Chapter 3: The Inquiry
The morning sun was a polite guest in the Hightower gardens, warming the pale stone paths but not yet pressing with summer’s full heat. Bees tumbled drowsily in and out of damask roses, their humming the only sound for a while as Naerys walked beside her uncle.
She had looped her arm through Daeron’s almost the moment they left the bedchamber, clinging to the familiarity of his Valyrian features, the easy rhythm of his stride. The memory of the morning’s silent breakfast, of Gwayne’s desperate, failing anecdote about the horse, was a shard of ice in her stomach. The laughter she’d given Daeron at the door had been real, but it had burned away quickly, leaving behind a smoky anxiety.
“So,” Daeron said, plucking a leaf from a trailing vine and shredding it absently. “The dissolute sheep tapestry is a myth, I’m afraid. But there is a truly alarming depiction of the founding of Oldtown where the water of the Honeywine appears to be made of actual honey. It looks… sticky.”
“A sticky river,” Naerys murmured, only half-listening. She watched their shadows stretch ahead on the path. “Daeron… you and Gwayne. You speak often?”
“Often enough. He’s always felt more like an older brother to me than my uncle. Why?”
She chose her words like stepping stones across a creek. “I only wonder… what he might say of this arrangement. Of me.” She felt Daeron’s gaze swing toward her, but she kept her eyes on a spray of white lilies. “He is kind. Terribly kind. But it is a husband’s duty to be kind to a political wife, is it not?”
Daeron stopped walking. He turned to face her, his violet eyes narrowing slightly in the dappled light. “What’s this about, Naerys?”
“Nothing. I am only curious. It is strange, to be… assessed. Placed in a room like a vase. I wonder what the assessment is.” She tried for a light tone, but it came out thin, brittle.
Daeron studied her face—the too-careful neutrality, the faint tension at the corner of her mouth. He leaned back against the low stone wall bordering the path, crossing his arms. “Alright. If you’re curious. He says you’re clever. That you have a subtle mind, which he appreciates. He said you critiqued a tapestry’s historical inaccuracies in a way that made the maester blush.” A small smile touched his lips. “He says you’re brave. That you carry yourself with a grace he doesn’t feel you owe anyone here.”
Naerys’s heart gave a foolish, hopeful thump. She pressed a hand to a sun-warmed rose trellis, the grain of the wood rough under her palm. “He said that?”
“He did. He also said,” Daeron continued, his voice softening, “that your laughter is a sound he wishes he heard more often. That it surprised him the first time he truly caused it. That it felt like a victory.”
The words should have been a balm. Instead, they twisted inside her. A victory. Like capturing a rare bird’s song. Not the natural, easy joy between a man and a woman, but a prize won through effort. She thought of the story about his brother’s singing, the strategic offering of a memory to coax a reaction from her. Kindness with a purpose.
“He is… careful with you,” Daeron added, watching the play of emotion she couldn’t fully hide. “He mentions that often. How he wants to be careful.”
Careful. The word hung in the fragrant air. It was the opposite of passionate. It was the language of handling a fragile, dangerous object. A hostage. A vase.
“Why are you asking me this?” Daeron pushed, his tone losing its light edge. “Has he not been kind? Has something happened?”
“No! Nothing. Nothing has happened.” The denial was too quick. She brushed her fingers over a rose, not daring to meet his eyes. “That is just it. Nothing happens. He is perfectly, impeccably kind. And I am perfectly, impeccably grateful. It is all very… perfect.”
She heard the bleakness in her own voice. Daeron was silent for a long moment. The bee-hum filled the space.
“Naerys,” he said, finally. “Look at me.”
She forced herself to obey. His expression was unreadable, a blend of concern and dawning comprehension. He saw the shadow of the unspoken thing—the vast, empty marriage bed, the political union with a hole ripped in the center of it.
“You are his wife,” Daeron said slowly, as if feeling his way. “And he is an honorable man. He will… he will do right by you.”
It was the worst thing he could have said. Do right by you. It confirmed everything. Gwayne’s feelings were a matter of duty, of honor. His kindness was a moral project. His care was a tactical choice. The good things he’d said were the observations of a conscientious warden, not the affections of a husband.
A wave of desolation, cold and clear, washed through her. She had been hoping for a clue, a hint that Gwayne’s distance was something else—shyness, perhaps, or slow-growing affection. But Daeron, unwittingly, had illuminated the truth. Gwayne saw a brave, clever, graceful prisoner whom he was determined to treat well. Her value was still her blood, her laughter a victory for her keeper.
She manufactured a smile, pulling the corners of her mouth up until they ached. “I told you, I was only curious. It’s good to know he doesn’t think me a complete fool.” She pushed off from the trellis, shaking out her skirts as if shaking off the conversation. “Now, show me this sticky river. I could use a laugh.”
Daeron didn’t move from the wall. He watched her, the worried crease between his brows deepening. He knew she was lying. He knew the question had come from a deep, lonely place she would not show him.
But he also knew the walls of the Hightower were high, and some cages had no doors. So he pushed himself upright, and offered his arm again. “As my princess commands,” he said, his usual levity subdued. “It’s truly hideous. You’ll hate it.”
She took his arm, her grip tighter than before. They walked on, toward the shaded gallery, the sunlit garden feeling suddenly too bright, too exposed. The words echoed in her mind, a cruel litany: Clever.Brave. Graceful. A victory.Careful.
She had her answer. It changed nothing. It only made the gilded bars around her gleam more brightly, and feel ten times colder.
The sticky river tapestry was, indeed, hideous. They stood before it in the shaded gallery, a cool draft whispering from the stone corridors. Naerys stared at the lumpy, amber-colored threads meant to be water and felt a hysterical laugh die in her throat.
It wasn’t funny. Nothing was. Daeron’s words had settled inside her, heavy and definitive. She could feel him watching her, waiting for the clever critique she was known for. She had nothing.
“It’s awful,” she said flatly, turning away. “I need some air. Different air.”
She walked out of the gallery without waiting, back into the sun. The light felt aggressive now. She made her way not to the rose gardens, but toward the inner courtyards, her steps quick and directionless. She ended up in a secluded alcove bordered by high hedges, a stone bench nestled in shadow. She sat, pulling her knees up to her chest, and rested her forehead against them.
The silence here was better. It wasn’t a waiting silence, like the one in their bedchamber. It was just empty. She replayed the failed kiss in the dark, Gwayne’s rigid stillness, his gentle retreat. She replayed every polite breakfast. Clever.Brave. Graceful. Praises for a portrait, not a person. A victory to be won. Her throat tightened.
She wouldn’t cry. Crying was for children, and she was a political object, a vase. Vases didn’t cry. They just sat where they were put, gathering dust, waiting to be filled with someone else’s flowers. She took a deep, ragged breath that hitched in the middle. The stone of the bench was cold through her gown.
Sweat stung the corner of Gwayne’s eye. He blinked it away, the salt sharp. The training yard rang with the percussive crash of wood on wood, the gritty scuff of boots on sand. He welcomed the physical demand, the simplicity of parry and strike. It burned away the cloying scent of lavender from their room, the memory of her turned back.
His opponent was Daeron. The younger man was fast, less powerful but unpredictable. He fought like he lived—with a fluid, almost playful grace that hid a sharp intelligence. Gwayne swept a low cut toward Daeron’s legs. Daeron leapt back, then came in hard with an overhead blow that Gwayne caught on his shield with a jarring thwack that vibrated up his arm.
“Yield!” Daeron shouted, pressing the advantage, his practice sword straining against Gwayne’s.
“Not today,” Gwayne grunted, shoving him back. They broke apart, circling, chests heaving. The sun was high, pounding on their padded jerkins. Gwayne’s muscles burned pleasantly, a clean pain.
Ser Myles, the master-at-arms, called a halt for water. They dropped their shields and practice blades, the sound dull and final. Gwayne walked to the barrel by the wall, dipped a ladle, and drank deeply. The water was warm and tasted of wood. He poured another ladleful over the back of his neck. It trickled down his spine, a minor relief.
Daeron joined him, leaning against the sun-warmed stone. He drank, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. For a moment, there was just the sound of their breathing, the distant cries of gulls from the harbor.
“So,” Daeron said, not looking at him. “How are things with Naerys?”
Gwayne stilled, the ladle hovering over the barrel. The casual tone was a lie. He set the ladle down carefully. “Why do you ask?” His own voice was careful, neutral. A lord’s voice.
Daeron shrugged, watching two squires bludgeon each other in the yard. “Walked with her this morning. In the gardens.” He paused. “She asked me what you thought of her.”
A cold finger traced Gwayne’s spine, colder than the water. He kept his face a smooth mask. “And what did you tell her?”
“The truth. The good things you’ve said.” Daeron finally turned his head. His violet eyes were assessing, stripping away the layer of sweat and dirt. “It didn’t help. She thinks you hate her, Gwayne. Or at the very least, that you see her as a duty. A pretty vase on a shelf.”
The words were a direct hit. He’d used that exact word in his mind. Vase. He looked away, buying time. He could feel Daeron’s suspicion like a heat on his skin. The man wasn’t a fool. He’d spent years in court, in camps. He’d seen men of Gwayne’s nature before, even if they never spoke of it. The silence stretched, filled with the yard’s clamor.
“She is my wife,” Gwayne began, the statement lame and official. “My duty is to protect her, to see she wants for nothing within these walls. To be… careful with her. Her situation is precarious.” He was constructing a wall of reason, stone by stone. “My distance is not dislike. It is consideration. The last thing she needs is some brute forcing themselves upon her, even a husband. I won’t be that.”
It sounded noble. It even held shreds of truth. Daeron listened, patient, his expression unchanging. He took a long drink from his waterskin. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, stripped of its usual levity.
“I know you’re trying,” he said. “And I believe you. About the consideration. But Gwayne… she doesn’t see the political calculation. She’s nineteen. She’s lost her family, her home, her dragons. She’s in a tower full of people who fought to exterminate her blood. She’s alone.” He met Gwayne’s eyes squarely. “You might be the only person here who isn’t her enemy. But if you act like her warden, you just become the gentlest version of her jailer. She’ll hate that more, in the end.”
The gentlest of her jailers. The thought he’d had at the window, spoken aloud. It robbed him of air. Daeron didn’t say the other thing, the truth that sat between them like a third person in the yard. He didn’t mention the empty marriage bed, the lack of an heir. He didn’t ask the obvious, damning question. He just stated the consequence.
Gwayne looked down at his hands, calloused and dusted with sand. Hands that could wield a sword with skill but couldn’t touch his wife with anything but doomed, clinical care. He saw Naerys’s face that morning, carefully blank as she destroyed her bread. He heard her laughter from the courtyard, a sound given freely to Daeron, and won as a victory from him.
He was failing. On every front. As a lord, as a husband, as an ally.
“You’re right,” Gwayne said, the words ash in his mouth. He leaned his head back against the stone, closing his eyes against the brutal sun. The admission cost him something. “I… I don’t know how to be what she needs. But you’re right. I’ll do better. I’ll try to be… more than careful.”
Daeron clapped a hand on his shoulder, a brief, hard grip. “Good. Start by talking to her. Not at her. Not with stories about horses. Just talk.” He pushed off the wall, grabbing his practice sword. “Now, are you going to yield this next round or do I have to knock you on your ass?”
Gwayne opened his eyes, a weak smile tugging at his lips. “You can try.”
He picked up his own sword, the hilt familiar and solid in his grip. The promise felt fragile in his chest, a tiny, shaky thing.Do better. He had no idea how. But as he moved back into the center of the yard, the sun hammering down, he knew the alternative—watching her light go out completely from across a silent table—was no alternative at all. It was a slow death for them both.