255AC-Castamere-3 Years after Casterly Rock
Ser Gerold Hightower
"Future Generations always romanticize people, to the point that their original nature eventually disappears," Daeron murmured as he wrote in his journal. His father had given it to him the day he left for Castamere — a book, several peacock feather quills, and a letter instructing him to record his days. He paused, eyeing the sentence he had just scratched across the page, then continued aloud with a wry curl to his lips. "This man invaded a kingdom, slaughtered most of its people, converted the rest… and his House words are 'High as Honor.'" With that, he closed his book and leaned back in the chair.
"Careful My Prince, It's alright now that we're in castamere, but back in King's Landing even the walls have ears." Gerold reminded him, "If it reaches the wrong ears, it will cause some mess."
Daeron ignored him.
"Hmm, now that you think about it, the last three years in Castamere felt like a lifetime." Daeron said as he closed his book, he looked towards the bed where his only friend was sleeping, "Hey Erwin, are you listening?"
Erwin was not; his head was buried in a book about Battle Formations, "Oi, Erwin, let's go hunt."
"We hunted just yesterday, my prince. A hunter should only take what he needs — even predators only kill when they're hungry," Gerold said, noticing the displeasure tugging at Daeron's brow. He offered a faint smile. "If you're that restless, why not spar with me instead?"
"You'll just copy my moves again, old man," Daeron grumbled — and it was true. His martial instincts were uncanny; his reflexes sharp as a hunting cat's. With a sword, Daeron could already match a green knight, but it was his strange, brutal hand-to-hand techniques that unsettled people most. He coulden't help but imitate them.
Gerold shook his head with a baffled sigh. "I still don't understand how you come up with those techniques."
"Oh, Ser, I was born with them," Daeron said, a smug grin tugging at his lips. "And honestly? Smashing someone with my fists feels far more satisfying than swinging a sword."
"Daeron, if you're bored, let's play a game." Erwin finally looked up, closing his book. "First one to the kitchens gets to taste today's chicken soup before anyone else."
"You're on," Daeron said immediately, darting for the door. "And the loser also does whatever the winner says."
"Deal."
Gerold chuckled, unfolding a parchment. "Very well. You two race, and I'll send my weekly report to King's Landing like a sensible man, go straight to the kitchens. I'll come there in five minutes." He gave them a pointed look. "Try not to break anything. Or yourselves."
The boys exchanged grins and shot down the corridor.
Gerold watched them go, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. "Let them run," he muttered to himself. "For now, they're still children."
As Gerold made his way toward the rookery, his thoughts drifted to the last three years in Castamere. Lord Roger Reyne had proven himself a remarkable host — respectful, shrewd, and surprisingly attentive to a royal ward.
He trained Daeron harder than any boy his age had a right to be trained, pushed him past exhaustion, and even made sure the table groaned with food come evening. Feasts were nearly as common as drills.
The castle housed only two highborn men — Roger and his brother — yet the halls were never tense. They commanded loyalty rather than demanded it; servants and vassals alike walked with pride, not fear. And Roger's hunger for more — more wealth, more power, more glory — was evident in every polished breastplate and every well–fed soldier in his ranks and the growing Debts.
He even managed what few thought possible: he tempered the prince's temper, or at least steered it.
Gerold allowed himself a faint smile.
And through all of it — the drills, the feasts, the schemes and sharpened edges of Castamere — there was one day he remembered most clearly.
The day Daeron made his first true friend.
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Three Years Ago… Castamere Training Yard
When they entered the training grounds early in the morning, they expected it to be full — yet only a single boy stood waiting.
Sandy-blonde hair. Golden eyes. A wooden practice sword in hand.Slightly older — but not by much.
Erwin Hill.
He watched Daeron approach with calm curiosity, then bowed stiffly, unsure whether to greet him as a prince or simply another boy.
"You're the prince?" Erwin asked quietly — not rude, just honest.
"And you're the bastard," Daeron replied in the same flat tone.
Gerold inhaled sharply. One of the guards flinched.
Erwin only grinned and raised his practice sword. "Want to see which one of us is worse?"
Daeron smirked drawin his own wooden sword. "Do you even need to ask?"
That day ended in a stalemate — and before long, nearly everyone in Castamere had gathered to watch the two boys fight each other to exhaustion.
That duel was embedded deep into his brain, every detail and every move, who knows, one day if the Prince had children he would tell them about this.
Later that week, two horses thundered down the gold-flecked hills.
Daeron on Nike — black as a starless night, mane flowing like shadow.Erwin on Snowfoot — pale as fresh snow, tail like silver silk in the wind.
"Race to the stream!" Daeron shouted.
"You're on!"
Nike lunged forward in a burst of power. Snowfoot kept pace, elegant and fierce. Wind tore through their hair as they flew across the fields.
Daeron whooped with pure, wild joy — for once not a prince— just a boy on his horse, racing his friend.
His admiration towards the Lord Reyne increased after that one incident.
It happened on a hot afternoon. The sun was high, steel rang in the yard, and Daeron had just finished drills when he heard raised voices by the well.
Erwin stood there, jaw clenched, facing a tall armored soldier polishing his spear.
"I didn't know they let bastards stand near the water barrels," the man sneered. "Thought you lot drank from puddles."
A few nearby men snickered.
Daeron felt his blood spike instantly. His grip tightened around his practice sword.
Who is he to talk like that? He read the Prince's face. Heat rose behind his eyes as he turned towards them.
Before Gerold could say anything.
A firm hand gripped his shoulder and that of the Prince.
Roger Reyne.
He looked towards the Prince, whose hand was already on his blade.
"Stand still," Roger murmured.
"But he—" Daeron tried to say but was cut off.
"If you draw steel every time a dog barks, you waste blades on mutts," Roger said quietly.
Daeron's jaw worked in silent fury.
Roger stepped forward, voice steady but hard as stone.
"You, you're new aren't you." Roger said to the soldier. "Say one more word and you'll be polishing chamber pots until your beard is grey. Do you understand me?"
The man's face drained of color. He bowed his head. "A-apologies, my lord."
He scurried away, helmet under his arm.
Roger didn't look at Daeron — he kept his eyes on Erwin.
"Erwin Hill stands under Castamere's roof," he said calmly. "And under my protection. Anyone who forgets that is welcome to step outside these walls and test their tongue again."
Silence fell. No one argued. No one dared.
Then Roger turned to Daeron.
"You wanted to break his jaw, didn't you?"
Daeron's fists clenched. "…yes."
Roger nodded. "Good. You cared. But listen well."
"A man who swings at every insult dies tired and stupid."
He tapped Daeron's chest with two fingers.
"Save your rage. Spend it only when blood is worth spilling."
Daeron swallowed, still burning inside. But he understood. Some part of him did, anyway.
Roger ruffled Erwin's hair. "Come, both of you. Sparring again. And Daeron—" He smirked. "This time, try fighting without imagining everyone's head is the idiot soldier's."
Daeron huffed. "No promises."
Erwin grinned. "I'd have broken his nose first."
Daeron bumped his shoulder. "You can break it tomorrow."
They laughed, and behind them the yard slowly returned to life — though every soldier there now knew one thing:
The prince wasn't the only one not to be crossed.
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A/N: Got a temporary laptop, so updates resume. Writing on a phone was… not it.
If you're enjoying the story, a review/comment goes a long way — helps me know this is worth continuing.
Thanks for reading.