Chapter Text
“Princess Kiera, Your Grace,” Donnel announced. Kiera brushed past the knight and into Daeron’s chambers, the ribbons of her spring dress fluttering behind her. Her pink hair tinkled with every movement, golden beads ringing against each other.
She paused, waited for Donnel to close the door again, then cast her eyes upon Daeron, face breaking into a wide smile. “Daeron, my love,” she said, and Daeron knew nothing good ever came of pet names. Not from his family, not from whores, not from lovers.
He did not move from his spot by the window, where he’d spent the majority of the morning staring out at Blackwater Bay, wondering why sometimes it flashes green instead of blue. Sometimes ships with banners he did not know sailed by, carried by the wind and the waves. Sometimes he heard captains calling out orders to their crew, and sometimes he heard nothing but the screeching of gulls . But the green like no other was burned into his mind, bright and dangerous.
“I brought breakfast,” Kiera said in a singsong voice. A few ladies appear, placing bowls of fruits and breads, decadently arranged to perfection. Daeron’s stomach turned at the thought of ingesting anything but wine. The ladies lingered for a second too long, and Kiera dismissed them with a wave of a hand and a patient smile. “I don't think they've ever been handmaidens before, and certainly not to a princess such as myself. They don't know what to do with their own hands half the time.”
Daeron tilted his head, assessing. She was usually energetic, but today she seemed… elated. He watched as she plucked a strawberry from the spread and ate it in one bite, smiling slightly at the taste. “You know that little Hightower boy? The squire for ‘Rys?” She gushed after she swallowed. “Apparently he’s trying to court Daella, who is completely intent on marrying you—”
“Why did you come, Kiera?” Daeron asked with a sigh, patience already worn thin. He cared not for court gossip, and certainly did not care for the implication that he would wed Daella of all people, his sister who just celebrated her twelfth birthday.
“Alright then.” She fixed him with a stare. “Valarr and I…” she said, considering her words carefully. “Well, perhaps we… are not right for each other.”
“I fail to see how this concerns me,” he mused. Valarr had chosen her, from a list of several ladies of high birth. He mindlessly toyed with the ends of his sandy hair. Daella had pulled the hair back from his face with a braid, her new favourite thing to do in the early hours of the morning when the only person she did not fear waking was Daeron. She'd put flowers in his hair, which caused the ladies at court to giggle and blush as he passed by.
“It concerns you,” Kiera said quietly, with a look that suggested she thought he was stupid, “because I need a baby in my belly. Your cousin needs an heir. And you can give me one.”
Daeron blinked. “Have you lost your senses?” He snapped, and hated how much he sounded like Father. “A bastard has no place being heir to the Iron Throne. Especially not mine.”
Look at what happened to Daemon Blackfyre, he wanted to say, but that was nearly twenty years ago, and Kiera knew little of the affairs of Westeros. The realm had suffered for the Black Dragon’s arrogance, his belief of a claim. Daeron could not sire a bastard on Valarr’s wife, for the sake of all the gods. What if he found out? What if the babe was blonde like Daeron or inherited the silver-gold colouring of a true Targaryen? Uncle Baelor had told him of the ire he’d received from the court growing up, about how he wasn't fit to rule because he possessed not the uncanny purple eyes and white hair as his predecessors. He did not want that for another child, especially not Valarr’s.
Kiera waved this off. As if that were something she could do. “It matters not. I have a duty, and the babes that Valarr have given me have all died. Please, Daeron.” Her voice broke at the end, so at odds with her confidence that Daeron’s foolish heart considered it.
He closed his eyes and tried to imagine a dark-haired babe, created from his skewed sense of loyalty. He saw it, clear as the sky. Dread spread through him like a poison, slowly at first and then all at once, gripping his lungs with terrifying strength. He imagined a pair of purple eyes, cursed forever with the weight of what they shouldn't hold in the first place.
Slowly, so as not to aggravate it, Daeron shook his head. “I can’t.”
“Daeron,” she breathed. A plea. “Just one. I only need one, and then—”
“I cannot,” he said, harsher this time. The simple thought of the look on Val’s face when he realized who the father was fueled it. He would not fuck Valarr’s wife. “What would Valarr say?”
In one fluid motion, Kiera positioned herself on the bench next to Daeron, faces close enough to share breath. Despite himself, his heart picked up as he stared into Kiera’s deep brown eyes—so dark they're almost black. He searched for something, anything to signal this is a dream or a jape of some kind. That she's lying. But he finds nothing. It terrified him. “He agrees,” she whispered, and brushed a lock of sandy hair off his forehead. It must have fallen out of the braid. “He knows there is no other way.”
It felt like torture, her soft hands curling in the hair at the nape of his neck, her pink braids falling over her shoulder and tapping against Daeron’s chest. It was still morning, gods damn it all. He managed to shake his head, “there is another way. You belong to him. Let him do it.”
“He cannot,” she whispered sharply. “Valarr is barren.”
It struck him hard, like the impact of a lance against his shield. Barren? Valarr? Surely not. How could he be? The one thing Daeron can recall Valarr ever wanting—truly wanting, for Valarr stamped down all his wants in the name of duty—was children. It was the one thing he could not hide away. When Rhae was a babe, Valarr spent days in the nursery with her, replying to her babbling in full sentences and inventing games before she could talk.
Now, the thought of that being taken away from him… it felt like loss to Daeron, too. Valarr buried everything under what he was supposed to be. If Kiera were to birth another dead babe, he is not sure Valarr would have the strength to try again.
“And not you?” Daeron snapped back. He knew it was cruel and selfish but he said the words anyway, not even knowing what he wanted out of them. Perhaps a denial. They hit her like a blow. Kiera’s face falters.
“No, not me.”
Daeron considered her again. Children were often loud and Daeron quite enjoyed his peace. Even while the prospect of fatherhood terrified him more than most, he could not deny the prospect was attractive. A child that he could not disappoint, could not hurt, could not abandon like he had Egg and Aemon. Valarr would be an excellent father to any child, and Kiera a doting mother.
Maybe, possibly…
Honour prevented him from saying yes. What little shred of it still remained to him. He could not stop thinking about the Great Bastards. Daemon Blackfyre, Aegor Rivers. The rebellion they'd created, a failed usurpation. His Uncle Bloodraven was not so bad, and Aunt Shiera Seastar was funny and kind and told him about witchcraft because he was the only one who would listen. Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods toss a coin in the air, and the world holds its breath to see how it will land.
“At least consider it,” she said, brown eyes pleading. “I do not want to ask Aerion, but I will.”
That, more than anything, terrified him. Aerion would not be secretive, would not pretend for Valarr’s sake, does not understand Valarr’s position as Daeron does. Aerion does not love Valarr enough—does not love anything enough—to endure the knowledge that could topple the realm. Aerion did not endure anything for anyone, he did what he wanted, when he wanted, and if he could not he began to break fingers.
Gently, lovingly, surprisingly, Kiera closed her eyes and pressed a kiss to his lips. She tasted of strawberries and wine, of duty, of a life he could create for his cousin.
He leaned into it, hands drifting to her neck, her waist, the soft fabric of her dress.
It felt wrong, the desire pooling hot in his belly. This was Valarr’s wife, not his. If anyone were to walk in, Valarr would have the right to exile him or behead him, whichever he saw fit. But the wrongness spurred him on, flicking his tongue into her mouth.
As if it were the most natural thing in the world, Kiera shifted, and Daeron realized too late that she was straddling him, knees on either side of him. A sound escaped him at the sight, an approving grunt that did not belong to the Daeron that Kiera knew.
She smiled and lowered her lips onto his once more. Daeron placed his hands on her back, and she was skinny enough that his broad hand nearly covered the expanse of the bodice.
Then, when Daeron’s breath came in hot pants and he was hard enough to tent his breeches, she pulled back. Daeron whined at the loss of contact.
Kiera gave him a tight-lipped smile and left as she'd come, in a flurry of skirts and smiles. He waited a minute then two before he released a long sigh and buried his face in his hands.
He was fucked.
-
Daeron lounged on the Iron Throne, the one thing that every fool in the realm dreamed of, and felt nothing. He dangled a goblet of wine loosely by the rim in one hand, and the other toyed with the ends of a piece of his limp hair, long enough now to reach his belt.
He was spectacularly drunk. Enough to sit on the chair in the first place. He wondered how many saggy Targaryen asses have warmed the ugly thing, then promptly decides he’s glad he never has to be the one.
There was a stain on his collar. The wine was smooth as it ran down his throat, a young Dornish blend he quite enjoyed.
A thousand ancestors watched him scratch at the crusted stain. Daeron determined it was wine. What would the great kings and queens of old think of him here and now, alone on the throne he will never truly bear the weight of, a failure to his father and his siblings and his legacy.
Maybe knowing his family back to the Conquest is a curse rather than a holy legacy—thrust upon him, already written upon the stones he lives in. Each cruelty, failing, lost battle. They all belong to this deeply uncomfortable chair. He did not envy Uncle Baelor or his grandsire. The other ones perhaps deserved it.
The throne room was empty. No servants, no simpering courtiers, and no Uncle Brynden lurking in the shadows or gallery. Just Daeron, a few flickering torches, and his wine. He leaned back against the melted swords of Aegon’s enemies and traced his fingers along the arm, the iron smoothed by two hundred years of worrying.
Is it in a Targaryen’s blood to make the motion exactly like this? To think long into the night with the beat of a great dragon’s wings in their head, the blaze of fire behind their eyes, unbelievable power with a few simple words. Fire and blood.
A torch pops on the wall.
Madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin. Drunk soldiers talk. Daeron had the looks of a common boy—sandy hair and blue eyes—so he found success sneaking away and drinking with a simple set of roughspun. It was a special talent of his, to sneak away, and one he might have accidentally imparted onto his little brother, Egg. Daeron dreamed Egg would be great. He hoped that dream came true. Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods toss the coin in the air, and the world holds its breath to see how it will land.
He clenched his fist on the pommel of some poor bastard’s sword to stop the thoughts and the motion. Destiny was never quite something he believed in. He would be a fool to believe the gods had a plan for him. They hadn't looked after him since Mother died and the dreams started.
The Red Keep seemed rather empty without… well, most of his family. Egg and Ser Duncan were off the gods knew where, doing whatever it is hedge knights do. Valarr was sent on some diplomatic mission to the north, Aemon remained at the Citadel, and Aerion was off to Lys to serve his exile for being an idiot. Uncle Rhaegel was visiting the Vale with his lady wife and his children, Uncle Aerys pretended Daeron didn't exist, and Uncle Baelor didn't have much time to spend with his ward now that he was king.
He supposed he could leave. Go to Dragonstone with its storms and its solitude and its memories. Yet something in him balked at the thought. He spent as little time as possible in that grey smattering of stones because its halls are haunted by a hundred Targaryens, all whispering in his ears, all slithering into his dreams through the cracked flagstones.
The smallfolk say Harrenhal is haunted, cursed, damned. They may be right. But Daeron knows Dragonstone houses more than just Valarr and a skeleton court. The walls there bend with the weight of all the mad Dragonlords who had presided here.
He would rather not hear Princess Rhaenyra’s anguish as she hears of her sons’ deaths, would rather not hear the growl of dragons, so deep within the Dragonmont, so guttural and real that sometimes Daeron believed they had finally made their return. The cries of countless smallfolk being burned on the beach, burned alive—
No, Daeron would not go to Dragonstone.
Instead, he finished his wine and fixed his gaze on the stars flickering through the slim windows of the throne room, barely visible thanks to the thousand candles glowing in a thousand thousand windows below. He could go there, below. He could be laughing and drinking and fucking his way through the Street of Silk until dawn. But something had kept him here today, something lonely and self-pitying that shamed him enough to slip from his bedchamber in the middle of the night while the weight of all he could never become stared at him through the haze of all the wine he'd consumed.
The unmistakable scuffle of feet snapped him to awareness. He did not trust himself to be steady on his feet so he did not rise, fairly certain that he won't need to bow to whomever happens to appear, anyhow.
“I never knew you had a taste for the throne, brother,” said Aerion smoothly, silver-white hair giving him away before he stepped into the light. Impossibly polished—not a crease on his fine silk tunic, back straight as a lance, soft lips arranged in a pout—his younger brother carried himself with an air far too self-important for a man of his stature.
It was possible that Aerion had returned from Lys. It was more likely that Daeron was imagining him. He let his mouth be careless.
“Quite the opposite,” he found himself slurring. “This chair is dreadfully uncomfortable.”
Aerion snorted. “Indeed.”
Silence fell. It had been many years since Daeron truly knew his little brother. Partially his own fault, yes, but Aerion’s too. The joviality of his youth died with their mother, and his adulthood revived it as anger. Whatever self-loathing had driven Aerion to become what he was, that remained his own business.
He did not know what to say to his cruel, vain brother. “Did you bring any wine?” Daeron asked, rather upset at the empty state of his goblet. “Or perhaps a whore?”
Aerion rolled his dark violet eyes. The colour disappeared in the blackness of night, but Daeron has known it all his life, that beautiful, fiery gaze that would be terrifying were it not owned by his brother. The kind of eyes maidens line up to catch one glimpse of. Daeron counted his lucky stars that the Dayne blood won out for him on that front. “Of course not. Father sent me.”
For a moment, fear gripped his heart so tight he could not breathe. Maekar’s rages were frequent and well-known to the court, if only because his children are badly behaved and he has a very loud voice. Daeron too often tasted blood from his father’s blows, too often felt the cold slap of a ringed hand. It only releases when Aerion takes a few steps up, a pale hand made paler by the moonlight extended towards him. An offering. A reminder that perhaps if Daeron simply slides back into bed he might be able to ignore Maekar until morning.
“I might have sat it,” Daeron said, glancing behind him at the melted iron when he stood on unsteady legs, then looked back to his brother. “But I will not. The dragon did not die.” He would not have been the one either way. He'd been successful in avoiding the tragedy at Ashford, somehow, by doing what he did best; lying insensate in the mud, drunk and stupid. That was not the first death he had to prevent, and it would not be the last. Dragons were stupid, reckless, and needed constant saving from themselves.
The price for his stupidity was half his ear, a broken foot, and a thick scar across his cheekbone. Daeron never liked horses, and apparently the bay didn't like him, either.
He did not leave the Red Keep that night, after all.
He thought about the stain on his collar when Aerion led him back into the Holdfast and up to his chambers. His brother, much shorter, held his arm. Aerion wasn't always so foul, and sometimes Daeron could see a fracture in the careful mask he’d created for himself. In these moments, when he leads a drunken and sleep-starved Daeron back to bed with surprising patience. He does mutter the occasional gods, Daeron or a clipped come, but the words have no real bite to them.
Aerion left Daeron at the door, silent save for the shuffle of his footsteps.
“Your Grace,” Donnel greeted with a bow, ignoring Aerion altogether.
Daeron nodded, then regretted the movement, head swimming. He returned to his chambers and did not sleep for the rest of the night.
He was too busy thinking about Kiera’s soft breaths against him, this plot that could destroy the realm, and the image of purple eyes that keeps flashing through his mind, persistent and maddening.
When the sun rose, painting his room in orange light, Daella came storming into his room with a handmaiden and a fistful of ribbons, determined expression on her face.
He smiled at her, moving to the vanity where she did his hair every morning.