Chapter Text
War was a glorious thing. Boys and men galloping off to die choking on blood soaked mud in the name of glory and honor, and, for the lucky few, legacy.
Rhaenyra used to think that. Hearing the histories of her conquering ancestors, she wanted nothing more than to fly Syrax over fields of men and seize victory with waves dragonfire. In her dreams she was Visenya reborn, but awake she was Princess of the Seven Kingdoms during the longest stretch of peace since Aegon flew to Westeros. Her name wasn’t likely to be more than a footnote within her dynasty.
But the Realm’s Delight could not be denied.
She was twelve namedays when the Hightower fell. They said a plague swept through Oldtown, striking noblemen and smallfolk alike. The mighty House Hightower was reduced to daughters and second sons, then wives and babes, but eventually they too succumbed.
The title of Lord Hightower was passed to Ser Otto, the Hand of the King, who avoided the tragedy by hiding behind his position in King’s Landing. The moment it was bestowed, he summoned his surviving son, Gwayne, to his side. The boy had been growing up in Highgarden as a ward of the High Lord Tyrell.
They had not heard much of the Hand’s third, and now only, son. No rumors were known of his skill, good or bad, nor his temperament, cheerful or dour.
Rhaenyra supposes the mystery was what first drew her to seek him out.
He had been in King’s Landing a week before she first caught a glimpse of him. He was struggling to carry some knight’s armor across the training grounds. Even from afar she could see he was scrawny. Tall, nearly a head taller than herself, but each movement was uncertain like a newborn foal. He startled like one too when she finally caught up to him.
Up close she was struck by his beauty, he was fair featured like any Gardener, the brown of his short curls was more red up close, and the dark of his eyes was lighter like acorns.
She dragged him into a conversation and found he was quite clever, not like the boastful young lordlings she often encountered. He spoke infrequently, prompting her with questions to fill the silence with her own ideas and opinions, and he never seemed disinterested in a lady’s thoughts.
They fell into step together and Rhaenyra quietly noted that he was not as awkward or lanky as she had thought at a distance. As soon as the heavy armor was set down he moved with a natural grace. His steps, like his words, were careful, not assertive, the title he was to inherit still abstract and new to him.
He shared that he had been readying to join the Citadel to study as a Maester. He had never held a sword like his older brothers; it’s why he was a page, not a squire like other boys his age, and a lousy one at that.
“I know how to learn from books, not from drills and bruises,” he admitted.
“How is that?” Rhaenyra asked because she certainly hadn’t unlocked that secret. The Septas were always disparaging her inability to focus on a boring page or scroll. Her most successful subject had been flying upon Syrax, she was the youngest dragonrider known in her lineage after all, and that had not come without its share of bruises.
“Well, explaining to someone else. Reframing a story or concept in your own words allows you to be sure you understand what you are describing.”
“I’m unsure even the maesters have added that to their doctrine.”
Gwayne laughed and Rhaenyra’s heart beat like Syrax’s wings. She decided then, this was what she wanted.
“Teach me.”
“Teach you what, Princess?”
“Your drills. Teach another as you learn to be a knight, as you would as a maester. Learn everything, well enough to teach me, and you’ll surpass the other pages and squires in no time.”
Gwayne looked at her with disbelief and she worried he would start repeating lines about the Maiden’s duty, and a Lady’s proper behavior. He surprised her despite shaking his head, “Surely Your Grace is too occupied with your studies to pay me so much of your attention—“
“I’ll share with you a secret.” She leaned in. “I’m far more interested in your studies.”
“The King—“ His cheeks flushed with protest.
“Need not know of your tutelage.”
“My father, the Hand… he has eyes everywhere. They report back to him on my progress, they will report to the King if you are seen with me too oft.”
“I know where we can meet in secret, My Lord.” She teased him, hoping to distract his counter argument with the misplaced title.
His eyes narrowed, intrigued, but undeterred. “Where?”
“You must agree first.”
“Princess, I fear for our future diplomacy if this is how you negotiate.”
“Trust your Princess, good Ser.”
He wouldn’t let it go twice, pointing out, “I am not a knight.”
“Allow me to help you become one.”
“Allow me something in return.”
She frowned. “What?”
“Agree first.”
Rhaenyra huffed, amused.
Gwayne stuck up his pinky between them. “Princess?”
“What is that?”
“How we may seal our agreement. We link our pinkies to bind our promise.”
"Where did you learn that?"
"From my mother." A heavy weight crossed his features, but he wiped it away with a challenging grin.
“Alright.” Rhaenyra hooked her pinky around his, and noted how soft his hands were. He was definitely not a knight, yet. “Now what have we agreed?”
Five years passed with the two trading their knowledge. They had to meet by the Dragon Pit, the only place Rhaenyra was unattended for hours by her sworn shield, and the last place anyone would look for the Hand’s son. Rhaenyra even took to hiding their equipment and books in Syrax’s den within the vast caves.
While making cuts and slashes, the Princess described all the greater and lesser Houses of the realm. Their sigils, colors, and creeds. Their historic alliances and recent unions. Once she began cup bearing for her father’s Small Council, it was often only until she was relaying discussion and copying Gwayne's footwork that she understood what debate was occurring. Likewise, Gwayne learned the political forces behind the greatest historical battles and his tactical instinct grew with his abilities as he demonstrated stances, guards, and parries. He was promoted from Page to Squire of Ser Edderyk Peake, the Lord’s second son.
Rhaenyra wanted to celebrate by taking him above the clouds with Syrax, but they had to wait for the smiths to finish the double saddle. Rhaenyra designed it especially for Gwayne, with long stirrups and extra straps to reassure her… friend.
She was anxious to share the skies. The thought of truly being alone with Gwayne above the clouds made her stomach do flips like Syrax above the waves. She imagined his hands, trying to be respectful, wrapped lightly around her until they lurch into the sky, then, she knows, Gwayne would flinch. His arms would tighten, and he’d hide his face into the back of her neck. He might scream. She wouldn’t hear it over the wind, no, but she’d feel his breath through her leathers.
Just the thought stoked hot embers in her chest, a deep eagerness she didn’t yet understand, but felt destined to hatch.
But instead of taking off for laps around King’s Landing, Gwayne was sent off to the war in the Stepstones.
Otto had stood at the gate to see his son off, preventing the Princess from protesting. They had been meeting in secret, but it mattered little to her as she watched him in the procession out of The Red Keep. She ran into the line of knights and pressed her handkerchief into his hand. Her embroidery had never been fine, but his grin seeing the golden dragon she’d stitched painstakingly into red silk was worth the sore fingertips.
Only two months later, Otto was hurriedly passed a raven’s message in Small Council. Without a word, he dismissed himself. Rhaenyra found out later, through an attendant, that the note held news that his last remaining son was dead.
She couldn’t believe it.
She didn’t want to believe it.
He was only a squire, he shouldn’t have been fighting. He was a sole heir to a noble house, he shouldn’t have been anywhere near a battlefield.
He couldn’t be dead.
He never rode with her on Syrax, or jousted in a tourney, or attended a true royal feast—the ones her father favors that made Lord Beesbury sweat.
What was there to look forward to if not Gwayne’s return?
She confessed to her father her friendship with the Hightower heir by accident. With their replenished troops, victory appeared imminent, and he suggested she prepare to look at suitors when they return. Rhaenyra despised the idea and made no attempt to hide it, for she knew the suitor she wanted wouldn’t be among the returning men.
The King gently tabled the topic at his daughter’s outburst, unsure as ever how to manage her tempestuous emotions. It had been the same since her mother had passed. Regretfully, she thought that the only person who could say the right thing to her was Gwayne, and now he never would.
Finally, after long, dull months, further word was received that victory in the Stepstones was secured and the commanding forces would be returning to King’s Landing.
The Princess tried to muster joy for the surviving forces, her cousin Laenor and Uncle Daemon among them, but she felt hollow and spiteful that they’ll come home without him.
They bow to her father when he receives them in the throne room.
Daemon makes a show of removing and offering the Crabfeeder’s crown to the Seven Kingdoms, but once the King accepts he straightens and speaks. “I want it known that a knighthood was bestowed in the field by myself, and witnessed by every Ser. I present to Your Grace, Ser Gwayne of Hightower.”