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With a great sigh Valarr all but fell onto the sofa in his makeshift chambers. He wished he were far from Brightwater, and more than that, he wished for this night to be over.
As if he were thinking too loudly, Daeron appeared in the door frame. There he stood for a moment, likely ascertaining the extent of Valarr’s despair—so as to decide how much he would like to poke and prod at Valarr.
“If you’ve come to mock me, do not bother taking another step forward,” said Valarr.
Though the other part remained unsaid: But if you’ve come to do anything else, anything else at all, then please stay.
“I don’t believe it was as calamitous as you believe it was,” said Daeron, stepping into the room but doing so slowly, as if he were deciding whether or not to close the door behind him. He left it ajar.
“Do not lie,” hissed Valarr. “My father has made a mistake, but he will not see it—so every great house now thinks little of me but a spoiled prince.”
Prince Baelor had announced tonight, at a feast held for this very purpose, that Prince Valarr would be wed to Lady Kiera of Tyrosh come next springtime. All rejoiced except for Prince Valarr himself—and Prince Baelor knew precisely why, but he cared not.
Their quarrels over it had been numerous as of late. Valarr did not think a Tyroshi lady suitable as the wife of the future Prince of Dragonstone—not when Daemon the Pretender had himself taken a Tyroshi wife, and not when Valarr had taken on the complexion of his father and grandmother. Securing a trade alliance with Tyrosh and diminishing Daemon Blackfyre’s influence on the island was necessary, Valarr would be the first to concede; but why not wed Lady Kiera to Matarys? So Valarr might know his own bride, but more importantly, so he might save his own son from the whispers at court?
Prince Baelor would not listen, though, and tonight he had finally declared victory in their little war by announcing the betrothal to all the realm at once. Valarr was no stranger to conjuring a smile for the court, but in that moment he had failed, because he had always known his father to be a man of reason yet tonight he could not be farther from it. So when Valarr had been prompted to stand and speak, his teeth were far too clenched and he had far too little to say about his betrothal and its virtues.
All the lords before him were silent when he sat, expecting him to have said much more. But he only sat, his jaw very tense, and from many places down he met eyes with Daeron and hoped his anger was not so ruinous.
But of course it was. This was precisely the sort of event which Valarr needed to impress the noble lords at, for although the day was very far, he would someday be king. And no lord quite liked to kneel before a king they once knew to be a spoiled, sullen boy.
“On the morrow, there will be jousting and dancing and puppet shows, and most importantly, the fresh news that the future Prince of Dragonstone is betrothed to a Tyroshi bride,” said Daeron, who approached the sofa Valarr sat on but hesitated to sit; for a moment he lingered, his palm resting on the sofa’s arm. He seemed drunken to a rather pleasant extent now. “I assure you, they will be much more concerned with your bride’s unnatural hair color than whatever you had to say at the feast. Perhaps you might even convince some of the denser lords that you were merely excited at the announcement.”
Valarr’s hand moved over to Daeron’s, prying it from the wood and holding it with a gentleness. Then that gentleness turned firm as Valarr tried to drag him down, his ultimate goal being a simple kiss, but Daeron denied him.
“Any other night, I would do anything you ask,” said Daeron, with such normality that Valarr’s heart fluttered, “but tonight is not like any other night. Seeing as your distress is rather unique, we ought to do something unique to remedy it.”
Valarr only raised his brow.
“Someday, the realm will be lucky enough to call you its king, but that day is still scores away,” explained Daeron, “So you and I should do something that we might only do now, while we’re still young.”
“We do a great many things like that,” said Valarr; Daeron chuckled at that. “Might you just say it?”
“Fine, fine. What say you to the notion that, instead of being Prince Valarr, son to the Prince of Dragonstone, you became merely... a stable boy?” asked Daeron, leaning rather forward, so his lips were nearly at Valarr’s ear. “Just for a night.”
The notion was very enticing; or perhaps it merely sounded enticing coming from Daeron’s lips, spoken beneath his wine-soaked breath. But it was impossible.
“There are too many highborn lords about,” replied Valarr. “You could perhaps get away with such a scheme, but surely someone would recognize me.”
Daeron scoffed. “Haven’t you ever heard of a cap? And who truly expects a prince to defile themself so?”
It was not a terrible point. Still, each thought of temptation was followed duly by some other feeling of worry. “Surely the commonfolk will take note of our manner of speaking.”
“None of them know what a highborn man speaks like. And if they do, then that is merely your character, some bastard rejected by his highborn lord father,” said Daeron. Then he waved a hand and added, “Because we’ll be merely players for a night, Valarr, you see? Playing roles utterly opposite to our own. You, an unloved bastard, and I... I don’t know. Some fair, pious maiden.”
Hopefully, none of this night would be written into a history book; but if that ever were to pass, Valarr would have it noted that his better judgment still protested the whole plan. Only, Daeron had quite the knack for dissuading Valarr away from his better judgment.
For Valarr was a man of obligation who very keenly felt every consequence that may potentially befall him; Daeron was a man of inevitability who very keenly felt what would certainly befall him. Premonition did not mean utter lack of will, though—for Daeron could never convince Valarr to touch him while he was too drunk, but he could certainly convince him to drink as well. Soon enough he would always get his wish; not only that, but he would make Valarr wish for it as well.
So they threatened a pair of stable boys. Somewhat.
That is to say, the threat was not their first measure. Their first measure was dropping far too many gold dragons into the stable boys’ hands so they would watch their princely clothes for a night. For they knew nothing of this castle’s halls, so attempting to locate and loot the servants’ quarters might have drawn unnecessary eyes. Valarr’s window was only a short distance from the hedges below, as Valarr declared and Daeron agreed, so out they went.
The threat—if it would qualify as such, anyway—was Valarr merely holding out his dagger and promising that, were they to sell the clothes, they would be punished for robbing two princes of the realm. The boys were terribly frightened, but Daeron had come so close to giggling that Valarr had to smack him several times in the arm. Which only served to make Valarr nearly giggle, as well.
So they had changed into their disguises at the edge of the tree-line. It was then that Valarr had realized—why give the stable boys their royal dress at all? Why not hide it among some tree?
Daeron had no answer, only to begin laughing. Valarr could only uphold his own front for mere moments before he broke as well, his breath stolen by Daeron’s impeccable knack of rendering Valarr a complete fool.
So they laughed among the trees like two mad men, the tourney pavilions set up before them like little fire-flies in the night.
“Thinking upon it now, I cannot name a worse scheme of yours,” said Valarr, without any bite at all. For he knew that he was a true accomplice now, and he also knew that this would be far from the last imbecilic thing he would do with Daeron, if he could help it.
“There may not be one,” said Daeron, who smiled well enough but did so with—as Valarr recognized it, and he was very good at reading Daeron—some newfound inauthenticity.
“Is something the matter?” asked Valarr. “If you want to return to the castle, say the word.”
“No, no.” Daeron gave a wry laugh and hung his head. “Imagine your father if we admitted to this? My father? No, I fear I’ve somehow taken in another... silly notion. Let’s go on.”
Then he attempted to leave, but Valarr caught his shoulder. “However silly, at least speak it. Do not let it die in your head.”
Valarr could not count how many times he had said those words. Do not let it die in your head, he would beg, when Daeron had emptied some especially great number of cups and found himself in Valarr’s chambers, at the mercy of whatever dreadful things his mind conjured up.
Then Daeron looked back up, half his face bathed in moonlight. His eyes were steady, but his brows were furrowed and lips set as if he were gathering up some great courage. Surely, Daeron did not think so highly of Valarr that confessing this notion—whatever it may be—was so frightening it required courage? Valarr rather wanted to simply instill courage in Daeron, just as Daeron did for him.
“I dreamed of them,” said Daeron, very slowly. “The bastard and the maiden. I think you and I are meant to play them tonight.”
For a moment Valarr was indeed taken aback; to say otherwise would be a lie. He had thought Daeron was merely joking, when he mentioned the pious maiden; the polar opposite of Daeron himself. Perhaps it was indeed less of a jest, only presented as such.
Joke or not, honest or not, Valarr could see plain as day the great fear in Daeron’s eyes. There were many things he could have done, then, like take Daeron’s face in his hands and kiss him, or pull him in for an embrace. But those would still leave Daeron alone in his courage.
So Valarr chose to extend a hand for his fair lady, because he meant to share in this courage. That was the only way to return any of Daeron’s countless favors.
Coin was their greatest ally tonight. After traveling to two inns, vastly overpaying the second innkeep, and telling an utterly awful tale—this time regaling of a poor, nonexistent sister who had been attacked and needed dress, yet would not reveal herself for she was behind the inn hiding in the brush to maintain her modesty—they had indeed scored a very decent cotehardie. For the first innkeep had no daughter, but the second did, and had the sense to simply take the gold dragons given to him, likely three times what he deserved.
And so it came to pass that the maiden from the tale became a fair bit more real.
Neither of them spoke a word as Valarr fastened the laces, but not without cherishing the notions of Daeron’s chest beneath his fingers. They were separated only by a couple layers of wool and linen.
All the while, Daeron would not look ahead, his gaze fixed somewhere on the ground beside him. And although Valarr could forever gaze at his jaw and relish in how long his hair had grown, he would not like to keep up this wall. So, very carefully, Valarr reached a hand up and guided Daeron’s focus—a fleeting thing on any given day—back to where it ought to be.
Valarr smiled a little; for although this was certainly a very, very queer happenstance, and he was not yet accustomed to whatever Daeron had swirling about in his mind, this was not so impossible to imagine. Their ancestors had once bonded their own blood to dragons and bore scaly babes—a prince donning a maiden’s cote, by comparison, seemed as normal as clouds in the sky.
That wordless smile had seemingly snapped some of the chains upon Daeron’s heart, for he finally grinned truly. He nearly laughed, in fact. Perhaps he, too, had become suddenly aware of what they were doing, and he, too, could not quite believe it.
When Valarr was done fastening the laces he took a step back, undoubtedly in some state of disbelief—though not necessarily a bad one. Before him stood a lady with shoulders more square than he had ever seen, and hair shorter than what was fashionable, and a lack of breasts, but a lady nevertheless. This lady picked up her skirt, gazed down at it, then dropped it suddenly just to feel the weight of the fabric, all the while swiveling on her feet—in her utterly inappropriate shoes—in precisely the same fashion Valarr had witnessed all his little cousins prance about in their fanciful nameday gowns.
This was any other lady, so Valarr did the chivalrous thing and extended his arm. With a laugh, she linked herself around him, and she was warm.
“You know,” said Daeron quietly, as he held very tightly to Valarr while they approached the heart of the tourney, “You may have to do much of my speaking for me.”
“I’m far from clever,” said Valarr, for he knew that of himself, “but of course I shall try my hardest for my lady... Daenys?”
“Quite a Valyrian name for a character who is pointedly not a Targaryen,” snickered Daeron.
“Well—perhaps the lady is from Dragonstone or Driftmark, and all her family before her,” shrugged Valarr, for they both knew of the violet eyes that lived on those islands, in far fewer numbers nowadays but never gone. “Perhaps she broke away and made for Oldtown, but stopped in her tracks completely when she met me. Utterly in love.”
Daeron scoffed, but he did not protest. “And you? Who is your highborn lord father who loathes you?”
Valarr thought about this. If whomever was asking was lowborn, then it mattered not, yet he still would like to have a tale ready to tell. In fact, Valarr might have said that between he and Daeron, he was the more worrisome of them, for he had to speak for both of them!
Still, if nothing else, he quite liked a challenge.
“Perhaps old Lord Merryweather?” said Valarr, moreso suggesting than declaring. “I have indeed heard that he provides little for his bastards.”
This gossip was true, and indeed House Merryweather’s seat was quite close to Brightwater; traveling for this tourney was perfectly conscienable. That was the greatest reason Valarr had thought of it. Perhaps the greatest risk was Lord Merryweather’s attendance at this tourney; if he recognized the princes, their dilemma would become nothing short of ruin. But that was not likely.
“I thought you just said you were not clever!” said Daeron, smiling behind a gentle hand, “That is a very clever tale.”
“I’m glad you think so,” grinned Valarr.
Then they were surrounded by throngs of tourney-goers. Each lord’s tent was a flame in the dark, and they were now two moths drawn to all of them in near equal measure. But they could not visit every single tent, not without eyes settling upon them, so they pondered where to acquire the best wine. If any.
Daeron suggested Lord Baratheon’s tent. By no small margin was his tent the rowdiest, terribly loud even from the outside; and the man himself—despite having been the Lord of Storm’s End for only two years—had a great love for tourneys and an even greater love for drink.
“All we must do is dance!” argued Daeron, when Valarr had initially protested. “Do you think Lord Baratheon has any intention of remaining even the slightest bit sober? Because I very much do not—and he will undoubtedly have the best wine.”
“There will be too many knowing eyes,” insisted Valarr. Indeed, half the fun of this entire scheme was the risk; this was not risk, this was certain death.
Daeron groaned. “What did I say earlier? If you are not dripping in velvet and jewels, no one will spare you even a passing glance!”
Valarr sighed. “And you? If you were caught, who knows what your father might do?”
“I would take the Black on the morrow, surely,” said Daeron. “But I do believe this cote does much and more for my anonymity, wouldn’t you agree?”
Glancing away, Valarr could not deny his point. One who meant to accuse him of hiding away need only snatch his cap; one who suspected Daeron of being a prince would be deemed mad.
With yet another sigh, Valarr lamented his utter weakness to Daeron’s will. Then he said, “Just please do not get so drunk you forget yourself? Keep hold, if only for my sake?”
Then Daeron’s eyes lit up, and Valarr had a fleeting desire to kiss him before all the unknowing commonfolk. But their eyes still bore holes into him, so he resisted it.
“I knew you’d relent,” said Daeron through a grin. “I’m rather beginning to dry out, so let’s not delay any further.”
Then he grabbed Valarr’s wrist and led him to oblivion. His posture and his movements were entirely too unladylike yet graceful in his way. Indeed, Valarr had only met this Daenys tonight, but he already thought the world of her.
There were so many moving, dancing bodies within Lord Baratheon’s tent, and the music was so deafening, that they likely wouldn’t be found even if their fathers sent a search party after them.
Valarr had stuck to the wall like a mouse at first, but Daeron had thrown himself into the fire immediately. In that way, he was much more of a dragon than Valarr was.
Or was it Daenys who threw herself into the fire? Had she appeared once they stepped foot inside the tent?
If it were, she had made a glowing first impression upon Valarr, who saw her from a distance for the first time while she weaved between men highborn and lowborn alike in an utterly carefree manner. And she was no short lady, either—she was rather tall, taller than Valarr in fact, and not slender by any means, but she carried herself in her shoulders and somehow this made her quite invisible. As if any man who glanced at her should not bother, for she would soon return to her husband who would do anything for her.
Well, Daenys very much had that, even if Valarr was no longer anyone of note. He watched this lady, with her too-short, sandy hair, swipe two cups of wine from an unattended table then turn on her heel as if she were instead a serving girl. He could not tear his gaze away if he wanted to.
She returned with the cups and without a care, keeping the fuller one for herself and handing Valarr the other. Valarr accepted the cup despite how dumb-struck he found himself.
His mind raced as if he had already drunk the cup and four more. Who was this standing before him? Had he met this lady tonight, or had he known her all his life? He could not say, truly. But he could certainly say that he liked her very much, and rather wanted her to stay.
“Hello?” she had snapped in his face, thereby saving him from his trance. When he came to, she said, “Ah! And here I thought you had been the one to tell me not to drink too much.”
“I’ve hardly drank a sip!” insisted Valarr, though the protest had little bite, for he was smiling. Then, with a little laugh, he said, “It is only... I think I find Daenys quite marvelous.”
That made her choke a bit on her wine, but she recovered quickly. “I suppose it is a rather lucky thing that I do not like to train with my brother.”
Valarr chuckled. “That would do me in, I think. If the twinkling lady standing before me had a swordman’s figure, that is.”
“My father says I’ve got the shoulders for it,” mocked Daenys, putting on a deeper voice for her father, a thing she did frequently yet never, ever lost its amusing touch, “so I ought to use them.”
“Then it is an even luckier thing that your father is leagues and leagues away, off at Dragonstone,” said Valarr, leaning in ever so slightly. “Hadn’t he thought you were off to Oldtown to be a septa?”
Daenys noticed this movement, of course, and returned it. After another gulp of wine, she said with a low voice, “Because I was indeed off to Oldtown, but I meant to whisper other things into the night, not prayers.”
With a hand to his chest—having fully embraced these roles—Valarr gasped, “But you had told me you were a maiden! Surely, this will affect our betrothal.”
“Worry not,” said Daenys, smiling behind her cup as she brought it to her lips, “we will still be wed.”
Valarr had meant to keep it up, but when he reached for words he found none. All that ran through his foolish mind were her lips, now momentarily hidden from his view. He wanted them back.
So, when his lady had finished that sip, he only held up his own cup and said, “Take some of this. I mean to keep an eye out tonight.”
“With pleasure,” she grinned, leaving Valarr far too little, but he cared not.
For he had not been lying; he really had meant to stay alert, for both of their sakes. Yet it was not the whole truth. Valarr kept that unsaid, for fear of scaring the lady, but he meant it with his heart: You may not wish to remember this night, but I would very much like to.
They had a very lovely night thereafter. Lady Daenys knew the bottom of a cup far more intimately than a lady should, but Valarr cared not. Whereas Prince Daeron was oft weak in the face of his drunken sorrows, Daenys only thought to dance—awful beyond measure—and laugh. It was a magical thing to witness.
And laugh she did—while she swiped another glass of wine from the table, replacing it with the empty one that she had just finished. Eventually she became very talented at it, but after picking up what Valarr estimated her fifth cup—if he were even correct, for his own head was a little fuzzy—he urged her to slow before someone noticed.
He was too late, of course. For, after a round of dancing, a lord who Valarr did not recognize approached them both and said, “Keep your woman at an arm’s length, boy. If I catch her swipe another cup off a table, you’ll both wish she hadn’t.”
It was the most direct form of attention anyone had paid either of them all night; as such, Valarr was dumbfounded.
“I assure you, my lord, she did no such thing,” he said.
“And don’t lie, either,” said the lord. “I saw it with my own eyes.”
“Aye, so did I!” chimed in a new man, likely lowborn but much burlier. “The cunt’s got sticky fingers.”
“My lords, please, be civil,” said Valarr, growing frightened in his own right yet putting his arm in front of Daenys’s middle, as if it were second nature. With his other, he reached to his purse at his belt and said, “Perhaps I have just the thing to distract you.”
No man would deny coin given to them for seemingly no reason at all; those men certainly did not. And when that had been done, Valarr and Daenys scampered from the tent with an equal sense of urgency. Daenys was quite drunk but she knew that much.
Once they had found themselves in the open air, breathless and clinging to one another, they could only begin laughing again. They had worried much and more about getting caught, yet when those two men were face to face with them, their worries proved baseless. One had called a prince of the realm a cunt—that was very amusing.
Although, that was the question that had sprouted in Valarr’s mind—was he still in Daenys’s company? Hopefully she had not disappeared when they stepped out of the tent, for Valarr was entirely unwilling to let her go so soon.
Daenys herself said nothing on the matter. Perhaps that meant she was here to stay, if for only a bit longer.
Outside of their little world the tourney was still abuzz; this was a very glad realization, because it meant they did not need to end their scheme so soon. Perhaps they could watch a puppet show or receive their fortunes—it would not be the first time they’d wasted coin tonight.
Daenys chose to receive her fortune, giggling the whole time for reasons only Valarr knew. The fortuneteller cared not.
“Your grandsire will not see five more winters,” she had said to Valarr. Then she turned to Daenys and said, “And you, girl, shall name your firstborn after this boy here.”
When they turned away, each of them rolled their eyes. A sham, for certain, as they were each given an ordinary fortune, but at least one that made them laugh.
Next they patronized a juggler, then they moved to observe a card game which had itself gathered a small audience. Several gamblers had created an impossibly large winners’ pot and they now approached the end of the game. Only three of the original eight were still alive.
All the spectators watched with bated breath; when the third player surrendered, leaving only the two finalists, everyone groaned like it were as intense as a jousting match.
The crowd’s noise, though, had attracted one more spectator, who stood out from all the rest. Though he wore a black cloak, his raiment of vibrant red and gold shone like firelight and his silver-gold curls could not possibly be mistaken. Especially not by Valarr.
Perhaps by the greatest stroke of luck he had ever encountered in his entire life, Valarr had blocked the view of Daenys from her brother, and vice versa. The prince was watching the card game very intently, anyhow; surely he meant to enter the next round with unmatched arrogance.
“Daenys, speak low,” said Valarr, turning his head to her but making no other movements. “We must go. Now.”
“What?” asked Daenys, with at least enough sense to whisper.
“Your brother is there,” said Valarr, at which Daenys’s eyes grew wide with dread and fear. Valarr only wished to see those things expelled from her expression, so he resolved to remain calm for her sake. “Just take my hand and step away slowly.”
Valarr offered the hand, and Daenys accepted it with a fervor. Then they stepped away, Valarr glancing back to make sure they had gone unnoticed, but once they were far enough they broke into a mad dash.
The scheme was very much over, then.
For all Daenys joked that her father would send her to the Wall if she were caught, that was untrue. If it were not a public spectacle, he would keep the matter entirely private; but of course he would be appalled beyond words.
Her brother was very much a different story. This would be his greatest leverage, not just for Daenys but for Valarr, too, as the enthusiastic accomplice he was. He would keep this secret until he found the most beneficial moment to disclose it; until then, Daenys could not speak a word nor take a step out of turn, lest she be ruined forever. It would be a more pitiable life than the one she already led.
Very much sobered by the ordeal, Valarr knew where to locate the second stable boy’s clothes in the tree-line, for he had earlier noted which small tents they had been nearby.
Even once they were alone again, Daenys’s hands shook; a thing she was becoming more familiar with by the day, and though this time it had nothing to do with lack of drink it was nevertheless a taxing thing for Valarr to gaze upon.
Now would be the time that Valarr would undo her laces, but he did not want to. Not quite yet. He had only met Daenys tonight, and he knew nearly for certain that he would never see her again—so he meant to cherish this view while it lasted.
Valarr brought up a hand, and the face it met—the cheeks which his thumb stroked, to and fro—was entirely familiar. Likewise, Daenys leaned into it, seemingly cherishing this moment as well.
Soon enough, though, the moonlight had fallen upon the lady’s face in a fashion that was too much to bear, and he finally kissed her. A desperate thing, but neither of them were strangers to desperation.
“Wait,” said Daenys, after quickly separating herself, “There’s something I must confess.”
Valarr, with one hand at the back of her neck and the other round her waist, would listen to anything she said. “Go ahead.”
“Earlier I said I dreamed of this. Of us.” She paused for a moment, breathless, to find Valarr’s mismatched eyes and devote them to memory herself, before confessing: “I lied to you. There was no such dream.”
Then her face bore a look of tremendous worry, but Valarr could not think to possibly be angry. He might never be, not even on the morrow when he was sober once more. For he relished in Daenys’s company, and if he had to wait one hundred years to see her again then he would do so.
“Say something, Valarr. Anything.”
“What is there to say?” he asked. “Dream or none, I danced with a beautiful lady tonight. You enjoyed yourself, and so did I. Was that not your idea?”
Before Valarr could process her smile, she had pulled him back in to resume that kiss.
Valarr had wanted this ever since he returned to his chambers sullen after the feast, so now he was hungry for all of it. So he entangled his fingers in Daenys’s hair and tasted her wine-stained lips and held her very close before she slipped away from his grasp. Soon enough he indeed loosened the laces of her cote, but unlike earlier there was no tension nor worry; there was no room for that, not when Valarr was so focused upon her jaw and neck, which he could not tear himself from if he tried.
In the recesses of his mind there certainly sprouted many questions. Once the cote and the skirt were off, was it still Daenys, who Valarr had only met tonight? Or was it once again Daeron, who Valarr had known all his life? Where did one end and the other begin?
But of course he cared not for those questions in the moment. Questions of names and roles were for later; now was for bodies. Hands upon waists and the small of one’s back, lips upon collarbones and the square of one’s shoulders.
Valarr and Daeron had returned to the castle before dawn had broken.
The halls were quiet and empty save for their own footsteps; their own guards had recognized them at the front entrance, but thought little of their drunkenness. In times like this, Daeron’s reputation as a frequenter of pleasure-houses served them both well, for telling a dishonorable alibi was a far better idea than admitting the truth of tonight’s scheme.
When they entered Valarr’s chambers once more, all seemed perfectly as they had left it. Except a note upon the bedside table.
When father could not find you, I told him you had spoken to me about going to the tourney grounds alone to clear your mind after the feast. I know not if he believed me, but he did not go after you, only went to bed. He and Mother wish to speak to you on the morrow. Matarys.
“Count yourself lucky,” said Daeron, after reading it for himself. “On the morrow, Aerion will be concocting stories about all the whores I had slung my arms round.”
“And it would not be farther from the truth,” said Valarr with a knowing smile. Then he took hold of Daeron’s wrist and pulled them both toward the sofa.
Although Daeron followed him, Valarr could not shake the feeling that he were so much tenser now. He knew not the cause; perhaps he was nervous of his own father’s reaction to his stealing away? Perhaps all the dancing and laughing and drinking had finally caught up with him?
Valarr could not say. Perhaps he only seemed tense because Valarr had now seen him free.
Either way, they each fell onto the sofa, tiredness quickly sinking in. Valarr sat upright with his face propped up by his elbow, and Daeron splayed himself out across Valarr’s lap. It was a familiar thing.
In the silence, Valarr gazed down at Daeron, who had closed his eyes but not yet fallen asleep; Valarr would feel the ease of his breaths when he did.
Now the questions of names and roles emerged once more in Valarr’s mind, and with nothing else to push them away, they lingered. What was he to make of this night? Of Daenys? Where did Daeron end and Daenys begin?
As if he were thinking too loudly, Daeron said, softly, “You can forget this night, Valarr. We will never speak of it.”
“What if I don’t wish to forget it?” asked Valarr, all too quickly. “How oft do I say that all I wish is for you to be free of your burdens? Because I’ve now witnessed that. I’ve helped it come true.”
Daeron turned his gaze outward and did not speak for a long while.
“Then she will remain fondly in your mind, and that is all,” he said.
“Daeron, no.”
“It was a foolish thing to suggest in the first place,” he said. Though he could hardly convince himself of it, let alone Valarr.
“But we had a wonderful time, so clearly it was not!” insisted Valarr. He did not have even the slightest idea of how to see Daenys again; certainly he could not share in her company for any long while, for they were only getting older and older by the day and by the year. But he would think of something.
“But you will be wed soon, so it was,” Daeron finally snapped.
That silenced Valarr indeed.
Not in a hundred years would he have guessed that this lied at the heart of the matter. For the notion of Valarr’s marriage, to whomever it would be, had always loomed so distant on the horizon in all their conversations.
This entire idea had been to console Valarr; Daeron had said as much plainly. But how could Valarr have been so foolish as to not think of Daeron’s own thoughts on the matter?
In disbelief his eyes wandered; the sun began to rise outside.
“See? I knew it,” Daeron huffed, suddenly sitting upright; Valarr felt the emptiness upon him. “Soon you will be wed, and there shall be no more room for me, let alone—her. You are not to blame, Valarr, that is only the way of things.”
“I will not let that happen,” said Valarr, for he had no other answer. Then Daeron opened his mouth to answer, so he quickly added, “For once in your life, hold your tongue and listen to me.”
Daeron did not say anything. He may be obstinate, at times, but it was like he said himself: he would do most anything for Valarr.
What he did not seem to understand—not beyond some shallow way, seemingly—was that Valarr would do most anything for him in return. So he brought up his hand and let his fingertips rest where the jaw near met the ear, and he urged Daeron to meet his eyes.
“I know not how else I can say it,” he said. “As long as I live, there will be room for you somewhere. All of you.”
Then Daeron sighed—a great, exhausted thing. Valarr supposed he understood that exhaustion much better now, and he would have it no other way. Valarr had not yet mastered the art of instilling courage in Daeron, for he was always the less courageous of them two, but he very well might have just succeeded. For Daeron merely closed his eyes and argued no more.