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~ 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠'𝐬 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟏𝟐𝟖 𝐀𝐂
In the early hour of midday, Daeravor finds himself trekking down the set of switchback stairs into the yard that serves as the training grounds–where he once trained with his brothers in their youth.
Dappled sunlight bathes the yard in a pale-golden glow as the clouds break, the congenial ambiance–of blacksmiths hard at work, and nobles admiring all those sparring–drifting through the breeze.
And amidst the grounds, Daeravor spots his younger brothers–Aemond sparring with Ser Criston Cole, whilst young Daeron observes them.
Daeravor's black heart stutters at the sight of his youngest brother. Gods, little Daeron was just a boy last Daeravor had seen him–crying for his brother as he rode away–now, there he stood.
More mature, and more grown.
Apparently having begun training with dull swords, longer than his own arm, instead of the meek wooden swords young boys use. A soft grin lifts the corner of Daeravor's lips when he remembers the day he and his brothers began training at arms with wooden swords. Daeron was deemed too young. Undeterred, Daeron brought a stick to the yard, and began whacking at his older brothers. Daeron the Daring, the crowd of spectators named him.
Daeravor supposes the name had stuck through the years.
Though, seeing his grown brother before him, a wave of sorrow crashes over his chest, drowning his heart. It saddens him that he could not be there to see Daeron grow. To be there for his first flight on Tessarion. To teach him tricks with the sword.
But then resentment shoves the sorrow aside. Father sent him away. And Mother did nothing.
Daeravor, though, does not allow those thoughts to linger and ruin his reunion with Daeron.
