[center][b]Daeron Targaryen[/b]
[b]The Hightower, Oldtown, Westeros[/b][/center]

His father was dead. A rush of emotions went thorugh Daeron upon hearing the news, though none of them was surprise. It had been a shadow hanging over him ever since his father had to postpone his last visit to Oldtown due to his health, and it was further cemented when the delay became indefinite. He even did his duty as son when he was dragged to the sept by a group of highborn girls to pray for the king's health. He only managed mumble out a few lines before his face grew red and he rushed out of the sept. They would giggle to themselves whenever they saw him after that, and all he could manage was turn his head away in shame. Still, he now wished that he had spent more time in prayer, in case the gods were listening for once and it would have made the difference. 

He had held no allusions that he had a closeness to his father like his half-sister Rhaenyra, but his father had existed as being bigger than life to Daeron while he was growing up, with his thick beard and jovial smile. Sometimes he wasn't sure if he would still love his brothers if they weren't related to each other, but he knew the same couldn't be said of his father.  If he was taught anything, it was to support and love your family, something that was clearly lost on his brothers and Rhaenyra. Daeron had always been aware of his freedom as the youngest, even if it made him into more of an afterthought than anything else. It ultimately led him to become much different than his brothers, even if he didn't exactly realize it himself. 

He had been in the training yards with the other boys around his age, including Robin Redwyne, Willum Bulwer, and others that tended to group around him, when Maester Trebayn pulled him to the side to let him know that Lord Ormund required his presence. This had taken Daeron aback, after all this was one of his days of leisure in which he didn't have to directly serve the lord of the Hightower, and Lord Ormund wasn't the kind of man who cared much for Daeron's royal status, working him the same as any other boy who could have been named his cupbear or squire. The reason as to why Lord Ormund would need to see him raced through his mind, progressively becoming worse and worse, until Daeron shook it off, thanked the maester, and began to head towards Lord Ormund's study. He had taken plenty of bruises from the wooden practice swords in the training yard, and had even took one to his temple, which throbbed each time he placed a foot on each stone step. It was called the Hightower for good reason, and by the time he came the door of Lord Ormund's study, he felt as if his head was about to explode.

He rapped the old oak door a few times to announce his arrival and was soon answered.

"Enter."

Lord Ormund's voice was cold and consise, something that would have been better suited on a battlefield or devising strategy among other highborn lords than to a lowly squire such as Daeron, even if he was still technically a prince. The room was among the smallest within the Hightower, a bit cramped, but probably the most conducive when it came to balancing finances and performing the necessary duties of a lord alone. It even sported a small library of its own, with successive lords of the Hightower adding to it over the years. It was separate from the main library, but both were put to shame by massive one at the Citadel. There were plenty of scholars who came there to study, especially if they had no interest in being under the scrutinizing gaze of maesters. Lord Ormund wasn't a man who was particulary interested in shoving his nose inbetween two pages, so most of the books served little purpose than to collect dust, but they remained, if only for his respect to those who came before him.

Lord Orumund had his back turned to Daeron, standing next to an intricately carved oaken table to the left, pouring wine from a pitcher into a glass. As to what kind of wine it could be, Daeron had rarely drinken any in his life,his mother had seen to that. Except for the times Aegon and Aemond smuggled some when they were much younger, of course. Lord Ormund motioned towards an empty chair next to a desk that was nestled between the back corner of the room and a bookcase.

"Sit."

Daeron went over and sat in the chair, growing all the more nervous with each passing second. He had been in this room many times before, to serve his cousin with a variety of different matters, but had never sat in this chair. However, he had witnessed many important people do so on many occasions. He felt his cousin come up behind him, and place the glass in front of Daeron, still not giving away why he had called the young prince here to meet in private.

"Drink."

At first Daeron only sipped it, taken aback by how it was both sour and sweet at the same time, but when he saw Ormund shake his head, he chugged the rest of it, making him lightheaded and removing the headache that he had before. Lord Ormund then sat across from Daeron, fiddling with a piece of parchment that could only have been a message carried by a raven , which served as the messenger system for all of Westeros, maintained by every maester. "Your father," Ormund began, finally showing some sign of empathy, "is dead."

The news had hit Daeron with the amount of force that would have hit any other boy upon learning about the death of a family member, with time slowing and reality itself feeling surreal. As if this was just some fantasy and he was asleep at bed, none the wiser. The wine did little to alleviate the knot that was growing in his gut, and he sort of wished he had more to drink. Imagining never seeing his father again alive was wholly unsettling, and made him want to rush to King's Landing right then and there just to see the rest of his family.

Lord Ormund only threw the piece of paper on his desk in disgust. "If I had known the king's illness had worsened to such a degree... I would have had you sent for King's Landing immediately. A son should have the right to be at side of his father when he's on his deathbed. And noot so much as a single raven from my uncle or anyone else!"

Daeron had wished that they would have sent a raven as well, but they must of had some kind of reason for doing so, he knew neither of his brothers would be malicious about something like that. But with Rhaenyra the new queen, he just didn't know. His half-sister was more a stranger to him than nearly anyone else.
"I'd have you packing your things for King's Landing right now, if it wasn't for this other news." Ormund picked up the message again, if only to make absolutely sure he didn't miss a single detail from it. "Your brother has been crowned king."

Aegon? Even he knew that it had been his father's wish to pass the crown to his half-sister, and had never once thought about the ramifications that would come upon his father's death.  "Then that means..."

"War. Plain and simple." Lord Ormund crumpled the message and tossed it back to the table. "I have no issue in seeing your brother crowned, lad. Just the way they went about it, scheming and in the shadows." He grinded his teeth as that single thought left his mouth. "But's it's done, and we have to live with it."

"I should go to King's Landing right now!" Daeron blurted out. "I'll need to help Aegon and Aemond."

Ormund gave Daeron one of his cold stares. "You'll be staying here. I'm still responsible for your wellbeing and won't have my squire go out on his on accord to King's Landing, which happens to be  only a stone's throw away from Dragonstone." He had brought the wine pitcher with him to the table, and proceeded to pour some out of it into his own cup and took a long hard drink.

"Half the Reach is likely to rise up against us, with the mother and babe at Highgarden  sitting the conflict out and doing nothing." He looked at his own empty glass with disappointment, but refrained from adding any more wine. 

"War isn't certain..." Daeron began, but even he wasn't completely sure of the words that were coming out of his mouth. "I don't know what, but there has to be something we can do." At that Ormund only gave him a hard look, and got to his feet, guesturing for Daeron to follow. They made their way to the balcony that was connected to the study, and being one of the higher rooms within the Hightower itself, offered a stunning view of harbor of Oldtown below. Daeron could only make out specks of what he assumed were people below, but he easily made note of the ships coming in and out of the harbor, proving to all why Oldtown was the largest and most prosperous of the cities of Westeros.

"I did say that I was responsble for you, lad." Ormund began, as he scratched his short graying beard. "But this," Ormund said as he motioned towards all that was in front of them, "is everything else that I'm responsible for. Oldtown, the Honeywine, up to the Florents in Brightwater Keep and everything in between. The people, no matter who they are or what they believe in, or if they even care about who sits that metal chair, they all look at me for protection and guidance. Every last one."

Ormund sighed. "I don't relish to see war come to this land, nor would I wish it upon my worst enemies. I do I have an obligation to these people, my house, and my family..." Ormund paused as he gave a glance to Daeron. "War was coming ever since King Viserys took your mother and my cousin as wife. Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon will not accept anything less than the Iron Throne."

Daeron knew that Aegon wouldn't be any different, even if it meant his head on a spike along with the rest of his family. That was a grim thought for him, as he couldn't imagine Rhaenyra becoming a kinslayer. But what did he know of war or the changes that it could cause in people? He only knew that he truly didn't want to see any of his family kill each other, for whatever reason, legitimate or not. "You can't truly expect me to wait and do nothing?"

"Wait, aye, because you alone can do nothing. There likely will be a parley between both sides, should neither side do anything foolish before then. It'll accomplish nothing, as neither side will yield an inch." Ormund cast his gaze towards the north and everything that lay beyond. "It's better to stay here, the both of us. To raise an army and pacify the Reach as quickly possible- that will end the war more quickly- nothing else. Unless, of course, the new king directs you elsewhere, of which I'd be honorbound to oblige."

Daeron gritted his teeth. He felt so helpless, so powerless. How could a dragonrider be reduced to such, when he could take to the sky at will when so few could? He had half a mind to fly to Dragonstone himself, confront Rhaenyra, and figure out a way to end all of this. Ormund's words rang true to him, however, and he knew he couldn't go off on his own without his brother's knowledge or approval. This just made him desperately wish that he or his grandfather had added additional directives for him in that message. In the coming days, he'd just have to relent on these feelings and aid his cousin in whatever capacity that he could. The older man noticed this and the corner of his mouth twitched upwards, which was as much of a genuine smile as you'd ever get out of Lord Ormund Hightower.

"Take the rest of the day to mourn, lad. And tomorrow? Kill the boy, only men can go to war."

Daeron nodded and left the study, rushing down the old steps of the tower. Frome one step at a time, he rapidly progressed to two, and sometimes three, rushing by others and often getting cursed because of it. He had taken his cousin's words to heart, and there was only one thing he now wished to confide in- his dragon, Tessarion. Others called her the Blue Queen, and stunning as she was, he couldn't blame them. Her lack in size was easily made up by her speed in the air, something that Daeron cherished everytime he rode her through the skies. She was often chained in a cordoned off area of the yard, though Daeron didn't like it. He eventually allowed it only to give others a peace of mind, but he knew that Tessarion would never hurt someone unless he allowed it, but trying to explain this to anyone else often proved to be fruitless. When he reached her, she was already awake and alert, waiting... as if she had known that he was coming. He embraced the dragon, but no tears flowed, he was past that. She nuzzled him, her scales warm at the touch.

Removing her chains, the prince and the dragon took to the skies.