TGW: Chapter Seven (pt. 1)

Editing the other half of the chapter is taking longer than expected. Here's the first half though.

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Chapter Seven (pt. 1)

"I will allow you to discover your own destiny, but only if you follow the paths I have set."

— God Emperor Leto II

…

The morning was bright and cool as Daeron Targaryen tugged the saddle’s leather straps taut around Lord Ormund Hightower’s prized destrier, murmuring softly to keep the animal calm. The bay gelding snorted, shifting slightly on its hooves as he worked, but Daeron’s hands were practised, his motions sure. He could smell the mix of hay and leather, tinged with the petrichor of the nearby Honeywine. In the distance, the faint murmur of early morning activity in Oldtown reached his ears—a trader’s call, the creak of wagon wheels, the occasional whistle of a city guard.

Tending Lord Ormund’s mount was one of the prince’s daily duties as the lord’s squire, a task he completed without question. To most boys his age, saddling and brushing down a horse might seem a dull chore for stable boys and attendants, but Daeron thought differently. With a smile, he untangled the horse’s mane and polished the saddle, ensuring it gleamed as bright as any knight’s armour. Lord Ormund, for all his gruff ways, valued his mount highly, and Daeron took pride in his duties, however menial.

When he’d finished with the saddle, he paused to pat the horse’s neck and lifted his head to take in his surroundings. The morning light cast a soft glow over the nearby stone walls of the Hightower, towering over Oldtown like an ancient guardian. As he stood there, catching his breath, he saw his uncle Gwayne approaching from the training grounds, signalling for Daeron to join him. Daeron took up his practice sword then from where it rested against a low wall and trotted over.

A man of stern discipline but warm eyes, Gwayne was the only family Daeron had truly come to know in this place, and his presence provided the sort of steady companionship Daeron often craved. His uncle’s calm strength was a reminder of the duty and restraint that defined their house—qualities Daeron aspired to embody, though he often fell short, his mind always trailing back to the image of his brother, Aemond, and the fierce, unyielding spirit that seemed to burn eternally within him.

Today’s lesson was with sword and shield, a more restrained art than Daeron might have liked. The longsword he favoured was resting against the barracks wall, waiting for him to return, but his uncle insisted on well-roundedness. 

“Steady, Daeron,” Gwayne said as they locked shields. “Don’t let the shield slip. Your strength is in the block as much as in the swing.”

“Yes, uncle,” Daeron replied, gritting his teeth as he took the brunt of Gwayne’s next strike.

They trained for nearly an hour, till the prince’s arms burned and his back ached from exertion. Yet, just as they finished and Daeron took a gulp of water from a skin, a loud commotion sounded from the edge of the training grounds. He turned, noticing a small group of commoners gathering near the gate. Most wore expressions of shock or awe, their voices a low hum of excitement and fear. One of the townsmen, an older man with a patchy beard, caught sight of Daeron and Gwayne and made his way over.

"Lordling," he said, slightly breathless. "They say a dragon's come—big as a mountain, copper and green, with scales like bedrock. Landed in the fields beyond the walls, it did. Near swallowed up the whole sky when it flew over."

Daeron’s heart skipped a beat. Copper and green, a dragon vast as a mountain—that could only mean one thing.

“Vhagar,” he murmured, barely able to keep the smile from creeping across his face. He felt a surge of excitement rise within him, an energy that made his limbs feel light as air. He barely registered the commoner’s words of thanks before the man turned to leave, his eyes still wide with awe.

"Daeron!" Gwayne’s voice was stern, cutting through his thoughts. "You’re not about to abandon your duties, are you?"

“No, Uncle,” Daeron replied, though his thoughts were far from obedience. Aemond is here, he thought, trying to contain his anticipation. My brother has come to Oldtown.

The young prince made a decision then, and with a respectful nod to his uncle, he said, “Though, with your leave, Uncle, I’d go and greet my brother.”

Gwayne raised an eyebrow, studying him for a moment before he let out a low sigh and waved a hand in dismissal. “Fine, then. Go,” he grunted. “But remember, you’ll have twice the training tomorrow to make up for today’s liberties.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” Daeron replied, his voice tinged with excitement. He barely waited for Gwayne’s nod before he turned and raced towards the outer gates of the city. He dashed through Oldtown’s winding streets, weaving between startled townsfolk who turned to watch the silver-haired boy racing past. Aemond’s letters had been sparse, his duties demanding, and though Daeron understood the responsibilities that weighed on his elder brother, he missed him dearly. 

He reached the fields, gasping as he took in the sight before him. Vhagar towered above the landscape, her scales like aged iron, a living fortress of ancient might and beauty. She rested on the ground, wings partially furled, her golden eyes scanning the crowd with an almost human intelligence. 

And Daeron he saw him—Aemond, standing some distance away from the old queen, tall and proud, the wind tugging at his long silver hair, his expression one of calm authority. The older prince’s gaze was steady, piercing, even as he spoke to a member of the City Watch. There was an ease in his stance that felt entirely natural.

“Aemond!” Daeron called, his voice carrying across the field as he raced over. His brother turned, his expression softening as he met Daeron’s eyes, a flicker of warmth breaking through his otherwise stoic demeanour.

“Daeron,” Aemond greeted when Daeron came near, his voice low but unmistakably pleased. The older prince reached out, clasping the younger’s shoulder with a firm hand. “You look well.”

Daeron flushed with pride, standing a little taller. Then realising something, he glanced at Vhagar before turning back to Aemond. “Does this mean you won’t be staying long?” he asked. “You didn’t send a raven informing us to prepare for your arrival.”

“Unfortunately, I won’t,” Aemond admitted, his tone carrying a hint of regret. “There is much that still demands my attention, and I have come for little more than a passing visit to settle some matters.” He glanced out toward Oldtown’s walls, his eyes distant for a moment before focusing back on Daeron. “And you, little brother—how has Ormund been treating you? Is he working you hard?”

Daeron nodded, eager to share all he’d done, all he’d learned. Still, his curiosity won over his excitement. “Where are you going?” he asked and Aemond answered.

“The Eyrie.”

“...Why are you here then if you are still heading north?” 

A mirthful smile creased Aemond’s face as he ruffled Daeron’s hair. “Besides the errand I came to fulfil, I am also here to see, Lord Ormund. I was hoping he could lend you to me for a short while.”

Daeron was so surprised by the declaration that, for a moment, he forgot to respond. “...You want me to come with you?” he asked eventually.

“Of course,” Aemond nodded, much to Daeron’s growing elation. 

“You and Tessarion both. It should be fun.”