Chapter Text
Daeron.
The summer air was hot and dry in Daeron’s throat. He wished to chase it with something wet, and preferably red, but he knew better than to try at the moment. He thought he’d be able to slip off soon, when the servants began loading the carts and carriages.
When they were distracted, he thought, I’ll be able to snitch some wine away.
As it was now, there was no time to be able to do such things. Everyone was busy, yes, but he also took note that there were more eyes on him than usual. Many feet were running about, hurrying to finish preparations that’d be in the works for moons now. The day that he, and his siblings, never thought to come had finally arrived.
Father had returned, and for longer than a short visit.
He’d returned to take them with him.
There was joy in his siblings. In some, not all, but joy still remained loud enough by those who carried it. Aemon and Daella in particular were very excited, though both for different reasons. They’d told Daeron all about it since the news broke, sneaking away into his bedchambers while he nursed a wineskin.
Aemon was happy to hear the library in the Red Keep was better than that of Summerhall. He was happy to get to see the Great Sept of Baelor, to view all the things he’d only been able to read about in books. He confessed that now, now that he’d presented as a beta, now that things were finally changing, he’d might be able to convince their father to let him take the steps towards becoming a maester and start his education.
Talk of it had come up before, of course, but Father would always push it away for another time. They all knew what that meant. To push it away until Aemon presented, until they knew for sure that their father had failed once again to produce an alpha son.
Daeron’s throat burned as he swallowed the saliva in his mouth, feeling a bit weak in the knees. He closed his dry eyes for a count of ten, swallowed once more, and watched the septa give a fierce look to a serving girl who almost dropped a folded blanket on the ground. The blanket was for Daella, who — despite the warm weather — always needed something to cover her knees and keep her lap comfortable.
Daella was happy to simply be away from Summerhall.
She had not gone into such great detail as their brother did, on why she was happy to be away. Daeron could guess, however, that she’d begun to notice. She was ten now, close to presenting but still far enough away to not feel the pressure of it. The younger children might not realize just how suffocating the castle was, but as they got older they all began to pick up on the odd feeling the halls gave them when they were alone. Daella was at the age she’d begun to notice — though Daeron prayed to the seven she didn’t know why the walls felt so close.
He prayed even harder at night, when dreams of dragons woke him from his slumber, that she’d never know why.
“Daeron!” A high voice called to him, breaking him from his musing. The oldest of the brood turned over his shoulder to look at the familiar face of his youngest brother.
Aegon was not happy to be leaving, because he was not happy their brother Aerion was coming with them. The two had never gotten along, and Daeron did not have enough delusion in his heart to think that would change. Not while Aerion was still the way he was. Of course, since Aegon was displeased — Rhae, and her tiny hands that always clung to his tunic, was also unhappy.
“What do you have?” Daeron wondered, his voice a bit thick with how dry and heavy it felt. His unwashed hair obstructed the view of his brother, and he shook his head slightly to clear his vision. He knew he didn’t look the part for travel, and he hoped to keep it that way until Father caught him.
“Do you think I can sneak it away from father?” Aegon asked, instead of answering. In his hands was a long sword, far longer than he was. It was dragging on the ground now and then as the boy approached, though it was clear Aegon was trying his hardest to keep it from doing so.
“Not unless you have a very long cloak,” Daeron chose to say. They both knew it was a useless endeavor, but as Aegon had paraded the blade this far, he clearly wasn’t afraid of the consequences of being seen with it. “Father will want to know where you got it from.”
Aegon’s large, innocent, violet eyes blinked up at his oldest brother. He fluttered his white lashes in a way he knew was sure to convince the one he was speaking to that he was clear of any and all charges they might levy against him. It had never worked on Daeron, but it didn’t stop Aegon from trying.
“It was just laying around,” his brother said with a slight shrug. His jerky body language always betrayed him to those who knew him, showing when he was lying. He was only nine, after all. Daeron was comforted to know he wasn’t well versed in sugarcoating yet.
“He’ll never believe that, you liar.”
Daeron reached out to ruffle his brother’s hair. Aegon screwed his nose up and slapped his fingers away, the clang of the sword hitting the stone floor once again echoing in the courtyard despite the bustle around them.
“It’s true!” Aegon insisted, stepping back from him — the sword made a loud scrape as he did. It was far too big for him.
“You’d best put it back where it came from, before it’s owner finds out you’re the one to ruin all that polishing that’s been done,” Daeron scolded. He was never one for scolding, though he found himself having to do it more and more of late. Typically when his mouth was also dry and wineless. Typically when his father was around.
Aegon seemed to think of what to say for a breath, and Daeron was sure he’d try to barter his way into getting his oldest brother to help him hide the sword. Before he could speak, a frightened look entered his eye, then changed to dark hatred. A low growl rose up in his chest, and the small boy turned heel quicker than he’d come — running off and dragging the sword behind him. It clanked and scraped the entire way, until all Daeron could hear was the sound as his brother was out of sight.
The eldest did not need to turn his head to know who was behind him. The click of boot and heel was strong and sure, prideful light steps. Aegon’s reaction alone would have told him who it was, but he knew the footfall of the second eldest Targaryen child.
“Where did the little wretch steal a sword from?” Aerion asked, a curious lift to his voice that was not masking with the distaste that came front and center.
“I’ve no idea,” Daeron answered, in truth. He would not have lied to Aerion if he knew, but he wouldn’t have told him either. Looking at his brother, he noticed Aerion was properly ready for travel — like Aegon, but unlike himself.
His cloak was even on, despite the weather, fastened with a brooch depicting three silver dragons entangled. The dark black and red of their house was, as always, the second eldest favorite color choice. He’d had a hair cut, trimmed to perfection, before Father had arrived and it’d not yet grown out.
Aerion’s excitement for their departure mirrored Daeron’s own. It was neither happiness nor displeasure.
Daeron never dared to guess his brother’s mind fully, but he was able to gleam most of what he was thinking. He knew that Aerion was nervous, anxious, to leave. He knew it from the sound of training in the yard, how viciously his brother beat against his sparring partners as though he was out to draw blood with his training swords. How often he did.
He also knew that Aerion was excited to leave. He knew it from the way his brother too had came away to Daeron’s bedchambers, his nightclothes on and looking as though the arrival had surprised him as well. How Aerion had climbed into his bed, pulled back the blankets, and hidden beneath the light fabric as they’d done as children. Aerion hadn’t came to his bedchambers in years, not since he had presented as well.
Maekar Targaryen’s failures.
His eldest and his second chance. Two omega born males, two Targaryen disappointments to follow in their father’s footsteps.
Daeron recalled Aerion’s quiet breaths on the nights he’d stolen away to his bed in recent days. He rarely spoke, as if speaking meant he was really taking solace in his brother’s presence. But one night, when Daeron’s mind was addled with wine and his limbs heavy, Aerion had spoken to him.
It was a question, one they both had known the answer to, spoken aloud despite himself it seemed.
“Will anything change now?”
Daeron had barely been able to hear it, thanks to the blood rushing in his ears, but he had heard it. He’d turned his head to his brother, and seen Aerion’s purple eyes wide. His light brow knitted, his mouth pressed into a thin line. Daeron had thought, between the way his vision threatened to double, to comfort his brother. Like he would have, years ago, before they both presented. With arms around him, sweet familiar purrs, and assurances he couldn’t promise.
But Aerion was no longer a young pup. He was eight-and-ten. He was a man, as far as the world was considered, as was Daeron. Still, watching his wide eyes, Daeron had answered him as truthfully as he could without hiding the fear in his own beating chest.
“Everything will change now, brother.”
“—aeron?”
Daeron blinked the memory away, looking to Aerion almost lazily. His brother had been snapping his fingers in a displeased manner before his face, and evidently calling his name. Daeron did not brush his hand away, but instead gave him a smile.
“Do you think the septa would notice if I slipped out of sight?” Daeron asked, instead of answering whatever Aerion had said to him. His brother’s lips thinned, and there was a flicker of something like concern across his face. That was before he scoffed and lowered his snapping fingers.
“Do I care what the septa notices?” Aerion asked, hand resting on the hilt of the blade he was permitted to carry now that they were leaving Summerhall.
Another change.
“Keep her busy for me,” Daeron reached out and gave his brother’s arm a tight squeeze. His doublet was new.
Another oddity.
Aerion did not answer his brother, and if he had it wouldn’t have changed anything. Daeron parted from him, letting his fingers slip from his sleeve. Whatever torment he’d just promised the poor septa to was beyond his care. Father was around somewhere, after all. His brother was sure not to get into too much trouble with that watchful eye present in the castle.
The path to where the wine was kept was known to him as well as his own chambers, though typically he did not need to pilfer his families pantry. He was not typically under eyes that cared about such thing. Wine was brought to him, pitchers and carafes of it. His goblet did not run dry when his father was not home, and even on his short visits he did not typically go this long without a drink.
Change. His mind reminded him. Everything is changing.
The storerooms would not be completely emptied when they left. There were no plans to abandon it, and most of the household would be staying behind to keep it running as long as everything in King’s Landing ran smoothly. Daeron pushed open a half closed door, ignoring the low bow of a serving boy behind it, and continued in.
The sounds of the courtyard were gone down here, as was the heat. It was cooler in the cellars where the wine and meat was kept. Daeron felt the chill hit his exposed skin and enjoyed it. Soon it was nothing but uncomfortable horseback, unfamiliar featherbeds, and if he managed to sneak it — stuffy carriage rides with his sisters.
Another door to pass through and he was finally in the destination he strived for. When his fingers found it unlocked, he thanked the seven, and opened it wide, only for his heart to sink. The blood in his ears began to rush heavier than before, which wasn’t saying much.
The room was empty.
Apparently, not clearing out the stores did not include the wine. His violet eyes flickered over every dark corner. He walked inside, to see if he was missing something within the shadows. Maybe his poor vision was playing a trick on him and there was a cask left behind, just for him, by some kind servant. His fingers touched the cold stone wall and felt nothing. His heart sank, and he closed his eyes.
“Mother show me mercy,” Daeron prayed quietly — half in jest and half in sincerity. His mouth was far dryer than before. He could feel bile in his throat, and his hands shake.
“What the fuck are you doing down here, boy?”
He moved quicker than he wanted to, and he was thankful for the wall next to him in that it provided him something to hold onto and keep himself upright. He almost tripped over his boots, looking at the silhouetted figure of his father in the door to the cellar.
Maekar Targaryen was not so much a stranger to Daeron as he was to the younger children. Daeron remembered a time, long ago, when his father’s strong hands were kind and gentle with him. When he’d wipe his tears away and assure him that nothing would ever hurt him, for he was his son and blood of the dragon. A time when Daeron did not stumble over words to say to his father, when he wouldn’t have been afraid to be caught where he shouldn’t be.
The blond wished for wine more than earlier now, as those painful memories tugged at the haze like dreams in his mind. They fought for dominance on which would pain him more.
“Do not think to lie to me.” It seemed his father took his silence as a craven response, and not the recollection it had been. Despite the torchlight at his back, Daeron could see his expression in the shadows. It was tight. It was disappointed. It was angry. “We both know why you’re here, don’t we, son.”
Daeron did not risk a smile and pushed off the wall with a nod. He said nothing, as cowardly as his father had presumed. He approached his father with head down. Maekar did not stay blocking his path, and instead moved to allow him escape. It was more than he thought he’d receive, and he was thankful that it seemed he’d get out of this predicament without as much punishment as he feared.
As he passed by his father, Maekar’s hand rose. Daeron flinched, but did not move from his grip. He felt his father’s hand land on his shoulder, not rough but firm. There was a strength to it that told Daeron he was holding back squeezing him harder. Neither said anything for a moment, Daeron’s heart racing in his chest. He knew his father could hear it, he knew he could smell his fear. The maester often told Daeron if he did not stink of wine, he stunk of fear. It was permeated into his skin like a perfume.
“It will be better like this,” said his father’s voice, startling him. Daeron did not fully turn to him, instead choosing the fearful response of glancing at him from behind his greasy pale hair. His father still wore the same expression, but there was a different tightness to his eyes now. There was pain there, regret. Daeron was perceptive enough when he wasn’t drunk, and it made his fingers flex at his side — seeking out a cup.
“I know, Father,” Daeron said, despite himself.
He did not understand. He knew why his father had forbid him wine, he knew why his father wanted him sober. It was the same reason he was here. He couldn’t take his eldest son to King’s Landing, to the Red Keep, behaving like a fool drowning in his cups. The sooner Daeron took himself from the wine, the better, he had been told.
Father did not seem to care for the way it made his hands shake to be without it. How the sweat on his brow had less to do with being away from the bitter drink and more to do with the dreams that could now creep into his mind. How their battles in his head pained him, how he had not slept the night before — or at all, since his last drink.
He knew why, but he did not understand. His father did not understand, it would not be better. Daeron had been holding hope for an unguarded wine cellar to give him a few more days of peace on their journey.
“I need you to be perfect, Daeron,” Maekar squeezed his shoulder. His thumb dug into his neck, and Daeron looked to their feet. His fathers polished boots, and his own caked in mud from his late walk the night prior when sleep evaded him. “I need you to be better than this. You cannot disappoint me.”
The unspoken again lingered in the air between them.
“I know, Father,” Daeron repeated.
“We’re all counting on you,” Maekar continued, and Daeron knew how much it pained his father to have to admit it. “If you can’t show yourself to be anything but a drunken whore, then I do not know what we will be forced to do. You are more than this, Daeron. You are blood of the dragon. You are my son.”
Daeron’s mouth moved to agree again, but no sound came out. His mouth was far too dry. Far too wet. Far too much of everything.
His father did not speak again for a moment, but he did not release him either. His hand shifted on Daeron’s shoulder, moving to cradle his neck. He brought him closer, and Daeron felt a bearded kiss to his pale crown. He closed his eyes and imagined for a moment that he was a pup. That mother was alive and with them. If he closed his eyes hard enough, he could smell his fathers true scent past the oils he decorated himself with now. A scent he hadn’t smelled since Father stopped living with them at Summerhall.
“Come,” his father released him. His hand lingered on his sons shoulder before dropping. The imposing figure turned to start back up the stairs of the cellar, his pathetic child following behind him. “You’ll need a bath before we depart. I won’t have the fucking road smelling you before we arrive at our lodging for the night.”
Aerion had asked Daeron once if the reason they were kept so far from the royal family was due to their father’s breed. He’d asked it suddenly, when Daeron was only two-and-ten, and had just presented. His brother hadn’t yet, not for another year and a half, but the fear was there when Daeron proved a disappointment.
He hadn’t known what to say to him then. Not back when Aerion was sweet. They’d spent the day at the river, fishing. Daeron’s idea, to ease his brother’s upset after Daeron’s first heat. Aerion had nicked away a thin knife from the cooks and was butchering a fish in an attempt to prepare it to eat. Scales had been all over his small hands, up to his sleeves, and his long hair tied back by his older brother to keep it from the same fate.
He hadn’t even looked up when he asked the question.
If Aerion had asked now, Daeron would have said yes. He would have told him the truth that he knew, that the King had sent his omega son away until he could prove honor for the Targaryen line. But Aerion had not asked now, he had asked then. And Daeron had laughed at him, assured him that was a foolish question, ruffled his hair and looked back to the lake where his fishing line lay useless in the water. He hadn’t even bothered to bait it.
Daeron would have never told that child the truth. Not when he knew Aerion was asking out of fear — not just for his brother, but for himself.
The horse between his legs was swaying.
Or, at least that was what Daeron was telling himself. If he admitted that the beast was strong and sure, then he’d also have to admit that he was swaying. He feared doing so would make it stronger than it currently was, and he’d fall off his horse and into the mud. That everyone in the group would see him for what he was, even if everyone knew already.
The sun was beating heavily down upon his back. He was not fond of horses, or riding. He preferred his own two feet, even if they were never the most reliable things. An unreliability he knew was better than an unpredictable beast with a mind of its own, after all.
In a perfect world, he’d have traded places with Aegon.
The poor youngest son was cooped up inside the carriage that housed his sisters. He’d started the day prior on horseback, as a young man should, but when he’d gone too far ahead or strayed too far out of line — his father had changed that. It had accomplished two goals, however, for the caravan. It had kept Aegon under the watchful eye of the septa, and stopped the howling sobs from Rhae that would erupt now and then when she remembered he was not with her.
Daeron could have calmed her, he thought, watching the mane of his horse wave in the breeze. He could have made Aegon promise to stay in line and gone into the carriage himself. It was shaded in there, and while there was still the rocking of the road to deal with — he thought for sure it’d be preferable to how he felt now.
“You’re going to fall off,” a voice to his left said. It took Daeron longer than he wanted to lift his head and look at the owner. It also said something to his current condition that he had not immediately realized it was Aerion.
“Am I?” Daeron asked with a smile, feeling his stomach roll. He’d eaten earlier in the day when they’d left the keep of a lord bound by honor and oath to house them for the night. He was afraid it’d come back up now.
“Didn’t get a drink at the keep, did you?” Aerion sniffed, looking far more comfortable on horseback than his brother. The gleaming hilt of his sword flashed in the burning sunlight. Daeron’s hands shook on his reigns.
“Father is rather crafty at keeping me from what I’m after,” Daeron admitted. He had tried. Not as hard as he could have, despite his desperation, but he had tried. He even used his name against the poor serving girl who he’d cornered when she denied his request. He hadn’t felt a bit bad when she’d cried real tears of fear over what would happen to her if she failed to listen to Prince Maekar’s instruction.
Neither said anything for a moment, and the voices from farther up in the caravan carried to them without words. It was never quiet here. Daeron hadn’t known quiet for days now.
“Have you slept, brother?”
Daeron looked to his brother now. Aerion was still looking forward, feigning indifference. His eyes stayed on the road before them, as though set on their destination and uncaring to the blond. Daeron knew better though, and saw the question for what it was. Concern, and curiosity. He thought to shake his head, but was sure to be ill if he did.
“I don’t think so,” he admitted. The previous night, Daeron not been permitted to walk the keep of their host, so he’d sat in a chair by the fire of his room instead. A knife in his hand, held tight, and his toes bare pressed close to the coals. The heat did lull him into a comfort that had threatened sleep, but when it licked at his eyelids he’d loose the tension in his legs and his feet would press into the fire — startling him awake. There were no true burns on the pads of his worn toes, as he had not done it more than twice yet.
“You’ll have to eventually,” Aerion continued on. The false indifference still in his voice, but Daeron caught him glancing at him with a brow raised. “Get it over with before we get to King’s Landing, Daeron.”
Daeron bit his tongue. It felt as though everyone thought it’d be different in King’s Landing. As though being in the Red Keep would take his dreams away, his fear. Change him. He was being put through a trial with no victory, and as he went on longer without relief he felt himself wondering why he was allowing this.
Biting his tongue harder, Daeron was about to let go and speak his true heart when he heard a shrill laugh coming from the carriage far ahead of them. It was most likely Rhae, who was unable to keep her voice ladylike at her age. Laughing at something her brother said, or perhaps her sister. Daeron stared at the carriage for a moment and held his tongue.
He knew why he was doing this.
The lingering voice of his father in the cellar came back to him.
We’re all counting on you.
“She sounds like a harpy,” Aerion muttered, darker than intended. Likely because he too knew she was laughing with joy at Aegon.
“I’m glad she’s enjoying herself,” Daeron welcomed the distraction. “A ride like this is unlike any they’ve ever taken. I was worried she’d be restless.”
“Well, now that the little brat is in there with her she’s happy as a lark.”
Daeron did not bite his tongue this time, but instead rolled his eyes with a smile. The familiar displeasure his brother held for Aegon was just that — familiar. Daeron was welcoming anything familiar with so much change.
His vision doubled for a moment. He learned forward on his horse to fight it, fixing his eyes shut as he gasped for air. Daeron focused on breathing out of his nose and in through his mouth as not to smell the beast, or the road. The horse shifted beneath him, unhappy at the movement. When he finally regained control of himself and righted himself on the path, Aerion was gone. Far ahead of him and the carriage holding most of their siblings. He was up near Father and Aemon now, leading Daeron to wonder how long he’d been weak for or if his brother had rode quickly to get away from him.
As his hands trembled against the reigns, he focused on the mane of his horse a moment longer. There were two members of the Kingsguard in their caravan. He could not fall, he would not fall. The beating sun baked his dark back, burning his parched throat, as their procession continued —not unlike that of a funeral.
The water of the bath was somehow cold when Daeron got inside it. He knew it had been boiled and poured not even moments before, he’d watched the maid do so himself — bored from where he sat in a chair, waiting. To his fevered skin, the burning water felt like ice. It almost soothed him, but only almost. Nothing could soothe him now.
They were less than a days ride from King’s Landing. Father had ordered him to wash most every night, and this was his last bath in an unfamiliar keep. Soon he’d be bathed in an unfamiliar castle instead.
The road was not kind to Daeron, who had not fallen off his horse despite the fear that latched his heart every day they’d depart. Yet, despite the lack of landing in the mud, he was consistently filthy. Perhaps it was from how low he slumped against the beast given to him. His forehead resting almost upon the animals neck as he fought a battle against his body for hours upon end. By the time they’d arrive at their hosts keep, Daeron would be soaked through with sweat and dirt.
The maid that poured his bath was the same as every night prior. She wet her hands in a basin beside the tub and lathered them with sweet smelling soap. She scrubbed the dirt and debris from his pale locks, combed out the tangles, and rinsed him over the edge into another basin. Then she’d wash his skin with another soap, but just as sweet smelling. It made his stomach roll. When she washed down his body and scrubbed behind his knees, he always wished she’d touch his cock.
If he couldn’t have wine, he wished he could at least have a warm body to comfort him.
But this maid was not the same as those at Summerhall. No one was here to pamper him as he wished. Despite the fact that his father was leaving for the city in the morning ahead of their caravan, they were all loyal to him. He had not managed to snitch a drop of wine, and it had been so torturous to smell it in others cups at the many great halls they’d feasted upon that Daeron had stopped going to meals. His father had voiced upset at it, until Daeron was sick upon his shoes during the argument.
He hadn’t actually seen his father personally since he’d soiled his riding boots. Only his back, far ahead of Daeron on his slow trailing horse. He knew when he was being ignored. He knew his father was wondering if this would work, if Daeron could do it, just as Daeron had been wondering the entire time.
The maid finished with his bath, cock untouched, the same as every night. She dried him off and helped him dress into night clothes as servants removed the tub. He sat quietly in his chair before the fire as she oiled his hair, and combed it back. The only sound in his dark borrowed chambers being her movements and his own shaking limbs. The only saving grace in his mind of being so close to the castle was the fact he wouldn’t have to ride the damn horse any longer.
And maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to finally get a drink when they arrived at their destination.
The emotions of his siblings had only intensified during their journey. Aemon, when Daeron had a mind to hear what they were saying, spoke of libraries and education still. Daella of dancing and court ladies. Aegon of being away from Aerion, and Rhae of being near Aegon.
Aerion had been the only one to changed his tune slightly, to talk of violence in terms of the Red Keep.
Earlier that day as they rode, Aerion had lingered his horse back to speak to his brother again — as he often had on other days. This time, however, there was no thinly veiled concern in his words. No asking if his brother had slept, or gotten wine. Only a challenge, one that had not been intended for Daeron.
He had told Daeron of his wishes when they were finally settled into their new apartments. How he’d convince Father to let him train in the yard with their uncles sons, the young princes. How he, despite not having ever met him, was sure to best Prince Valarr.
The memory of his brother speaking their cousins name had Daeron’s leg shooting out in a unintentional jerking motion for the table before him at present. It slammed hard enough to bruise against its surface, upending the bottles of oil and other objects onto the ground. The maid jumped and hurried to pick up his mess, never speaking a word as she dabbed the spilled oil off the ornate rug before them.
He’d had a similar reaction earlier when Aerion had said it. He’d hurried to stop his horse and all but throw himself off it, getting barely to the edge of the road before he was violently ill. Aerion had stopped his horse and watched, not lifting a hand to help, as did all the others in their caravan. Any who saw him vomit up his bread and cheese had not moved a hand.
“Leave me,” Daeron said to the maid in a hoarse, soft, voice. Memories, or dreams, were making him see double. Perhaps it’d be better to blame it on the lack of wine. She lifted her head and watched him, blue eyes a bit frightened. She hesitated and Daeron sat up a bit, jerky and unsure. “Leave me!”
The maid did not hesitate again. She quickly gathered up her tools and rushed from the room, the door closing a bit too hard behind her.
Valarr.
Valarr, Valarr.
Prince Valarr.
He only knew his name, and what his father had said. Prince Valarr, The Young Prince. He was strong, his father had assured him. Strong, like a true Targaryen. Every bit Baelor’s son, his father had said with a bit of green in his eyes. Alpha, of course. No one would have called him strong had the boy not been an alpha. No one called Daeron strong, or Aerion.
Daeron didn’t know what his cousin looked like.
The one time he had risked to ask someone who might know, one of the Kingsguard who’d come, he’d been told he looked like Baelor Breakspeak. Daeron barely recalled what his uncle looked like, having only met him once as a young child. He remembered his hair was black and his eyes striking, though that was as far as memory could serve. Any attempt at imagining Valarr’s looks brought forth what he knew alphas to look like — but black of hair and with striking violet eyes.
A laugh tugged at his mouth, and he did not fight it. It ripped from his chest, this hysterical laughter. He wrapped his arms around his body as he cackled, bending over himself so his face was at his knees and his hair closer to the fire. Daeorn laughed so hard tears came to his eyes, and his shaking could no longer be struck up to the lack of drink in his mouth but to how hard he sobbed. He had not wept this entire time. There was no reason to cry, after all.
He had nothing to mourn for leaving Summerhall. The castle and it’s swelteringly suffocating walls held no fond memories for him. Even those of joy in his younger years with his siblings were marred and tainted with fear and pain. There was no happiness there, no reason to cling to the rocks that made up its halls.
But it was familiar. It had been a familiar pain, a familiar hell.
This — whatever awaited him at the Red Keep — was not familiar. It was nothing he could prepare for.
When Father had came to Summerhall, a sudden visit many moons past it felt now, Daeron had been wary to see him. Father never visited save for a few times a year and only a short stay. When he’d come this time, it’d been with carriages that promised a longer hosting. He had known something was wrong when Father dismissed the septon that served them, when plans to fortify the castle for a lengthy absence were being made. He’d known something was grave when he’d called Daeron and his siblings before him in the feasting hall, outside of the hours of meal.
The King was sick, his father had told them to start.
Plans for succession were being made, though there was no doubt Baelor — as his heir — would take the crown. The plans, they were told, were for Valarr. The heir’s heir. He was needing to wed, as he should have been already. Father had been sure to tell them there had been other options. A girl from Tyrosh. A Martell, a Tyrell. All suitable and favorable options, but the one decided upon was for a stronger reason than uniting houses and strengthening allies.
The one who was decided upon, was Daeron.
Daeron Targaryen, the first born son of Maekar Targaryen. The oldest child of Baelor’s own siblings.
His entire life, he’d been told by his septon and maesters what a stain it was to be born as an omega male to the Targaryen dynasty. How he’d been his father’s first failure, a curse on a noble line sired between two life giving individuals.
That day in the feasting hall, his father had had different words for it. Fortune was one, though Daeron knew his father had not meant it. He told them how the King was lamented to recall how his family had been split. How separation of the children of Maekar did nothing but weaken the Targaryen line in their enemies eyes. How the King, in his illness, wished to mend it before he died. How Baelor agreed, how Maekar welcomed it.
They were to leave Summerhall and all its terrors. Daeron was to wed Valarr Targaryen and bring unification back to their family. He was to mend what had been broken and forge a path forward for his siblings.
The wedding, he was told, was already being planned. A short courtship, less than two turns of the moon, was also planned for them — insisted upon by the members of the small council. A thinly veiled threat that said if Daeron did not prove worthy of The Young Prince, he would not have him when the King passed. Father had drilled into his head how he should behave. That Prince Valarr knew nothing of the disappointment Daeron truly was, and he needed to prove he was worthy of someday being the Queen Consort.
He was kept from the whores whose comfort he needed, and the wine whose comfort he depended on. His septon was dismissed, his room was watched, his clothes were cleaned, his hair was scrubbed. He was primmed and toyed with by those who sought to mould him into something he had never been prepared for.
For a man he did not know, from the family they were deemed unworthy to meet.
When laughter and tears finally left him, Daeron had climbed into his soft featherbed instead of his perch before the fire. His feet were burned and painful from nights in the coals, and his entire body shook with an exhaustion he could not identify. The few moments when sleep had claimed him against his will on the journey had not been enough. His mind was so weak that he was welcoming the dreams.
Anything to escape from the horror of his currently waking world, he’d thought. A thought he hadn’t had since when he was just a boy, laying on his back in a windowless room. He hadn’t longed for the escape of the prophetic dreams since he’d welcome wine and warm bodies to his side.
Tonight, as he pulled the soft blankets over his head, he prayed that whatever visions he’d see would distract him from the ache in his own body.
Aerion watched him the day they rode through King’s Landing. Between bravado, of course. He was preening at the attention of the small folk, large toothy grins on his handsome face as his horse marched sure and strong. It must have only been Daeron who noticed his eyes casting back towards him. Even Aegon, who’d been allowed to ride again, was not looking at Daeron.
He watched him, but he did not speak to him. Not when they broke their fast in the morning and Daeron came to eat, exhausted with red rimmed eyes full of tears. Not when they mounted their horses and were given instruction on their ride through the city. He did not even speak to them when the splendor of the Red Keep rose above them and they entered into the castle to seek their apartments in order to freshen up.
The entire day, Aerion did nothing but watch him.
Only after Daeron was bathed in his bedchamber, and redressed in more expensive clothes than he had ever worn, did his brother finally speak to him. He’d come to him as they prepared to be presented before the council in the Great Hall, with all present save for the King. Aerion gripped his arm and tugged him towards a window, away from their escorts and siblings.
“You slept, dear brother?” Aerion asked, purple eyes searching him.
Daeron closed his own eyes tightly and nodded, a jerky motion. His brain rattled in his skull. His arms shook where his brother held him. Aerion only tightened his grip.
“Tell me.”
Daeron shook his head in the negative this time. His thins lips pursed together painfully for how chapped they were. He wondered how the maids and servants had thought him to look — sallow skinned and thin, pale and pathetic in his finery. Stinking of fear, thinly veiled attempts to hide it with the oils smothering his skin and scent gland.
“Tell me!” Aerion insisted again, fiercer this time. Both hands came to Daeron’s arms, tightly enough to bruise his thin skin. Daeron kept his eyes shut, shaking his head. Lips pursed, he fought off the roll of nausea. “Daeron!”
“Daeron?” A smaller voice asked.
They both looked quickly. Aerion with a snarl on his lips, and Daeron with concern. Aegon stood near their barely concealed hideaway at the spot by the window. His little hands looked afraid as he glanced at Aerion before looking back to Daeron.
“We’re coming, Egg,” Daeron assured, his voice a harsh and strangled whisper. He pushed away from Aerion, who could have kept him there if he chose to. Instead, his brother sneered once more at Aegon before shoving the eldest away from him. The click of boot and heel, prideful as always, followed as he marched away from his brothers.
Aegon remained, looking at Daeron who had slumped against the window. Head in one hand, while the other held him steady on the sill, he fought the wave of nausea. He had barely a moment to collect himself before a small hand reached to take the one keeping him upright. Aegon’s wide eyes, far too knowing for his own good, watched him. Daeron took his hand properly, and stood tall.
“Father will be waiting for us,” Daeron’s voice still could not go above the whisper. He had barely the strength to stand, let alone speak. He knew he needed to find both before they reached the Great Hall. Aegon kept his small, soft, grip in his until they caught sight of their family, then he let go.
Maekar quickly ushered Daeron closer. He walked past Aerion, who had schooled his face into one of peace in their fathers presence. Maekar took him by the collar and straightened it out, tucked a piece of pale blond hair back into place before deeming him presentable. A touch to the bags underneath Daeron’s eyes was not missed, nor was the displeased look that followed. They all knew there was little to be done about it.
Aemon had read Daeron a book that included a description of the Great Hall once. It was boring and he’d fallen asleep as he did, but he remembered some. Still, whatever had been on those pages would not have been able to prepare him for the sight of it.
The dying light of the day shone in through the window behind the great Iron Throne, far at the end as the approached. From the distance, Daeron could see it was empty. He knew the King to be ill and abed. The figures who were seated before it were hard to see, both through his wavering vision and how far off they were. The skulls of dead dragons lined his peripheral limbs vision, foreboding and dooming. He felt his Father grip his elbow tightly, below where he could feel the lingering pain of Aerion’s grip, before letting go.
Someone was saying something. Announcing their arrival, speaking their names, stating the titles they’d never used. Perhaps they were saying something else entirely, Daeron did not know. He could hear the echo of the words, but not the words themselves.
The figures came into view. Daeron recognized none, save for the tall and handsome man towards the center. It must be Baelor, his mind supplied while his ears could not hear. He was seated by an older woman whose looks he shared. To his side were two boys, and Daeron felt his steps falter slightly.
While custom dictated no such thing, Baelor rose to greet his brother. With him, rose the older of the two boys — and Daeron felt his wavering vision glued to the him. His dark brown hair, with the pale streak running through it, was only challenged in oddity by his mismatched eyes. Eyes that were looking at Daeron.
Someone was speaking again. Father, Baelor, maybe even one of the others who sat and watched. Daeron could not hear them, he could hear nothing save for blood in his ears. He could smell nothing, only the oils on his skin.
The one thing he could think, as Valarr stood proud at his father’s side, was such an odd thing that it made him smile a bit with fondness.
His betrothed was short.