Chapter Text
The dawn had only just broken when Daemon was rudely awakened for the approach of Old Town’s lord. It was polite punctuality to Daemon’s unspoken invitation, however the stiffness in the prince’s joints screamed at having to leave his bed. Dark Sister’s weight was familiar as Daemon clasped it to his hip with a grim huff. The steel plates of his armor were fastened effortlessly as well by the boy no older than Rhaenyra that he’d never remember.
Heads bowed quickly as he paced evenly toward the sparser line of tents he’d instructed to surround the seat of his brother’s former Hand. The threat of bloodshed was thick in the air as all could only look back and forth toward each other. His soldiers remained armed to his silent satisfaction. While the decision he had to make weighed on his mind, he found the consequences of either choice did not bother him in the slightest. The elation that was finally taking the fight to Otto Hightower had all else in his path leaving his concern.
Balancing himself toward the heavier side of Dark Sister’s tilt, Daemon could only raise an eyebrow in the direction of the five horses that had come to meet him as he halted. Clasping both hands over the pommel of his long sword he near snorted at the scene before him. Caraxes whistled in the distance, the sound more content than his rider’s true irritation. It seemed Caraxes had found a flock of sheep farther from the army’s lines and eaten himself near high on happiness to the typical fair of King’s Landing. Daemon did not begrudge him since the whales he had been catching were anything but the beast’s favorite. Daemon, however, rolled his eyes for his beast upon his mind’s eye that he should save some room for Greens.
Daemon cocked his hip as the less than patient expression lingered on his features to the scrambling of the short and portly man before him. While the true Lord Hightower had never graced King’s Landing while his little brother pulled Viserys’ strings, he was certainly not of the stature Daemon expected. If the man had ever held a sword, it would have been far too many winters ago to have mattered. The absence of the man’s hair line also spoke of his ill-suited appearance. The finest silken tunic stretched ghastly over the lord’s bulging stomach, seeming to try and hide what was blatantly obvious.
Lord Hightower’s horse seemed to have the same level of impatience as Daemon to it’s stuttering under the weight of the man that near fell to the ground in his dismount. The green clad guards that flanked him faired better, but Daemon’s eyes went curiously toward an uncovered blonde headed man beside the one wiping his clothes self-consciously. While the man seemed barely younger than Daemon, he was no less adorned in far more fine materials then that of his guards.
“Lord Hightower, I presume.” Daemon snorted, unable to keep the morbid mirth from his tone. His men chocked back their own laughter toward such a dismount. Yet the younger man swathed in green with the tower behind him stamped upon his chest hurried to the portly man’s side, nonetheless.
“Prince Daemon, to what do we owe this honor? Please, there is no need to garrison so far from the safety of our walls. We remain the most loyal house of the kingdom after all. Please, do tell me how I may be of assistance to you.” Lord Hightower near squeaked as he bowed in lopsided fashion that had the ostentatious golden encrusted emerald at his throat bobbing in time with his second chin. Daemon considered the man a moment in a silence that raised the hackles of all present. Yet the Prince found his head tilting as he contemplated the cowardice that stood before him.
Sheep or not, Caraxes would have alerted him if the man had raised his lesser lords to his aid. Yet there remained no opposing swords pointed in his direction. The younger man holding his Lord upright was recipient of a far to familiar pat under Daemon’s scrutiny. The man’s name was lost to the Prince, but his identity need only be confirmed with a single glance over his own shoulder.
“Gwayne Hightower, My Prince.” His general whispered to him privately.
Otto Hightower’s brat whispered something into his uncle’s ear as Daemon found his jaw clenching and Caraxes released a whistle that finally spoke of a warning, just not for him.
“Ah, this must be the boy then…the one that claimed to be betrothed to my lovely niece. It has been quite a moment since that treachery, but do not think I have forgotten.” Daemon found his lips teasing as the elder Lord Hightower’s face reddened. Whether he did so in embarrassment or anger, Daemon could not tell. But still the prince surveyed the impact his words had. The three guards behind the men shuffled uncomfortably as their eyes swept the line of slowly relaxing battle clad soldiers behind Daemon’s nonchalance.
“Well…my brother Otto was never the best with keeping organized despite his position.” Lord Hightower tried to chuckle, but the sweat that graced his collar belied his true state. “It was a true service that was done in finding the truth of that matter. We thank you, Prince Daemon for righting that error swiftly so that we may carry on about without such confusion.”
Daemon, however, did not bother to truly listen to Lord Hightower, instead he wondered if the man would soil himself if he took so much as a single step forward. Daemon found a disappointment crawling from the knot in his gut that cried for vengeance. The blood lust that sat buried in Daemon’s soul cried foul as he had expected far more of a threat than he faced. Old Town was being surrendered far too easily for the man’s clenching hands.
Daemon wondered absently why but a moment as he could only continue to coldly stare at the elder man’s attempts to laugh nervously. His nephew did not release his right arm as Gwayne seemed to be the only thing holding the coward from running. Daemon doubted he’d have to kill the Lord if he chose to run, for his heart may give out within the first yard to the unfamiliar exercise. Viserys was not the only victim of being spoiled in whatever position Otto Hightower wished it seemed.
“I wonder…” Daemon started as a vicious laugh took hold of him that made all around him step back in question of his sanity.
“You were not meant to be here, were you?” The truth in Daemon’s sudden realization sent a thrill through him as Gwayne’s face paled and his jaw tightened. Old Town was of little consequence to Otto, it seemed by the state of his brother. It had probably been no more than a source of income for the past Hand in many long years. Since the man’s war to oust Daemon had been fought mostly through words at this point, a shape began to form for the prince. The silence that dragged on between the three men saw a slight wind to ruffle their hair alone as no one dared move.
It was clever, Daemon lamented. However, even if Daemon had not seen that Old Town held little consequence for Otto Hightower, his moves no less covered the routes the former Hand would use to continue causing trouble. Hightower’s army was myth by the look of his disgrace of a brother before Daemon. Without his source of income, Daemon wondered how long Otto could hold on to his hiding. Lannister was dragging his feet openly to join the army behind him, as he had before the march had even begun. He would be the only house Hightower could turn to then, but Daemon had already uncovered such an ally long ago. And now with Old Town about to have a new Lord, Daemon doubted Lannister was stupid enough to risk his own hold. Keeping Rhaenyra and her claim to the Iron Throne from Otto was still proving to be the turning point in the man’s plans. For nothing he did from that moment onward would have any sway without her, or Baelon behind it.
Driftmark was pacified for now. The Greyjoy’s were turned toward a new goal, and the north men could focus on supporting the oaths they had sworn and provide aid to the Stepstones as well if need be. Otherwise, they remained an army upon his shores to contend with as he sent reinforcements to the Stepstones. Without the Vale’s men, Otto Hightower had nothing but words now. That his son stood in front of Daemon as well…It stung to have to call off the burning of the tantalizingly close city before him not to play into Otto Hightower’s rumors, but Daemon satisfied himself by turning his attention to his enemy’s son.
Dragons were quicker than ravens. Daemon had turned the army toward Old Town and joined them quicker than Otto could get word to his son to leave. Of that the prince was certain, and it was such a victory that a smile began to take form across the weary prince regent. No longer was Daemon reacting to threats but created them it seemed. It was a delicious irony that saw him to take a step forward.
“Well, your hospitality is accepted then. Though I do hope you don’t fret that I have spent more time in the Iron Island’s of late. I find their…methods might hold some influence.” Sacking Hightower’s hold would have to do for now. The portly man before him wouldn’t survive the heart attack of such anyway. Whether that was a story he would spread, or the truth, the man’s fate would be carried out by the end of the night at least. However, that left Gwayne. The defiant glare that met Daemon’s returned gaze was entirely too blatant. Though it reminded Daemon of Rhaenyra’s determination to be the youngest dragon rider in history. She’d worn much the same look when her father had told her no.
The order was not subtle enough to confuse his generals as they commanded his men forward to Lord Hightower’s stuttering. Many of them started running in renewed vigor to see what kind of treasures they could uncover in a lord’s castle, and who would be the first to arrive there. Though Lord Hightower could only cling to his nephew as if he would faint to the heavy clattering of armored feet. Gwayne’s eyes did not leave Daemon’s however, as the prince cocked his head once more in thought. He could keep the man alive. It would prove an advantage in tracking down the real Lord Hightower Daemon was after. However, nearly every inch of Daemon could remember Rhaenyra’s outrage to the supposed betrothal. That alone had Daemon twitching to cut the man’s head off.
The struggle seemed to play out on his face as Gwayne Hightower could only wait quietly for whatever Daemon decided. The arrow that came from the distant forest line toward Daemon nearly relieved some of the prince’s tension. Side stepping the telling scream upon the wind, Daemon motioned his head toward the tree line for the sad attempt at of an assassin. No doubt a last-ditch effort Gwayne had put in place since his uncle chose then to faint.
“Take him. I’ve not had time to get a name day present for Rhaenyra after all.” Daemon ordered, relief settling into his spine that finally he could go home.