"Here," Tobirama said, holding out a scroll.
Itama accepted it, eyeing his brother and his sister-in-law with confusion.
"Your brother has been quite persistent about learning the sealing arts," Mito informed him with a small smile, as if that explained everything.
Itama snorted. "Persistent" was an understatement. His brother's voracious appetite for knowledge matched his obsessive personality
The poor Uzumaki had been pestered with questions the entire trip from Uzushiogakure to the Senju settlement. It had only continued after wedding Hashirama, making Itama worry that in between settling into the clan and all its members, becoming its matriarch, having to study all its affairs and relations Tobirama was claiming more of her time than her own newly-wedded husband.
The clan had rejoiced at their arrival, seeing it as a reaffirmation of their bond with their geographically—and emotionally—distant cousins, and as a sign of good things to come for the main family.
Such as the growing bump on Mito's stomach.
"This is a product of that persistence," the woman in question finished, gesturing.
With an over-exaggerated sigh he bent down and unrolled the scroll on the ground. Channeling chakra, after receiving their nods of approval, the seal released four items.
"What are they?" Itama asked, inspecting the seal work on them. "Fuinjutsu-enhanced shin guards and arm braces? Some kind of reinforcement?"
"Why don't you put them on?" Mito suggested, a glint in her eyes.
Wary, Itama hesitated for a moment before complying, strapping the arm braces on first before bending over to thread the shin guards on.
"Now what?"
"Channel your chakra into them," Tobirama instructed, with a sharp gesture.
Itama brought his hands together and began channeling chakra into the four corners of his body. His chakra flowed rough and choppy, but the seals lapped it all up.
"Stop," his brother ordered. "That's enough."
"Why are you staring at me like that?" Itama asked, his eyes flittering between his brother and sister-in-law.
"Give it another… oh… three seconds," Mito suggested, her tone raising Itama's hackles.
"Three seconds for wha—ah!"
Itama yelped as his arms unexpectedly felt ten times heavier, dragging his torso forward. He tried to move his feet, but they were rooted to the ground, as if shackled. He crashed into the ground, unable to catch himself before hitting the ground.
"Tobi!" he yelled, a mess of limbs on the ground. "Get these things off me!"
Mito covered her mouth with her sleeve, turning away, but Itama still caught the crinkle at the corner of her eye. Tobirama smirked before crouching down beside him.
"Enjoying my gift, brother?" he asked, index finger reaching forward to tap the seal on Itama's left hand.
"D-d-damn you," Itama grit out, swiping his now free hand out in a futile attempt to slap the older teen.
"Walk around the clearing," Tobirama suggested after disabling the other seal and stepping back. Mito gave him one last amused look before gingerly walking away.
Itama pushed himself off the ground, emitting a string of curses under his breath that Tobirama steadfastly ignored, and acquiesced.
Grunting, he lifted one leg with all his might, pushing himself forward with the other. He managed half a step before lifting the next.
Halfway to the treeline, the seals deactivated one by one, making Itama jerk as the pressure vanished.
Don't fret, I tested these seals thoroughly—with Mito's input," Tobirama assured. "Once you figure out the right amount of chakra, they'll make a great training tool for a fighter like you."
Itama gave his words some thought, cocking his head. Then he took a deep breath before channeling his chakra again, this time must less.
The seals on the equipment lit up, the increased pull now much more manageable.
With Tobirama supervising, Itama started with a slow walk, gradually speeding up to a jog, then breaking into a sprint. The faster he moved, the quicker the seals drained his chakra. Eventually he realized that maintaining a somewhat stable constant trickle of chakra flowing into the seals was the way forward.
"Spar with me," Itama demanded, strapping on the vambraces and raising his guard.
Tobirama's punch came without warning.
An hour later, Itama was once again sprawled on the forest floor, panting. His brother, hardly a hair out of place, extended a hand to him
"What do you think?" Tobirama asked as they headed back home.
"Prank aside," Itama muttered, shooting his brother a glare. "It's... not bad. I'll keep using it in training and see how it goes."
"Good," Tobirama said with a nod. "You are uniquely suited for it."
"What about you?" Itama asked, raising an eyebrow.
"I made a set for myself and brother," Tobirama confirmed, "but we will use it sparingly. You understand why, I hope."
Itama pondered his words, before nodding.
Both of his brothers were of course excellent at taijutsu and bukijutsu, but their respective specialties lied in ninjutsu, with Tobirama also delving into genjutsu and now fuinjutsu. Being Senju meant they had bodies inherently strong in yang energy and they needed to focus more on cultivating yin energy to balance it out.
Itama was primarily focused on physical combat and needed to strengthen his body as much as possible, especially since his ability to enhance it with precise chakra control was limited.
Additionally, the seals required chakra and Itama was running a surplus in the clan's caloric budget for each member. The techniques he could perform, like the kawarimi or henge, were basic and required little chakra. Kawarimi involved latching onto an object with chakra and yanking it toward you with a bit of chakra manipulation, while henge involved altering the appearance of your chakra. He could combine the two by infusing his chakra into leaves and briefly making them look like himself, but that was the extent of his abilities.
It was a mere drop in the ocean compared to a single one of Hashirama's landscape-altering Mokuton techniques or Tobirama's water dragons.
With that in mind, Itama channeled a fraction of his previous chakra into the seals, immediately feeling the weight as if he had suddenly gained half his body weight. Clearing his throat, he continued forward.
"Just don't overexert yourself, brother," Tobirama cautioned as they parted—Tobirama heading to the smithy, and Itama to wash.
— — —
Over time, Itama would begin to notice certain parallels between himself and Daeron.
Daeron and Itama shared similarities, both being third sons to absentee fathers—dead in Itama's case, and previously dead but now alive again in the confusing chronology of Daeron's memories.
Tobirama and Aemond were both exceedingly serious and devoted to their families.
In contrast to the second sons, Aegon and Hashirama were both decidedly unserious. A Westerosi might say they were "fond of merriment." But while Aegon was a whoremonger and incorrigible drunkard, Hashirama was... a ruthless shinobi with over a thousand kills to his name.
One major contrast in their lives that always tipped Itama off to not being in his own body was the sensation of his body being sunken down into a luxurious featherbed, rather than the firm support of a tatami mat.
Daeron's eyes fluttered open, his hands rubbing the sleep from them, allowing Itama to take in the view of the bedroom
This room was different from the glimpses he'd seen before. When Daeron moved to the window and threw open the shutters, the reason became clear: they were in a different town.
Daeron lingered at the window, taking in the view. Itama seized the moment to observe the city's walls through Daeron's eyes. The city seemed to be built along the coast on two hills—no, three, counting the one where the castle perched, its red bricks extending down the slope.
Not nearly as high up as the other home though.
Emotions surged through Daeron and into Itama's consciousness—sadness, fear, resignation, and then determination. Whatever thoughts Daeron might be pondering stayed hidden, leaving Itama to speculate.
A knock at the door startled Daeron, making him turn.
"My prince," came the muffled voice through the wooden door, as the body crossed the room.
"Uncle Gwayne," Daeron's voice said, lips curling into a smile as a sense of contentment washed over Itama at the sight of the auburn-haired man.
Gwayne mirrored the smile, his expression warm as he held a large scroll.
Two servants accompanied him, carrying trays of food and a pitcher of wine. They stepped aside to let the three of them enter.
"We have received a raven from Honey Holt," Gwayne stated, after they had taken a seat at his table. "Your belongings are on their final stretch of their journey to Old Town."
"Good," the boy nodded, though a brief pang of trepidation flickered within him.
Gwayne leaned back in his seat, giving him a once over.
"Are you sure you would not prefer going by carriage, with a proper armed escort?"
"We have discussed this, uncle," Daeron replied, crossing his arms.
"You would give the Reachlords a chance to display the bounty of the Reach, and the smallfolk a rare glimpse of their beloved prince."
"No," Daeron affirmed. "Those are my mother's words tumbling out of your lips, uncle."
"Very well," the Hightower chuckled. "Do not fault me for merely doing my duty to my queen."
Daeron shook his head and began to dig into his rasher of bacon, his uncle following his lead.
After they had broken their fast, the servants had tidied the table and left the prince's apartment, Gwayne unfurled the scroll he had brought with him on the table.
"Which route have you planned for me, uncle?" Daeron asked, excitement coloring his voice. Gwayne put his finger on King's Landing, before dragging it down south-west.
"Companies of Hightower guards have been stationed at Risley Glade, Cider Hall, Dustonburry and Highgarden respectively, and accompanying them are members of the dragonkeepers. They will safeguard you and Tessarion when you're most vulnerable."
The boy nodded, and Itama mentally smiled at the mention of the dragon.
"For your first leg of the journey you must find the Mander. Fly along the Blackwater Rush until you arrive at this bend, at the foot of the mountain located there," Gwayne instructed, circling an area. "The headwaters of the Mander spring from it. You can lay camp, have Tessarion hunt in the Kingswood over here, and rest up for the next day."
Daeron nodded diligently, bringing a smile to his uncle's face as he traced his finger along the blue line of the Mander—a different river from the Honeywine Itama remembered.
"What about Tumbleton?" the boy asked. "House… Footly?"
"Correct," Gwayne approved with a nod. "House Footly have already sided with the blacks, unfortunately, so you ought not pay them a visit."
"Same as the Caswells?" Daeron added, gesturing at Bitterbridge, the next big settlement on the map along the Mander."
"Correct," Gwayne repeated himself, with a frown. "Take off from the hills and have Tessarion push herself along the Mander to your second stop: Cider Hall, located where the Mander meets the Cockleswent, betwixt the two. You must not confuse it with Longtable, which as you can see is on the southern bank after the merging of the Mander and the Blueburn," his uncle said, giving him a serious look. "As you well know, the Fossoway are kin, they will be most pleased to receive you and Tessarion."
The Targaryen acknowledged his words with a nod.
"Dustonburry will be a convenient stop for you, located as it is along the Mander. Lord Unwin is one of the strongest Green allies in the Reach, with three castles and their demesnes under his house. He normally rules from Starpike, which is deeper south in the Dornish marches, but he will host you in Dustonburry." Gwayne explained.
"Cider Hall and Dustonbury are the last major strongholds before Highgarden. The Tyrells are neutral—scheming and craven as always. Even a century after your ancestor raised them, they still sit uneasily in the Gardeners' halls. Lord Ormund will meet you there. The sight of Tessarion should remind them of their... precarious position."
Perhaps, Itama thought, as the discussion between uncle and nephew progressed allowed him to further connect dots. Or they will take this opportunity to humble their powerful vassal.
The memories of Daeron's life trickled into him in reverse order. Unlike the two before him, Itama knew how this would end for the young prince—with a blunt force to the side of the head.
Any attempts to shout out his thoughts and make himself heard that way had been fruitless; information only went in one direction.
Most dreams were mundane—flashes of walking down streets, ascending and descending countless stairs, reading scrolls in a vast, dusty library, or sparring with Hightower knights.
The last one was interesting, to a point - like watching children fight in slow motion, or sparring with his hands tied behind his offered a chance to devise creative solutions for combat under limitations.
The library visits were often fascinating; though the cultures of Westeros and the Elemental Countries differed greatly, human nature remained the same. Through Daeron's eyes, reading about Westerosi history—kings of old, wars, diplomacy, siegecraft, and strategy—was a far better use of his sleeping hours than idle dreaming.
The worst were the visits to the Starry Sept, where Itama was trapped, staring at the inside of Daeron's eyelids for what felt like an eternity, until the boy finally woke.
Ser Gwayne bid farewell, citing some errands to run for his father with their retinue.
Daeron's feet carried them through the keep's hallways, past servants and guards who paused to bow to their prince.
The boy's eyes wandered wistfully, taking in the keep as they moved aimlessly through it.
Take a good look, Daeron. You will not live to see it again.
Turning a corner, they came across a knight in shiny armor and a white cloak, standing guard in front of a door.
"My prince," the knight greeted with a nod.
"Ser Rickard," Daeron returned.
The knight stepped aside to let them pass, then took his post inside.
Two beds had been placed in the room, toys strewn across a carpet in one corner.
A nursery, Itama realized, as Daeron approached the two beds as quietly as he could.
Two toddlers, silver haired, laid peacefully resting.
Daeron closed his eyes, and Itama braced himself as a surge of emotions overwhelmed him.
"One of the children, the smaller of the two, blinked groggily, her silver eyes catching sight of him as she stretched a tiny arm above her head."
The boy reached out and rubbed the child's back, making a low shushing sound.
Behind them, Itama was aware of Ser Rickard's armor clattering, as he made way for the door to open.
Daeron turned, and in walked another knight in white cape, followed by a silver-haired woman. Itama noted her ethereal beauty, the strands of her hair cascading down her shoulders, yet her eyes held a distant, almost haunted vacancy.
She joined Daeron at his side.
"Good morrow, sweet sister," he whispered.
"Little brother," she replied, sending him a furtive smile but not making eye-contact.
They shared a comfortable moment of silence, simply observing the two children.
"They used to be this small," the boy said, lifting his hands in gesture. "And now they are this big. I shudder to think how big they will be next time I see them, Helaena."
"Next time you meet she will be large indeed," Helaena stated, raising a hand as if to touch her daughter before thinking better of it.. "Swear to me, dear brother, that you shall always protect her."
"Of course," Daeron said without hesitation. It was rare for Heleana to demand anything from anyone, let alone something that was already his duty and intention. "I promise to fight for their claim over those Strong bastards! For Aegon's rights! And yours, as his queen."
"It is enough that you fight for my daughter, Daeron. Take all your love for us and give it to her."
Itama felt the boy's confusion echo within him, a shared unease settling like a stone in their chests. This was not how he had envisioned his first encounter with Daeron's sister, and the weight of her cryptic words left him unsettled.
"Sister... I know not if love can be marshaled as one would command an army."
She smiled at him, and in what was clearly uncharacteristic of her, patted his shoulder and made strong eye contact.
"You are not like Aegon, or father. You will make a great father one day and all your children will adore you. Even those not of your own line."
Her piece said, she quickly retracted her hand, almost as if burnt.
"Just beware of the crashing water, my third born brother. It shall sweep away the crimson leaves."
What?
A cry from the other bed caught their attention then, and Helaena went over to pick the larger child up.
Daeron did not seem to find anything strange with his sister's cryptic words, used to her antics as he was. And so Itama also let go, though he felt a pang knowing the boy would perish before having kids.
The male Targaryen eventually took his leave, making his way back to his rooms to do his final packing, which included not just foodstuffs servants had left for him in his absence, but also tools necessary for sleeping in the outdoors.
Another person graced his chambers, and this time it was a female looking version of the man Daeron had referred to as uncle, followed by another dark-haired night in white cloaking.
"Mother," he called out, confirming Itama's suspicion.
"Oh my boy," she exclaimed, and Itama felt awkward. Butsumu had raised him and his brothers, with the closest they had had to a maternal figure being their auntie Matsuyo. She had certainly never fussed about Itama like this woman was doing over Daeron.
Daeron reveled in her affection, but soon the urge to present himself as a man, not a child, took hold. Itama could sense the boy's desire to prove his maturity, especially in the presence of Ser Criston.
"Oh you will absolutely love Old Town," the queen had said, once she had gotten over the part about being parted from her son. "It is a clean city, its people pious and orderly. There is certainly no 'Flea Bottom', with all its debauchery and filth. Our family has ruled it well for millennia."
For an hour, his mother regaled him with tales of Old Town, recounting her cherished haunts with a fondness that shone through her words. She also informed him about various family members and links to the other houses, such as the Redwynes, he would need to respect and honor.
"You will be our ambassador," she said, brushing his hair. "Through you they must see the bright future Aegon's reign will bring."
"I understand, mother."
Servants once again came and brought his portmanteaus with them, moving towards the courtyard, where two men in Hightower livery awaited. The servants attached the luggages to their horses, before making themselves scarce.
A third man approached them, the reins of Daeron's own favored steed held in his hands.
Yet before he could depart, there were farewells to be made—to the court, his kin, and the king himself.
A man with a clubfoot limped towards them, his uneven gait supported by a sturdy cane. His face was marked by a genial smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Prince Daeron, your grace," he greeted, with a genial smile.
"Lord Larys," the boy acknowledged.
"Lord Strong," his mother also greeted with a slight nod, her tone stiff.
The man's smile widened just slightly, an unsettling glint in his eyes that set Itama's nerves on edge.
Before Lord Strong could say more, two silver-haired figures approached. One was clad in dark leathers with a menacing presence, his eye patched, while the other looked soft and had a sway in his steps that betrayed a state of inebriation.
"Brother, mother," the taller and sharp-chinned one greeted, reaching his hand out. Daeron met him, and they shared a warrior's greeting, clasping each other's forearms.
The other one rolled his eyes and grabbed his other shoulder, the smell of women's perfume and wine wafting off of him, made stronger when he opened his mouth.
"Excited are you, buddy?"
"Yes, I am," Daeron admitted. "I look forward to doing my duty to our house, brother."
"Bah," the man dismissed with a careless wave. "You're beginning to sound just like Aemond."
"And why is that so bad, Aegon" the now named Aemond responded, narrowing his eye into a slit.
Aegon smirked, as if to say it was self-evident.
"Enough," their mother interjected with a stern gaze. "Do not mar your brother's farewell with quarrels. You may not have the chance to see him again for some time."
Helaena appeared, coming down the staircase and escorted by her knight from before. In the light of the outdoors, and given how she put her hand briefly on her tummy, Itama realized that she must be pregnant with another babe. The other two must have been left in the nursery, he concluded.
"I shall miss you all, fiercely," Daeron stated, voice not quite steady.
"And us you, my boy," his mother stated.
"His Grace! The King Viserys!" a herald announced, as a withered-up looking older man came limping along on his cane. Surrounding him were presumably the members of the so called small council, the equivalent to the daimyo's ministers. Grandest of all, equivalent to a prime minister, was the tall auburn-haired figure of his grandfather, the Lord-Hand, escorting his father.
Aemond cast a critical glance at Daeron, while his mother went off to help their father make his way.
"I expect you to learn and pose a challenge in the yard, next time we meet."
"Of course," Daeron replied with a bristle of determination, his posture radiating the resolve that Itama knew would one day see him commanding armies.
"Here, let your first samples of Old Town's delights be on me," Aegon said with a smirk, shoving a pouch of coins into Daeron's hands. Daeron, caught off guard, fumbled to stow it away.
"Remember your vow, third-born." Helaena implored, suddenly gripping his hands in hers and bringing her face close to his.
"O-of course," Daeron said, her erratic actions surprising the all three of them. "I-I vowed it already, sister."
Her crazed eyes flickered from eye to eye, searching for something.
For me? Itama wondered, sharing Daeron's bafflement.
"Very well," she responded finally, ripping her hands off and stepping back. "You are part of a whole, one vow is enough."
"Hels!" Aegon hissed, rounding on her. "Stop being weird."
"My son," the king said, finally having made it to his children.
Itama could not tell his exact age but he was older than Daeron's matter by far. Half his face was covered by a mask, and the other half exposed a withered husk of a face. He carried a faint odor of spoiled meat, and as he spoke, Daeron had to fight back the urge to retch.
This is the king? Itama wondered in disbelief.
"Your Grace," Daeron responded, his voice subdued. "Grandfather."
"To think, Otto, that my youngest progeny, little Daeron, has grown up and is to fly off on his own grand adventures," the king remarked, in nostalgic good humor, his gaze turning distant. "Where has the time gone, I wonder…"
"I am confident young Daeron will flourish among our kin in the south, Your Grace," his grandfather assured. "The Reach is the home of gallantry. He will make your house proud and return a knight before long."
"A fierce knight like your uncle Daemon," the king chuckled, his words causing a ripple through the crowd. "Our grandfather, King Jaehaerys, personally knighted him at sixteen."
The Lord-Hand's lips tightened before he responded.
"Mayhaps your son will also prove worthy of being knighted by a king at sixteen."
The king wheezed a laugh at that comment, patting the Hand's shoulder as if it were a jest, indifferent to the lack of shared amusement
The king's gaze turned to Daeron, sizing him up as if seeing him for the young man he was becoming for the first time.
"Mayhaps," his father finally conceded. "Farewell, boy," he said, before departing back into the keep.
Other members of the court offered their well-wishes, but Daeron's spirits were clearly dampened by his father's lackluster farewell.
Ser Gwayne made his appearance, riding alongside a guard of twenty Hightower knights.
Your final glimpse, Itama thought, as he took in his first view of the red castle as a whole from without. The towering red stone walls of the Red Keep loomed, its sharp turrets piercing the sky and casting long shadows.
Finally, Daeron mounted his horse. Ser Gwayne, the twenty guards, and two servants formed a protective circle around him as they exited the gates
They rode down the street, the city's denizen making way for the armored escort. As they crossed into an open square, they turned right onto a broad street that bisected the city between two tall hills. The hill they approached was crowned by a massive domed building.
A faint but rancid smell hit Daeron's nostrils and propagated into Itama's own senses, only growing larger as they ascended higher up the hill. On the right-hand base of the hill a sprawling maze of narrow and twisting alleys snaked between haphazardly constructed buildings. The structures were crammed together, and leaned precariously against one another, with roofs of uneven tiles and walls patched with mismatched material.
Thankfully, the air cleared as they entered the massive construction. The enormous gates stood open, revealing a vast, cavernous interior.
A group of robed men and women, holding staffs emerged from one of the tunnels. At the sight of Daeron, a few of them broke away and disappeared into another passage.
The sound of beastly roars reached Daeron's ears, but it was not until he heard a specific roar that he dismounted.
From around a bend a dragon appeared, lumbering forward in a staggered gait, like a man crawling on his hands and knees.
The blue she-dragon let out a mighty roar, jutting her copper-crested head forward. Daeron grinned as he ran to Tessarion, embracing her head. He stroked her copper crest, laughing at the contented purr she emitted
This is always my favorite part, Itama thought, his feelings completely mirroring that of his counterpart. Where his began and Daeron's ended was not clear.
The keepers brought out a saddle, and with Daeron's encouragement Tessarion allowed them to place it on her back and fasten the straps under her bronze chest. With the help of the Hightower men, the portmanteaus were strapped to the saddle and secured to prevent them from jerking around or damaging Tessarion's scales or injuring Daeron.
"Remember the flight plan, my prince!" Gwayne called out, him and the men having given them a wide berth.
"I will, uncle!" Daeron repleid, just as Tessarion picked up her pace.
"Soves!"
With a first bounce, then a second, and finally a third, the dragon burst out of the entrance, tucking her feet and taking flight.
Tessarion flapped her wings, lifting them higher and higher. They headed toward the open sea before Daeron guided her to turn around, allowing the city to spread out before them
Yes, let them hear you, Itama thought, as Tessarion let out her own roaring farewell.
Daeron had her take two more laps around the city, one that had them fly so close to the red keep that Itama swore he could make out the shutters of their specific room, before breaking away and flying along the river whose mouth that King's Landing had been built along - the Blackwater Rush.
Daeron twisted in the saddle, providing them with a view of the city and the sea behind it. He continued to gaze at his coastal home as it dwindled smaller and smaller, until it was just a dot on the horizon.