Chapter Text
Daenys remembered the day she presented as an omega. Sixteen namedays, her omega mother Dyanna long dead, and the morning was full of pain and slick. Her screams had reverberated through her bedchamber at Summerhall, slurred High Valyrian and smalls begs for her mũna one of the only things she could remember. Her scent transformed to one of lemons and vanilla—and her father, Prince Maekar barred anyone from entering her bedchamber whilst his eldest daughter writhed in pain as her body altered to one of an omega.
When she came out of her first heat, Daenys knew everything had changed. Her twin Aerion presented a year before—early for an alpha of his station—and she was right to be afraid when Aerion visited her bedchamber at night and he placed a knife at her throat, and his hand underneath her chemise, his fingertips dancing on her clit while she bit down her whimpers of fear and held back her tears of pain.
You have presented as an omega now, sweet sister, he’d crooned as her blood turned to ice. Daenys could smell how his scent burned through her nose; like a burning fire that consumed her lungs and made her wish to hack up her throat. Her inner omega howled in displeasure at this alpha of her blood taunting her, telling her that she would be his. Daenys cried after Aerion realized she did not move a muscle, and his words—I will rape you sister, so your moonblood will bleed and kepa will have no choice but to bind us together—echoed in her ears before he departed from her chamber.
He visited her bedchamber for another three moons, all within the dead of night when the realm slumbered, and then one day… nothing. Perhaps his alpha had decided she would not suit him after all.
Whatever it came down to, Aerion left her alone. He did not visit her bedchamber ever again.
The following year, her aunt Jena, the wife of Prince Baelor Breakspear, died. Aunt Jena had been an omega from the Dornish Marches; House Dondarrion was a house of proud marchers, and Jena’s marriage to the crown prince had been one of politics. Dorne had been brought peacefully into the seven kingdoms by marriage—King Daeron, Second of His Name to Princess Myriah of House Martell, Princess Daenerys to Prince Maron Martell—and His Grace sought to continue this peace by marrying his oldest son Baelor to a house in the Dornish Marches.
Daenys had loved Aunt Jena. Jena Dondarrion possessed ginger hair that appeared to be on fire when the sun’s light graced it, and her blue eyes were always sharp and mirthful. Aunt Jena always made Daenys laugh as a little girl, and often called Aelora, her niece—and Prince Rhaegel’s daughter—and Daenys her daughters she could’ve had with Baelor.
My Vaelaena and my Maerys, Jena would tease.
But Jena had caught a chill, and then a fortnight later, died at King’s Landing. Daenys had dreamed of her aunt’s death—a spark of lighting that fizzled out and died; just as she’d dreamed of her mũna’sdeath as a falling star that lost its light and never shone again.
Prince Maekar and his family traveled to the Dornish Marches to attend the funeral. Prince Baelor and his sons, Prince Valarr, his heir, Prince Valarr’s lady wife, Elaeryn Cole and their children, and his son Prince Matarys watched their mother be placed in the crypts underneath the castle their mother had spent her girlhood in, and Daenys stood with her uncle Baelor when everyone else had made their leave.
“She told me she was not afraid,” Baelor said softly after what seemed an eternity of silence. “She would go and be escorted to the Seven Heavens and see me when my time would come. She was gentle and fearless—the thunder of my skies.”
Daenys only stared at the stony crypt. A year later, the statue of Jena would stand over her body buried underneath. But for now, all she saw was stone.
“There will be no one like her again,” she said quietly, and then leaned into her uncle, and said nothing when he put an arm over her shoulders. She remained silent even when he brought her into his arms and kissed the crown of her head.
She loved and adored him, her uncle Baelor. Daenys loved him as Targaryens loved their own—a queer kind of love. A love only their gods could judge and bear witness; a love only the Valyrian Gods could bless and allow to burn. They were two embers forever burning—two twin flames that danced in each other’s embrace and two haves of a whole.
Daenys did not know when these feelings surfaced inside her truly, but she recalled being a girl of thirteen, living in the Red Keep, years before her mũna died and she witnessed Baelor spar with her kepa. Baelor, as always, wielded his sword, and her kepa wielded his mace. The Hammer and the Anvil sparred one another with the ferocity of dragons, but the hammer was victorious when Baelor had Maekar on his back and his sword pointed to his brother’s throat.
“Yield.” It was a simple word, and yet, something inside Daenys awoken. Her breath had caught in her throat, her cunt grew needy and warm, and her nipples hardened into buds. Baelor had stood tall over her kepa, tall, broad-shouldered, focused—all the traits the heir to the Iron Throne ought to possess. A proper alpha prince.
Her life had changed ever since. Daenys kept her feelings locked away like a dove in a locked cage. Uncle Baelor had his own wife, and she was merely a princess. A princess of the royal blood, a Tagaryen, but she could never dare to dream to be his. His omega wife. His princess. His queen. The mother of his pups.
That’d been Aunt Jena. But Aunt Jena was dead, and Daenys knew she would keep those feelings locked away forever.
For another four years, she lived at Summerhall with her siblings and kepa. Avoided Aerion when she could, and taught her sisters Daella and Rhae how to braid their hair. Supped wine with her older brother Daeron, taught her younger brother Aemon High Valyrian before he was sent away to the Citadel, and played with her little brother Aegon. Egg, her little brother Aemon had nicknamed him—a nickname that stuck with his siblings.
Then, one day when Daenys was twenty-one namedays, her kepa announced with a grumble that their grandsire accepted the invitation to attend a tourney at Ashford, a small, quiet place in the Reach. Daenys and her sisters would stay behind at Summerhall, and her kepa with her twin Aerion, their older brother Daeron, and Egg would go. Egg was nearing the age that he would begin to squire, and he would squire under Daeron.
Daenys knew Daeron was a shit knight. Everyone knew it. Daeron preferred his cups to jousting, if not to silence the dreams that haunted his eyes—the same as hers. Daenys found she needn’t seek her comfort in drink like Daeron did. She did not know why, though she wondered if Daenys the Dreamer was the answer. When dragons lived, Princess Rhaenyra’s mount Syrax produced clutch after clutch. Then Princess Rhaenyra was killed by her own brother Aegon II, and the last dragon died in her son’s reign.
The dragons died, yet Daenys dreamed of eggs that hatched in fire and grew to be the beautiful beasts they once were, singing music of rebirth and summer. She dreamed of her own beast, a bright green dragon with molten silver eyes and a silver flame with sharp ivory teeth. She had an egg of her own—a bright green egg with silver flames that she sometimes held over the hearth in her bedchamber, then she would pray and murmur soothing words in High Valyrian, but the dragon never awoke.
The dragons were gone but they remained. And Daenys dreamed and dreamed and dreamed
Her kepa left Summerhall with her brothers to Ashford, and Daenys remained in the small castle with her sisters. Her kepa, as the Prince of Summerhall, ruled the castle as its lord. But as his eldest daughter, Maekar instructed the servants to follow her command, and she reigned quietly as the Princess in silence. She played with Daella and Rhae; they braided each other’s hair, whispered of which stable boy or knight or lordling who lived nearby would be worthy enough of them, and dabbled in the dark arts taught to them by their aunt Shiera.
A week later, she received a letter from Ashford. A messenger from House Targaryen—her cousin Valarr’s squire—rode from Ashford to Summerhall to deliver the message that turned her body to ice. It’d been early morning, after the clock chimed ten. Daenys sat outside with her sisters as they were under a tree with her maid Samantha enjoying their cakes and milk spiced with cinnamon and sweetened with honey when Daella heard the rider come up to the castle, and Daenys ushered to her feet to see a young boy—not older than fourteen—dismount from his horse and clamor to them.
“Princess!” Valarr’s squire panted. “I bring news from your cousin, Prince Valarr.”
Daenys’s brows furrowed together as she questioned, “From Ashford?” But she accepted the raven and ushered him and her sisters inside Summerhall. The servants fluttered around them, but Daenys guided them to the sitting room. Summerhall was smaller than the Red Keep—a humble castle that hosted the Prince of Summerhall and his large brood of pups.
Daenys closed the doors behind them, concealing them from the scurrying in the hall and the chatter of the servants. Daella and Rhae sat on a sofa leaving the middle open for their sister, whilst their cousin’s squire awkwardly stood at the sofa across from the princesses.
“Corwin,” she said politely to her cousin’s squire, “please, do sit. I’ll ring the bell for some cake and milk.”
Corwin Rogers shifted on his feet and nervously bobbed his head before he sat down on the sofa. After Daenys rang the bell for two platters of cakes and two pots of sweetened and spiced milk, she joined her sisters. Rhae reached over to grab a small little knife from the table and handed it to her sister. Daenys sliced through the seal and unfolded the parchment.
My dearest cousin, cousin Valarr’s familiar scrawl in High Valyrian began, I write you urgent news from Ashford. There has been a situation involving the family.
Daenys’s stomach twisted into knots as her eyes drifted to Valarr’s next words.
Aerion was struck by a hedge knight. He calls himself Ser Duncan the Tall, and he is very tall. Ser Duncan defended a Dornish puppeteer’s honor. Her name was Tanselle. But you know your twin better than anyone—his thirst for cruelty knows no bounds.
No, she thought sadly, it does not. On that front, you are right dear cousin.
Aerion requested a trial of seven. He said it was his right. We know that is a load of shite.
Daenys wondered if she threw herself off the balcony of her bedchamber—it would stop the bile which rose in her throat. The knots in her belly twisted tighter as she returned to read the raven.
Nevertheless, Aerion received his way.
Of course he had. Aerion always did get his way.
Your kepa fought for him, as he is his lord father. And Ser Steffon Fossaway, though I must confess he was not as remarkable as a fighter, and of course, Ser Donnel of Duskendale and Ser Roland of Crakehall.
Ser Duncan had the Laughing Storm on his side, as well as Ser Humfrey Hardyng, Ser Humfrey Beesbury, Ser Raymund Fossaway, a blacksmith by the name of Steely Pate, and my lord father, Prince Baelor.
Daenys thought someone had stabbed her with a knife into her belly when she read Uncle Baelor’s name.
How could they? How could Aerion be so cruel and demand a hedge knight fight him in a trial of seven? And how could Uncle Baelor step in?
Why had kepa not demanded more to be done? That Aerion be flogged for his accusation? Daenys knew how cruel her twin could be. No doubt he thought he could do anything and everything as a Targaryen prince. The world was at his feet.
Yes, she knew him better than anyone.
Daenys, with a heavy heart, continued to read.
I regret to tell you that Ser Humfrey Hardyng and Ser Humfrey Beesbury did not survive. Their bodies were collected by their sons, and seven above, their bodies are laid to rest.
She remembered seeing Ser Humfrey Hardyng at a tourney years ago, when she’d presented as an omega. Daenys had been in awe of his prowess and ease with a lance, and a heavy pang followed as she recalled meeting Ser Humfrey Beesbury at a ball in the Reach once; Daenys had laughed as the knight danced with her, the only delight she’d found the entire evening.
Two alphas who were now dead because of her brother’s temperament. She almost wished she’d gone along with her kepa so she could demand him to do something. She knew he never suspected Aerion of any folly—how could he when he was the perfect son around him?—but would he make the choice to send her twin away?
Daenys read on.
My lord father wished to fight for Ser Duncan. He came to me early in the morning and inquired if he could wear my armor, as he did not bring his own. My father did not intend to join the tourney as a champion, and with a heavy heart, I agreed. I dressed him that morrow and he joined Ser Duncan. I watched the trial, dear cousin, and I was horrified to see what happened next.
Kepa was struck, Daenys. Kepus Maekar swung his mace at my kepa’s head.
No. Her kepa would not swing his mace on purpose to hit his brother. Kepa loved his brother too much for that. It must have been an accident.
It was accidental. I believe he intended to aim at Lord Lyonel Baratheon, missed, and swung at my kepa instead. But the trial was already over—Aerion had relinquished his accusation against Ser Duncan. Kepa was looked at by a maester. He seems to be in a deep sleep. The maester says he was lucky to have fallen into his state. Kepus says cousin Daeron is returning with Egg and Ser Duncan. I am coming to Summerhall with my kepa, so he may get some rest and awaken.
I pray that my lord father will come back to us.
—Yours,
Valarr
Daenys hadn’t realized she was crying until Rhae gently shook her. She sniffed, wiped her tears, and folded the raven before placing it underneath her arm. “Thank you, Corwin,” she said. “When will they arrive?”
By dusk, Daenys heard the small party arrive. Rhae and Daella, despite their protests that they wished to be awake when their siblings, cousin Valarr, and kepus Baelor arrived, they’d fallen asleep. Daenys tucked her sisters into their beds before scurrying to the front entrance of Summerhall as a servant informed her the family had reached the castle.
Daenys saw Valarr lead the small party alongside Daeron. Her cousin dismounted from his horse, and he went to her. Almost immediately, she rushed to him and they embraced.
“Thank the gods you all arrived safely,” she said when they broke from the hug. Her eyes landed on Daeron, who, with the help of a member of the royal household, alighted from his mount. Her older brother looked tired: darkness under his eyes, his purple eyes rimmed red, his blond hair disheveled, and his tunic and breeches looked worn. His boots were the only things that appeared clean, but Daenys cared naught.
Daenys went to embrace him, and she could smell the remnants of wine drifted through her nostrils. She only embraced him tighter and murmured, “Brother. I dreamed of you.”
“Sister,” Daeron sighed. His hand fell between her scapula and rubbed circles into her skin to soothe her.
Eventually, they parted, and Daenys looked at Egg.
“Egg?” she asked. “What happened to your hair?”
“I cut it off, sister,” her youngest brother said. “I didn’t want to look like Aerion.”
Her eyes softened. “I see.”
Then her gaze fell upon a large man—larger and taller than her. “You must be Ser Duncan the Tall.”
Ser Duncan, with his brown hair and blue eyes, blushed. “Yes, princess.”
“I will ensure a chamber is ready for you, ser. You may break your fast with us in the morrow. Please, come inside.”
Daenys turned around and instructed a few servants to bring the horses to the stables, then turned around and escorted the new guests inside. She heard the low murmurs of the royal household guide the unconscious Prince Baelor through the castle and upstairs to the guest wing.
Daenys tried her damndest to not sneak a look. Her heart pounded in her rib cage as she guided Ser Duncan through the modest castle. “I assigned a chamber for you, Ser Duncan,” she said. “It is just this way—down the hall.”
When they arrived to an oak door, she pushed it open and encouraged the knight to follow her inside. The chamber was the same size as the rest of the guest chambers—a four-poster bed against the wall in the middle of the room with a window that overlooked the back garden of the castle and the woods beyond the Marches. A writing desk was next to the window with a pot of ink and a quill and chair.
“The servants will bring in your things soon,” she told him after he glanced around the room.
“T-Thank you,” Ser Duncan stammered. He was still blushing; he was embarrassed, poor lad.
“No need,” she said earnestly. “Thank you for protecting Tanselle from my twin.”
“Prince Aerion is your twin brother?” Ser Duncan asked.
Daenys sighed. Her mouth flattened into a sad line. “Yes. I am fifteen minutes older. I apologize for any ill-ease he has given you. My brother”—she sighed again—“he believes he is the dragon reborn. The dragons are gone, you see. We were dragonlords, once. But the dragons are dead, and we remain. I dream of it every day, ser. As my brother Daeron does.”
“Did you dream of me?”
His question made her pause. Daenys even tilted her head in consideration.
“Prince Daeron said he dreamed of me, when I was in the inn,” Ser Duncan clarified.
“I see.” She nodded in acknowledgment. “I did dream of you, Ser Duncan. You and a large, black dragon. The black dragon was not dead, but I could feel its heartbeat.”
They both knew of whom she spoke of. Prince Baelor.
“His Grace is an honorable man,” Ser Duncan said. “I swore my sword to him.”
“If I were a man,” she said lightly, “I would as well. There is not many men like my uncle.”
Ser Duncan nodded in agreement. A silence fell over them, and Daenys’s mouth curved into a small smile. “Would you like a bath, Ser Duncan?”
“Yes, please.”
“Would you like a servant’s help?”
“No, my lady.”
Daenys nodded. “I will summon a servant for you to start a bath. They will come and fetch you. It will not take long, I’d wager.”
“Thank you.”
She curtsied politely and then quietly left the bedchamber. Daenys caught the eye of a servant and kindly told them to begin a bath for Ser Duncan and to fetch him when it was done. She walked down the halls of Summerhall to the wing of bedchambers for Prince Maekar and his children—and she knocked on Daeron’s door.
“Come in,” she heard the tired voice of her brother say on the other side.
Daenys opened the door and stepped inside. She closed the door behind her before walking to his bedside. “Brother,” she said quietly, “tell me what happened.”
She sat on his bed and gently grasped his hands in hers.
“Kepa wanted me to join the tourney. You know how I feel about tourneys.”
“You’re a shit knight,” she said kindly.
Daeron chuckled. “I am. Everyone knows that. You know that Egg wished to be someone’s squire. He never wished to be mine. And as I am knighted, I never wished for him to be mine, either. I didn’t want to attend the tourney, and I intended to hide in the inn until it was over. But Egg wished to be someone’s squire, still. I shaved his head so he could be a normal boy, but then he ran off with Ser Duncan.”
Daenys’s lips formed into a frown. “There is something you are not telling me.”
Her brother winced. “Egg and Ser Duncan went to Ashford. I hid in the inn. Aerion caused trouble. He broke one of the puppeteer's fingers. Ser Duncan was defending her honor.”
Daenys frowned further and she grasped the furs underneath her. Her hands became fists as she said in controlled voice, “I see our brother unleashed his fury. Fury of the dragon on the poor masses?”
“Yes,” Daeron sighed. “Our brother declined Ser Duncan’s trial by combat. He demanded a Trial of Seven instead.”
Her twin was many things: a terror, half-mad with jealousy that the dragons died, and the entitlement of a prince. Daenys was not surprised in the slightest.
“Valarr said that kepus was hurt.”
“He was. Kepa swung his mace. It was an accident.”
“Where is he? Kepa? And Aerion?”
Daeron shifted on the bed and placed his head on her lap. Daenys gently stroked his hair to fill the silence.
“Kepa said that Aerion would be banished to the Wall. He thought of banishing him to Lys, but he realized it wouldn’t be good enough. Aerion will still be allowed to do as he wished. Kepa is escorting Aerion to the North. They’ll be received by Lord Manderly, then join Lord Stark for a week before going to the Wall.”
Their father would not be back for a while. Daenys would no longer be Princess of Summerhall. Such honor would go to her brother.
“The servant will be under your command now,” she told him.
“My command, my arse,” Daeron said, followed by a mere roll of his eyes. “My command is shit and you know it. You’ll be the princess in kepa’s stead.”
Daenys sighed but nodded. “You should get some rest, lēkia.”
Daeron hummed his agreement. Daenys tucked him in, kissed his forehead, and left his chamber. Down the hall was Egg’s and she entered the same way she’d done with Daeron. Egg’s tired voice allowed her inside, and she slipped into his chamber.
Like Daeron, she sat beside Egg in his bed. Her brother looked exhausted.
“Daeron told me what happened,” Daenys said after Egg snuggled close to her. A pang of hurt thrummed through her body. Egg was young when their mũna died—too young to remember her voice or even what she looked like. To him, Daenys was the mother he never remembered. Even now, as she held him and kept close in her arms, she held him like their mũna used to hold her.
The thought made her sad. She missed her mother.
“Ser Duncan only wished to help,” Egg sniffed. “Aerion was being cruel. He snapped her finger in half.”
Daenys frowned again. The bile threatened to rise in her throat, but she swallowed her disgust and horror and only said, “I can imagine.”
“I wished Ser Duncan had killed him,” Egg said. “I told kepus as much. But he told me the septons say we must love our brothers.”
Daenys made a noise. It sounded like a little hum. “Kepus only wishes for us to get along. Our house has already suffered enough. We must be strong for the people. The people rely on us. Our dynasty was built on war and blood, but it is up to us to keep it together. You remember what happened during the Dance of Dragons.”
Egg made a noise of his own. They both knew he was a restless pup—he didn’t smell like smoke like Aerion, or something musky and slightly sour like Daeron. Ser Duncan had smelled like fresh wind. Egg still smelled fresh and clear—nothing to paint him as an alpha, beta, or an omega. He didn’t smell sweet like Daenys did. Egg preferred to run around Summerhall and play-fight with his wooden sword. He had dreams of becoming a knight like Aemon the Dragonknight.
“I hold as much love for Aerion as you do,” she told him honestly. “But it is good that kepa had decided to send him away. Aerion has… always favored the thought of being a dragon reborn. He is a dragon, just as you and I. Kepus wishes to keep all of us together. The house of the dragon must be one, valonqar.”
Egg mumbled something she could not hear. Daenys just smiled softly and patted his bald head. “I know,” she said, “you are young. When you are older, you will understand. Believe me—I did not wish to be nice to my twin when I was your age.”
Egg lifted his head a little. “No?”
Daenys chuckled. “No. But… Aerion was kinder than. He was not a little monster as he is now. And truth be told—there is an infinitesimal part of me that feels sorry for him.”
“Why would you feel sorry for him?” Egg questioned. “He is mean.”
“I know.” She gently massaged his little shoulders to soothe his ire. “But he and I, we came into this world together. I came first, then he arrived after some strife. In some ways, he and I are the same—two sides of a coin. He is cruel where I am kind. He thinks of himself as a dragon, and I dream of them.”
“I know,” Egg replied. Then he shifted a little, inquiring: “Will you tell me another dream?”
Daenys laughed. “Did you ask Daeron for his?”
Egg bobbed his head excitedly, his own lilac eyes shining as he said, “He told me of a bright green dragon flying in the sky. It looked like your egg, mandia.”
“My egg?” Daenys asked, a note of curiosity in her voice.
Egg nodded again. “But Daeron refused to tell me anything else. I want to hear one of your dreams, mandia. Please?”
Daenys captured her bottom lip between her teeth and then let go after a moment. The dream she dreamt after her family left for Ashford was one that troubled her. Two dragons—a large black dragon with gold eyes that glowed like the sunspears of Dorne, and a smaller black dragon with eyes that were red like blood—facing off with one another, circling each other as if they were readying themselves for battle in the Kingswood in King’s Landing.
She’d tried to scream, to beg them to stop before blood could be shed. But then her dream changed; the ground underneath split open and swallowed her whole, and then she fell… and continued to fall until she was in a sept. The grand Sept of Baelor: with its glided seven walls for the seven-faced god and rainbow glass. Daenys could not see the faces of the crowd, and she did not see the alpha lord of whom she was promised.
But she felt her maiden cloak be removed from her shoulders, and her husband removed his own, and draped her with the protection of her new house.
Then, she’d woken up.
“My dream… well, there was one I dreamed of after you left with kepa, Aerion, and Daeron,” she admitted.
“What did you dream about?” Egg asked.
“Two dragons,” she recited. “They appeared to be at odds. But before they could fight, my dream changed. It became the Sept of Baelor, and I was married.”
“To who?”
“I have no clue.”
Egg, with a frown, snuggled into her again. “I hope you will be married to someone who loves you.”
“I certainly hope so, Egg.”
A little after her brother fell asleep, Daenys tucked him in and left his chamber. She walked down the hall where she’d been told where Baelor was kept away, and she stopped before the door, hesitant.
Daenys had seen her father’s mace many times. Had watched him use it in training and heard the songs sung of the hammer and the anvil, of her kepa’s prowess in the Blackfyre Rebellion. She knew how it could hurt someone.
But she quietly opened the door and slipped inside. She saw her uncle propped up in the bed, his head wrapped in bandages, and the chamber smelled of the milk of the poppy. As she sat in the vacant chair at his bedside, she saw his chest rise and fall—a sign that he still lived. That whatever injury her father had inflicted on him had not killed him.
Daenys looked at him with sorrow and pain. “Why did you choose to do such a thing?”she murmured in High Valyrian. “Was it that it was right—or that you felt there was nothing else could be done?”
She received no answer. She hadn’t expected one. Uncle Baelor remained motionless and silent. If she were still green, she would’ve assumed he was dead.
But this inert state perhaps hurt her more. To know her uncle clung to life, only asleep so he may regain his strength—perhaps the alternative hurt more than if her father’s mace killed him outright.
Daenys felt the weariness of the day finally sink into her bones. She yawned softly, got up from the chair to place a kiss on his forehead as she’d done with Daeron and Egg, and then departed from the chamber to return to her own.
When she settled in for the night, the candle burned on her writing desk as she quietly wrote three ravens—one for her kepa, another for her Uncle Byrden, and one for her grandsire. Daenys folded the parchments and slipped them inside her desk and cleared the space before climbing into her bed. Slipping her furs over herself, she closed her eyes and succumbed to sleep.