding her a dragon would cease the relentless shame you feel every time you are reminded that she is not just of you, but Rhea Royce as well."
Shame.
He supposed that was the appropriate word.
Whatever affection he felt for his daughter, he knew it was tempered with a shame of equal measure.
And pride.
And confusion.
And now, above all else, fear.
Fear for her or fear for what she could do, he could not parse. But he knew that every moment that passed during this conversation, the lead that settled in him stomach got heavier and heavier and the more he feared for his little dragon dipped in bronze.
"If she had listened…"
"She's seven."
Daemon scoffed. He turned to the large fireplace, scowling at how pathetic the fire was. These sea people, they never seemed to understand the importance of a good fire. He bent down and grabbed a skinny piece of driftwood. He turned it over in his hand, grimacing at the bits of sea moss still stuck to it. It would make the whole room stink and his mood worsen. If that was even possible.
Still, he poked and prodded and puttered, ignoring the way Laena began to pace.
He took his time until he had the perfect fire. He leaned close, letting the heat sink into his face. How they lived in such an inhospitable place, he would never understand. He grabbed another piece of driftwood and search the now roaring fire for the best place to add it.
"She killed someone." Laena said, breaking the long silence.
"What?" Daemon turned away from the fire, still holding the wood.
"What did you think happened to the wound? It did not simply disappear into mist."
"The Knight. The one who was supposed to fight last," Daemon said, tossing the piece of driftwood back into the fire, uncaring about where it landed. "Impossible."
"And yet, here you stand. Alive and sporting only the wound that came from my knife."
"Impossible," Daemon said again. There must have been something in his voice, something that caused Laena to cross the space and come to stand next to him. "What could you possibly know it? Of her?"
Laena stared at him for a moment longer, eyes dancing across his face as she seemed to bounce through a thousand different emotions before she finally let out a deep sigh and dropped her chin. She gripped her hands together in front of her stomach, wringing them together over and over and over again. The knuckles turned pale just as the blood drained from her face. When she looked back up at him, she was ashen.
"I do not trust you," She started, wringing her hands harder. He was certain her nails had now dug into her palms, creating little crescent cuts that she would have to find a way to explain away later. A lady of her standing could little afford to appear in public in such a state. But then again, a lady of her standing could little afford the scandal of entering into the Tourney.
Such concerns seemed to matter to her little.
Even now, she did not even notice the impropriety of being alone in this room with him.
Daemon narrowed his eyes again.
"I care little for your trust, Laena, nor the word games you wish to play. My shame at having been forced to marry Rhea is my own and I will likely be burned by it again and again for many years to come, but I will not entertain such insults directed at my daughter. Whatever you think you know, you will tell me now."
"Do not play at the caring father, Daemon. It does not suit you." A little color returned to her cheeks as she grew incensed. "You ignored her existence for the first five years of her life. It was only Rhea's death that forced your hand. Even now, you put on a grand show of care and concern, but it is hollow."
Daemon lunged forward and grabbed her collar.
But she did not waiver.
Instead she reached her own hands up and gripped his own, blood from her palms smearing across his pale skin.
"You are hollow. I have known you my entire life, known your anger and your entitlement and your contempt for the woman who gave you a child. Ophaella deserves more than a man who will play at the doting father just long enough to extract what he can from her before he throws her away. Her mother died for her. I refuse to allow you to waste that sacrifice in service of your own pride."
"Pride? You think I am guided by my pride and nothing else?" He snarled, pulling her collar even tighter. "Do you think it is pride that guides me when my daughter claims her dragon by jumping into its mind? Do you think it is pride I feel when she looks to me for the answers I do not have to give? When her mother died in front of her and I could not find it within myself to feel anything but anger?"
Daemon wrenched his hands from her and pushed her back.
"Da-"
"I thought that if she found herself a dragon, it might-"
"You cannot erase her Royce blood any more than you can strip the magic from her veins or the dragon fire from her breath," Laena said, stepping just a touch closer to him. "So few know of it now, but you will not be able to hide it forever. There is something moving. Something that I can scarcely understand, but Ophaella is connected to it. She will learn to control her gifts or she will die for them."
Daemon looked at Laena, allowing the severity and the reality of her words to sink in.
His little Ophaella was of him.
She was a dragon.
Her mother had promised she would be a credit to his house and he had heard little else before he abandoned her for five years. But she was so much more – so much more to him, even if he could not muster the words to describe it even to himself – and he would be damned if he let something happen to her all in service of his own pride.
Or fear.
Or shame.
She was of him.
And though he had never told her and likely never would, Daemon loved Ophaella. Perhaps not in the way a father should, but he loved her still.
"You said she needs a teacher. What do you propose?" Daemon said, acknowledging his defeat to Laena Velaryon for the second time that day.
"A proposal is exactly what I had in mind."
The bleating of his advisors never ceased, it seemed, even when he was away from the Red Keep. Viserys sat on the Driftwood throne, a seat almost as uncomfortable as the one back in King's Landing, watching Lionel Strong and Hobart Hightower shout back and forth. He swirled the wine in his glass, watching the legs drip down the side. It was a good vintage, if not a little watery, and dulled the sharp edges of the words being hurled back and forth just enough for Viserys to tolerate chitterings of proud men, too in their heads to recognize it from their own ass.
But he supposed he was in good company, in that sense, because he too was having troubling telling the two apart nowadays.
"My son is dead!" Lord Hightower all but screamed, red in the face and eyes watery. He did not judge the man for his display of overt emotion. He himself had been overcome with a grief he could hardly process with the passing of his Aemma. Even now, he still found himself turning to speak to her, forgetting for brief moments that she was well and truly lost to him.
He mourned each and every child that passed in her womb, one breath out of it, and a few days removed.
What sort of pain he would feel if they had made it to adulthood before passing, he could not even fathom.
Viserys did not judge the man.
But he did question why he had to be the arbiter of this.
Perhaps he should not have hoped so hard to be King. If he had not, he was certain his Aemma would still be alive. His Rhaenyra might still find joy in his company as she once had. His other children might not be such strangers to him.
Daemon might have never strayed and fallen so far.
"And your son's hands are covered in his blood!"
Lyonel's face turned purple at the accusation.
He was an even tempered man, as far as Viserys was concerned, but fiercely protective of his two sons. But he was not wrong to be so insulted. Ser Harwin Strong was honroable -dedicated to the very end to his Rhaenyra and loyal to King and Crown. He would fall on the sword for her family and Viserys would not so lightly throw away such service.
He was not a murderer.
And Viserys would not declare him as such, regardless of how much the Hightowers pissed about and moaned.
"Enough," Viserys said, downing the rest of his wine before he spoke. To his right, Lord Corlys observed the two shouting men. His upper lip curled at the display and he only had enough patience for the squabble to keep his seat.
Viserys imagined he had other concerns.
First, and most importantly to Lord Corlys, the entire Tourney had been wasted.
Years of planning, the expense of it all, washed away in the tides that Corlys clung to so tightly with a single action from Laena. And what an action it was. Claiming her own hand and humiliating Daemon in one fell swoop. Rhaenys positively cackled. Viserys had too, until Daemon did not get up and the blood began to pool beneath him and the already chaotic scene descended into pure mayhem.
"I will hear no more of this," He said, looking first at Lyonel – who had always been above such squabbles and should be still- and then to Hobart – who Viserys had always hated. The only features he shared with his dear Otto were the ones Viserys hated the most. "Lord Hightower, you know the seriousness of you accusation. Speak carefully."
"Your Majesty, forgive me," Hobart started, eyes shooting back to Lyonel briefly before he continued. "I do not mean to speak out of turn. My grief at losing my eldest and heir has shocked me."
"Clearly. Enough that you feel emboldened to make accusations against the Hand of the King and his kin."
Viserys could scarcely imagine the headache he would endure if Otto was still his Hand.
He already knew he would never hear the end of it from Alicent.
Ormund, Seven take him, was a drunkard and fond of stating fights that he was scarcely capable of finishing. It was not so unimaginable that he would have got far too into his cups and missed his own fight. It was even less unimaginable that he would start a fight off the Tourney grounds.
"Am I supposed to believe that it is some great accident that Daemon took his place, only for my son to turn up dead?"
"Careful, Lord Hightower. Your brother is not here to shield you from our own impropriety," Lord Corlys said, speaking before Viserys had the opportunity to do so.
Viserys shot him a look, catching a glance from Rhaenys as he did so.
"You believe that there is a connection between Daemon and Ormund?"
"They were injured in the same place at nearly the same time." Lord Hightower said, veins in his neck popping. "I demand justice for my son. He is the heir to my House and he was murdered! If you will not give it to me, I will take it for myself."
"You will…"
"Is this a bad time?"
Viserys closed his eyes, willing himself not to smile.
These were serious matters, after all, even if he did not think so, and it would not do to show his relief at the way Daemon swanned into the Great Hall and interrupted them all. Viserys gestured him forward, ignoring the way Hobart spluttered and muttered.
Laena stepped out from behind Daemon.
She looked at her father first.
And then to her mother.
Finally she looked at Viserys, inclining her head as she bent her knees into a deep curtsy.
Daemon did not even bother.
Pausing just long enough to hold out his arm to Laena, he swaggered to the middle of the room. His lips were quirked into a familiar smile – the one he wore so often when they were kids – and Viserys knew that whatever he was about to say was likely not something was going to go over well. He was already starting to revel in the chaos he would cause, even before he did it.
He was freshly dressed, his clothes and skin now clean of any blood that might have stained him in the aftermath of the Tourney. Laena had changed as well, forgoing her armor and mail for a pretty blue dress.
"How dare you-"
Viserys held up his hand.
"We have come to announce our intentions," Daemon said, completely ignoring Lord Hightower as he put his back to him. Viserys gestured for him to continue, barely containing his relief at the new distraction. "The Lady Laena and I wish to get married."
And just like that, the death of Ormund Hightower was all but forgotten.
From the look on Daemon's face, that was exactly what he intended.
"Do you know his name?"
Ophaella stared down at the man on the table, mouth hidden behind her hand. It was too soon for decay and rot to set in, but the room still smelled of blood and sweat. She did not consider herself the sort that skulked around dead bodies. Sneak, perhaps, if the occasion ever warranted it. Or even snoop, as she had been known to do when she was bored back at Runestone. But she never skulked. Her mother said it was unbecoming. What need was there for deception when they were entitled to information out loud?
Her mother was very rarely arrogant.
Or perhaps she was.
Ophaella had not known her long enough to know for certain.
Now, with each year that passed since her mother's death and with each year she spent with her father, she had begun to realize that there were times that dignity must give way.
And so she found herself in the shadows, practically holding her breath, and listening for the sound of footsteps in the hallways.
"No," Aemond said, stepping up beside her. He peered down at the dead man, tilting his head to the side. "But, I know he is a cousin of mother's."
"A Hightower," Ophaella breathed, voice dropping even further. She looked at up Aemond, face stricken and skin bone-white, before she stepped closer to the body. The silent sisters had not yet arrived to tend to the man, leaving the pair of them alone in the room. For how long, however, she could not say. Others would surely come – the man's kin, other knights, the Queen – and her opportunity to see the wound for herself would be lost. "Is he Lord Hightower's son?"
"Ormund?" Aemond asked, looking down at the man once again. "Maybe. I have never met him."
"Ormund is the heir to the Hightower," Ophaella said, dread settling in her stomach at the very idea. Her education was spotty at best, but she did know enough to know the Houses that spent time in King's Landing. "Aemond…"
"Mother said Ormund was a silly man. She said he spent too much time gambling and whoring and drinki-"
"That does not mean he deserved to die. What do you think will happen when they find out it was me?"
"They will not," Aemond said, voice fierce. "You do not even know if you were the cause. Lord Hightower has other sons. My grandfather has sons. The line will not end, so do not even think it."
"But it's true," Ophaella all but moaned, too deep into her own guilt to listen to Aemond. "The wound is in the exact same place."
Her mind raced almost as quickly as her heart, taking her back and forth and back and forth. She was not old enough to process all that she was meant to process, not old enough to make the decision on whether or not to take a life. She did not know Maybe-Ormund any more than she knew the other knights who attended the Tourney. Foolish he might have been, he did not deserve to die, and she certainly should not have been the one to make that decision. She was only seven.
Seven.
But maybe she did not have a choice.
Maybe she was meant to take him just as she was meant to watch her mother die in front of her.
Seven.
For every rabbit they found, something would need to be returned.
Rabbits.
People.
There was no difference to the Gods.
They took seven.
Seven would need to be returned.
Seven, Rhea Royce.
Six, Ormund Hightower.
Ophaella could only look at the man's face for so long before the guilt seemed libel to drown her in place. She covered her face with her hands and fought against the overwhelming urge to cry.
Who would be next?
"That is just a coincidence, Aella," Aemond whispered, yanking on her hands to pull them back from her face. She fought against him, fully committed to her own pity.
She was being dramatic.
Childish.
Self-centered.
She knew it and yet she could not help it. They were all features she had inherited form her father, no doubt, if all the rumblings around the Red Keep were to be believed.
Targaryen blood, mixed with Royce.
What a disaster that had turned out to be.
"I killed him, Aemond," She said, accepting the conclusion and allowing no more room for dithering.
Ophaella Targaryen killed someone.
"I do not…I don't know how, or what rune I used. But I think it did. I know I did."
"Don't be stupid. You can't…" He started, only to be cut off by the fierce look on her face.
"I am not being stupid," She snapped, stepping around the table. She grabbed Aemond's arm, squeezing it tight enough that he winced. "What if it was meant to be Father? Just like mother? What if it's…" She trailed off, feeling herself becoming overwhelmed again.
"What?"
She reached for her belt, hands shaking worse than ever. The movement traveled up her arms and down her spine until her entire body quivered. She dug around, messing up her muddy clothes, until she found what she was looking for and held it out between them.
The blade glinted in her hand.
"Take it." She held it out to Aemond, hoping he would take it before she needed to throw it at him. "Take it, please. I shouldn't have it."
Aemond stared at it, unmoving.
"Why?"
"Because it was seven. And then six." She stepped closer to him, so close they were practically chest to chest. In the low light, his freckles looked more like flecks of mud and his eyes closer to indigo than their normal violet. "It's five now."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Just take it, please."
"I can't. It belonged to your mother."
"Aemond." She was begging now.
She couldn't do this five more times. She could hardly live with the guilt as it were. What if it was her father next time – as it was supposed to be now? What if it was Helaena or Rhaenyra or Aegon or Jacaerys?
What if the next one was Aemond?
Ophaella shoved the rune knife into his hand and stepped back before he could stop her.
Aemond stared down at the knife, palm open for a moment before he closed it tight.
"You will want it again someday," Aemond said, tucking the knife into his belt.
"No. Throw it in the tides and be done with it. I never should have used it in the first place."
"Aella-"
She shook her head, welled tears finally spilling out onto her cheeks. She looked down at Maybe-Ormund one final time before she stepped back from the table and turned towards the door.
Seven to take.
Six to bury.
Royce or Targaryen blood be damned, she would not be responsible for five, four, three, two, or one.