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It's all too easy—once bathed and clothed again, and without the overbearing eyes of Ormund—to find Daeron within the lower hold and take him into his arms, running a hand over the crown of his head, the action familiar from when the boy was just a babe. He had cradled him against his breast, pacing the room when he would become colicky and could only be calmed by Gwayne's scent. He feels the soft tresses of his hair against his palm, and the boy's stuttered breaths against his shoulder from where his head now sits.
It's only been a year, but it feels as if the boy has grown both in height and wit since he last laid eyes upon him.
"Daeron," he says softly as he continues to card his fingers through the child's hair. Daeron is quiet for a moment, then Gwayne feels him relax against him, the fear and hesitance having vanished as Gwayne's scent had curled through the air, a hint of sweet thistle and pine, combating Ormund's lavender and rosemary that had overtaken every nook and cranny within the Lord Footly's home.
Tessarion shifts quietly in the background, chains clinking, and Gwayne glances at the creature, seeing how her eyes stay trained on them. He's never been one for House Targaryen's belief in dragons, but he finds the Seven do not bring much comfort in knowing Daeron is protected with him gone as the she-dragon does.
"Muña," Daeron murmurs, word barely decipherable from how he's bent downward and smushed his face into Gwayne's tunic. His own scent wafts outward, and Gwayne's hold on him tightens a fraction, his gaze returning to him. He's newly six and ten, presented as an Alpha, yet still a pup in Gwayne's eyes, especially with the milky undertones that present themselves alongside the bitter herbal smell that makes up the boy's scent. "Will you still return to Oldtown?"
It is Gwayne's turn to be quiet now.
It had been his goal to return with Ormund's foolish plot afoot and being second-in-line to the Hightower seat. Still, after the Baratheon-disguised assassins and Ormund's lack of awareness, along with the frightened look Daeron had had as Gwayne had killed the men, he felt doubt about his previous plan.
“I do not know,” is all he manages to reply to the pup. He begins to sway slightly in place in response to Daeron’s scent taking on a sour tinge, attempting to soothe him with the rocking motion.
It's only been a year, yet Daeron has been made boy king without him to guard against Ormund's whims. It is hard for Gwayne to even do so, with Ormund's ever-changing moods that switch between the irritability of a young boy and the mature intelligence of a man; it's made even harder when Ormund plays coy and lavishes Gwayne with the attention and love he knows the Omega desires. How could a boy of six and ten who sees Ormund as his Alpha and father in all but name be able to handle him by his lonesome?
"Mayhaps," he finally answers, and Daeron lets out a noise that evokes a chirp, pulling forth the actual Omegan noise from Gwayne. Tessarion lets out a chirp of her own, and he hears Daeron laugh, straightening up to look at the dragon.
"I think Tessarion would agree with me, muña, that you should stay here."
"Mayhaps, Daeron. Do not push," he reprimands, though it's tempered by the soft smile that appears on his face as the pup grins down at him. Gwayne's hands come to rest on Daeron's shoulders and squeeze them gently. Gods, how much he's grown.
"Is mayhaps your new favorite word? Is it the only word you know now? Should I call the maester to check on you?" Daeron's grin grows wider, then a shrill giggle erupts through the air as Gwayne quickly moves a hand to tickle the boy's side. The she-dragon lets out a series of trills, light and harmonious with Daeron's laughter.
"What would the master of arms say about keeping your vulnerabilities open for such an attack? My, how you've let your guard down!"
"You dare to attack your king?" Daeron pushes out, breathless even as his smile remains in place. Gwayne lets out a scoff and lightens his attack on the pup.
"Bloody king. You'll always be my trēsy before being my king." His noses scrunches at his butchered usage of Valyrian, but it's Daeron's birthright and it brings a radiant joy to the boy when the language is reciprocated and not solely used to instruct Tessarion.
"I would hope so." Daeron's smile lessens just a tad, and he hunches the slightest bit into himself. Gwayne feels regret at his earlier irritation when Daeron had explained the circumstances of his and Ormund's new dynamic. He lifts a hand and cups the pup's cheek in his palm, Daeron's eyes lifting to meet his.
"Always."