Chapter Text
When speaking of the two Hightower daughters, no one would disagree that they were gracious and generous young women, though whispers had always characterized the eldest of the two as a bit unrestrained. You had inherited the silver tongue of your father and the open mind of your mother, an interesting blend indeed. After the death of Lady Hightower, however, you were seldom described as anything other than reclusive and undiplomatic.
While the Hand’s heart was scarred by the passing of his wife, he knew that she would want him to move on from his melancholic state. He desired the same for you and even if his wife was always much more adept at speaking with their daughters, as the ways of women were lost on him, he would try nonetheless. Approaching your chambers early one evening, he knocked lightly on your door and awaited a response. He heard movement from within before your voice called to invite your visitor in.
“Lord Father,” you greeted once he appeared.
Taking in your appearance, your countenance was unreadable, but the paleness of your skin and the darkness beneath your eyes told him all he needed to know. The vials he’d asked the maester to send you remained untouched, much to his vexation.
“Daughter, I hope the day has found you well.”
You looked off to the side before replying, “As well as days past.”
He hummed in response, picking up one of the delicate vials and examining it, “Perhaps this would offer you some relief?”
“I never claimed to need relief,” you replied sharply.
He cleared his throat, setting the vial down gently, “very well.”
Moving to situate himself on the edge of your bed, he looked up at you. “Won’t you sit with me?”
You did as he asked, hands resting in your lap, gaze trained on the floor.
“I wish to speak with you regarding your mother,” when you did not respond, he continued, “four moons have passed since she left this world-”
“I know how long we have been without her,” you interrupted, “For over twenty years, she was my mother. Surely you do not believe that four turns of the moon is time enough to forget her.”
“Of course not, my dear. I do not doubt that you and I both will take our memories of her with us to the grave.”
Quiet filled the room and you considered how your father’s memories of your mother differed from your own. He looked over at you as a tear dropped from your cheek.
“I only wish to say that it would hurt her to see you like this,” he added, leaving out whether or not it hurt him, too.
You could not help the anger that bubbled up in your chest at his words, “do not purport to know her thoughts and feelings.” Standing up, you continued, “you were always too busy tending to your affairs to notice her pain. You hurt her with your ceaseless absence, by putting prestige and duty before your family.”
The Hand was visibly taken back. Even though you had scarcely spoke with him since the funeral, he was unaware of your growing resentment, “(Y/N), I-”
“I want not to hear your excuses,” your voice grew louder, “your mind is not the one plagued with memories of the tears she so desperately tried to hide, or the look in her eyes when she learned you would have to all but rule the kingdom yourself after King Jaehaerys fell ill. You abandoned her, even though she was unwell, too. You failed her.”
You have failed me too, you wanted to scream. This wasn’t about you though.
Your father was speechless, a rare occurrence, and you couldn’t help the humorless laugh that passed your lips.
“Get out,” you ordered quietly, moving toward the door.
When he stepped through it, he turned to look at you.
“I am sorry, daughter. Tell me how to mend this.”
Holding his gaze, the tone his voice took let you know that your father truly meant it. Regardless, you closed the door. It was too late for that now.
A fortnight came and went and avoiding your father was not a strenuous undertaking, as he seemed to be doing the same to you. Suffice to say, you avoided nearly everyone, save for your sister. While it is true that you love Alicent and will always be there to provide her with comfort and counsel, there's no one you let yourself lean on after losing your mother, not that anyone had really offered.
Making your way to the godswood of the Red Keep, you noted that the afternoon was unusually chilly. Rounding a corner, you spotted the young child of one of the lords of the King’s court playing among the flowers.
“Are you not cold, little one?” you questioned from afar.
She immediately stood straighter, her cheeks tinted pink, “a bit, my lady, but the flowers are so beautiful this time of year.”
After approaching the girl, you bent at the knees so that you were eye level with her. Smiling softly, you untied your cloak from around your neck. “Yes, they most certainly are,” you answered before draping the fabric over her shoulders, “but your mother and father would be sick with worry if you caught a fever, so keep this on, won’t you?”
She beamed brightly at you, “I will, my lady,” she giggled, "thank you."
“Go on, then. Pick the prettiest flowers and take them for your chambers,” you instructed as you stood.
She nodded eagerly and you watched as she disappeared amongst the foliage, remembering how your mother always helped you pick flowers for your chambers from the gardens of Hightower when you were younger.
As you continued on your way, you found a tree in the center of the godswood to sit beneath, hoping to pass a few hours reading. Though, your peaceful state was not long undisturbed.
“Are you not cold, little one?” a voice echoed your words from earlier, a sly playfulness in its tone.
His voice brought to memory the interaction you shared at your mother’s funeral. He had taken your hands into his, grip gentle yet firm. You’ve yet to forget the words he imparted, the tone of his voice having conveyed sincerity, “the loss of mine own mother was deeply felt, Lady Hightower. Please accept my heartfelt condolences for what I know to be a most devastating occasion.”
“My Prince,” you addressed without standing up, giving him only a slight bow of your head. You made a point of ignoring his question and returned your attention to the book in your lap.
Despite the thoughtfulness he displayed during the ceremony, your disinterest in the man was still discernible as ever. It wasn’t necessarily your father’s detestation of the man that inspired the feeling, so much as the plethora of well traveled whispers about his temper and recklessness. Such rumors were concerning, considering he had recently been appointed master of laws.
“What brings you to the godswood on such a cool day, my lady?”
Letting out a soft sigh, you responded, “I had been hoping to spend the afternoon unbothered by those in the Keep, but I suppose we do not always get what we wish for.”
“Ah, yes," he agreed. Paying no mind to how you were straddling a fine line of irreverence, he settled next to you with his back against the tree, "luckily, the gods favor those who remain unspoiled in their desires."
You side eyed him, a bit perplexed with the whole situation. He was looking up at the gray sky spread out above the two of you.
“I would prefer if you spoke plainly your intentions.”
He feigned offense, “I only meant to ensure that you are warm enough my lady, but you disregarded my inquiry.”
“I am quite alright. I thank you for your concern, my Prince,” you returned, the sarcasm in your voice not lost on Daemon.
Entertained by your quips, a breath of a laugh escaped his nose. He shifted his body toward yours, his arm brushing against your own and causing a slight shudder to run down your spine against your will.
“Your body seems to be at odds with your words. You are clearly shivering, my lady,” he contended before untying his cloak and laying it over your shoulders. You wondered if that was a smirk playing at his lips. “Your father would be displeased if you caught a fever, so keep this on, won’t you?”
Daemon almost missed the looked of exasperation that crossed your features.
“I would not have guessed that the Rogue Prince spends his time spying on and mocking the ladies of the Keep.”
“No, not all the ladies,” he is quiet for just a moment, as if considering his words, “and you mistake me, as I did not intend to mock you."
Having noted the change in his voice, you stared him in the eyes for a moment, searching for some hint of jest and finding none. "Well, your worry is for naught. My father has not concerned himself with my well being for a long time," you told him, your hand moving to take off his cloak.
His own hand came to rest on top of yours, stopping your movement, "my lady, I thought your gesture to be kind and had only hoped to return the favor. It would please me if you kept it on.”
You simply nodded and quickly averted your eyes, an annoying heat tinging your cheeks. Unbeknownst to you, Daemon was less concerned with that and more so interested in the look behind your eyes. It was familiar to him, one that looked like wariness and suspicion mixed with something he couldn’t quite place.
The silver haired man had maintained an interest in you for a while now, admiring the way you refused to quietly conform to the expectations others had for you. More recently though, following the death of your mother, he empathized with how you fashioned yourself an outcast. Perhaps it was your family name that kept him from engaging with you until he happened upon your encounter with the young girl.
He sought to lighten the exchange you were sharing, "what are you reading?"
"Maester Balder's The Edge of the World," you informed him, turning the book to give him a view of the cover.
"A fascinating read, if I may be any judge. Are you enjoying it?"
“Quite so, I am happy to finally read it. I tried when I was younger, but was told such topics were inappropriate for an agreeable lady.”
“Well, agreeable ladies rarely do strike my fancy.”
You gasped before questioning, “shall I stop reading, then?” You began to close the book. “I never have found myself endeavoring for your fancy, my Prince.”
Your words were accompanied by a self satisfied smirk and before he realized it, Daemon laughed, amused by the way you tried to taunt him.
“Very well, but do not stop such an interesting read on account of me. Moreover, enough with formalities, Daemon will suffice.”
“Then I suppose just (Y/N) will do, too.”
The pair of you fell into easy conversation, the legends contained in the book lending themselves to the discussion. You each debated which of the maester’s recounts were most likely to be true, though the more outlandish ones seemed to pique your interests the most.
Time passed comfortably and the hours grew late, the setting of the sun fast approaching. The chilly air remained, but the clouds parted to allow the sun to peak through the sky in its final hour. Daemon carefully observed the way golden hues adorned your features with the changing light.
When his fingers brushed yours, both meaning to turn to the next page, you gasped and for a fleeting moment grasped his hand in between your palms.
“Seven hells, I would prefer if the Prince of the City did not catch his death because of me. Your hands are like ice!”
You made an attempt to return his cloak to him, but he stopped you.
“Surely, it is large enough for the two of us,” he asserted before moving closer and situating the cloak around both of you.
You raised an eyebrow at him as his arm pressed against yours and stayed there, but his focus remained with the book. Your eyes dwelled on his figure as you contemplated the enigmatic man before you, not entirely sure of how you found yourself in a position you knew would inspire undue speculation.
“Now, where were we?”