Chapter Text
The smell of sour wine and old hay was thick in the humid night air. Daeron was a total wreck.
His tunic was unbuttoned, and his sand hair matted with straw. As she climbed onto the wagon to haul him toward the keep, he lunged forward. Not with violence, but with a desperate, crushing feeling.
He felt so cold, while her skin burned like fire.
He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breath hot and smelling of wine, his hands trembling as they gripped her cloak.
"You're back." He choked out, his voice thick with a sob he was trying to swallow. "I saw you... I saw the red smile across your throat. I saw the crows feasting on your eyes. I thought the dream had finally taken you, too."
He pulled back just an inch, his eyes unfocused and swimming with tears. He was seeing her. In his drunken haze, he was staring at a ghost from his visions.
"Don't leave me here with them." He whispered, clutching her face between his damp palms. "I'm just a fool drinking himself to death so I don't have to watch you die again. Promise me, promise me this isn't another dream."
He leaned his forehead against her, his weight leaning heavily onto her, waiting for a comfort he was not sure she should give.
"Daeron," her voice sounded so sweet and distant.
"Daeron," just a whisper, enough to make him snap back to reality again.
It had been a dream, another dream.
But his brother Egg's face was real, very real, instead.
He flinched like he'd been burned, pulling back so fast he nearly tumbled against the tree. His breath hitched, pupils wide and lost in the dim light. For a long moment, he just stared at the boy before him.
"Egg?" The name came out cracked, almost reverent. "Gods... I'm sorry." A shaky hand raked through his matted hair. "I thought...I keep seeing her die. Over and over. In fire, in shadow...by steel." He let out a slow breath that trembled at the edges.
The hollow laugh slipped out then, broken by regret.
"I used to dream of dragons ruling the world," he murmured, slumping sideways. "Now I only dream of graves with familiar faces on them."
He reached out suddenly, not to grab or cling, but just to press trembling fingers lightly against Egg's wrist.
"You're warm," he whispered, more to himself than anything. "That's good...stay warm."
"We must go, Daeron." Egg was used to his words and gave them no real meaning. As everyone else did. "Father says we're hours of ride away from King's Landing."
Daeron nodded, letting his brother's steady voice ground him. He was right.
The dreams were just dreams. For now. He hauled himself up dizzily, gripping Egg's shoulder for balance. There was still a slight slur in his tone from the wine.
"Ah, yes, the capital," he mumbled, wiping hay from his face. "A nest of vipers and fools. Our home away from home." he managed a shaky, self-deprecating smirk. "Can't say I missed the stench."
A whole day of riding, that was the distance between them and King's Landing at this point, the end of a journey that had started back at Summerhall and had taken them a fortnight.
A whole day. A whole day that Daeron would have very much preferred spending anywhere else than on the road with his father and his brother, and a wheelhouse carrying the rest of his loud family.
Rhae had thrown a tantrum at the last moment, because her doll was missing; Egg had spent most of the morning asking to get on a horse and not be secluded with his sisters; Daella had behaved at first, then had started crying and saying she missed Summerhall. Aerion, always patient, had sneered at her and terrorised Egg, as he loved to do, before dear Father intervened, shouted some commands and order was restored. Even his mad brother knew better than to disobey in front of their stern parent.
"Daeron." two little, gentle voices filled his ears. Daeron thought for a moment he was dreaming again, but then he saw two little figures running towards him. Rhae and Daella were sweet souls and didn't deserve to see him like that, haunted and dirty: he tried his best not to look drunk, or at least not more than usual.
Daeron straightened—tried to, anyway—as the girls approached, their silken skirts whispering through the straw. He swiped a trembling hand across his mouth, as if that alone could erase the stench of wine and sorrow.
"Ah," he said softly, forcing a wobbly smile. "The only three people in this gods forsaken bloodline who don't make me want to drink myself into a ditch."
He reached out, clumsy but gentle, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Rhae's ear, then did the same for Daella with exaggerated solemnity.
"Do I look drunk?" he asked.
Egg narrowed his eyes and nodded.
"Nonsense. I'm simply... artistically unsteady. A poetic condition."
"But you're not a poet." Rhae argued.
Daeron couldn't really deny it: his words were always slurry because of the alcohol and his poetic days had ended when he had been handed a harp. It had occurred only once for a reason.
"I become one every time I see your beautiful eyes." he winked nonetheless to his little sisters.
Rhae rolled her eyes and Daella giggled, both used to his act by now.
But Daeron's eyes flickered past them toward King's Landing on the horizon, the Red Keep like a dagger against the sky, and for just one breath too long his smile didn't reach them.
Then he exhaled sharply and patted both girls on their shoulders with theatrical cheer.
"Come then," he slurred slightly brighter. "Let us march bravely into courtly doom before I change my mind and vanish into another tavern."
His words were heard by the only person that shouldn't have heard them.
"Daeron," a strict voice sounded behind him and he didn't need to turn to know who it was: his father, Maekar. "I see you're awake, finally."
Daeron froze, just for a breath.
He didn't turn. Couldn't. The weight of that voice, the iron in it, the disappointment, pressed down like a mailed fist on his shoulders.
Slowly, he straightened. Not tall or proud. Just...smaller. Like the little kid that no one but Daeron and Maekar could remember.
"Awake?" He gave a soft, slurred chuckle that cracked at the edges. "Debatable, my prince." He turned then, slowly. His tunic still hung open, his hair wild with straw and sweat, his face hollow from the lack of sleep.
Anything but not sleep.
Daeron couldn't sleep.
But he met Maekar's eyes, once, and looked away again fast.
"I'm told I've missed half the ride and all dignity," he said lightly, swaying only a little. "But fear not, I saved some shame for court."
He tried to smile like it was jest. It broke in two before it reached his eyes.
"I can imagine." his father grumbled, before stepping up. He never wished to linger, to talk to him more.
He never wished to look at him.
"Come on, you all. Daeron, get your horse. And where in the Seven Hells is Aerion? I should have never given in to your requests and make a stop."
Daeron nodded, the hollow laugh escaping again at the mention of his brother.
Aerion. Always Aerion.
Father's golden child.
Daeron's monster.
He stumbled away to fetch his horse, trying to keep the bitterness in his mouth at bay. His father favored Aerion. That was no secret.
And he? He was just a drunkard.
His horse, a white gelding with a dapple-grey coat, whickered nervously at his approach. Daeron leaned in to stroke his neck with trembling fingers.
"Sorry, old boy," he muttered. "You deserve better than me."
The horse made a sound of almost approval, as Daeron scurried him back to his father.
He liked talking with his horse. His mother had gifted him to Daeron. She talked with horses as well. And cats and dogs and her children. Unlike Father. Father never talked to them.
But it was no surprise: Dyanna had been a gentle soul, like Daella, Rhae, Egg and Aemon (his brother who was studying at Oldtown).
He and Aerion instead were Maekar's mirrors: one of his failures, the other of his cruelty. No one had inherited his silence.
He walked back to the carriage, wishing he hadn't returned so soon when he saw Aerion mounting his own horse.
The sight of Aerion was like ice down his neck, bitter and biting. His brother was everything he could be. Strong, confident, a true Targaryen.
He wasn't haunted by dreams like Daeron was, like Daeron had been since Redgrass Field.
And even as he swallowed his bitter feelings of jealousy toward his brother, he didn't wish for him to be haunted by them.
No one deserved it.
Not even Aerion.
But Daeron did.
Was it because he had seen his mother die and hadn't saved her?
As his brother joined the group, a smirk on his face, Daeron instinctively put a hand on his horse's neck, finding more comfort in the gelding's warm hide than the thought of this ride.
"Ah, look who finally shows his regal face," he managed, his words just a bit more slurred with each syllable. "The perfect heir. Fashionably late, of course."
"How is it that you didn't fall in a ditch already?" Aerion was quick to retort, mocking him as always.
Daeron let out a soft, bitter chuckle, eyes down, fingers still tangled in the horse's mane. "Funny," he murmured, voice low and thick with wine-soaked irony. "I keep having dreams about that too. Me face-down in some ditch, crows pecking out what little sense I had left."
He lifted his head just enough to glance at Aerion—really look at him—for a heartbeat too long.
Then he smiled, small and sad.
"But then I wake up, still breathing, still disappointing everyone." He gave a lazy half-bow from the saddle. "Imagine the miracle."
Before Aerion could retort, Daeron turned his horse slightly, shielding Rhae and Daella with his body like an afterthought, as if even drunk and broken, some part of him still knew how to stand between them and the fire.
Aerion chuckled, noticing the gesture. "Yeah yeah, we know everything about your mad dreams."
Mad Daeron.
Aerion had hissed those words at him, while their mother bled to death.
It had cut deep.
Daeron's hand tensed on the horse's neck, but his tone, when he spoke, remained as flippant as ever. "Ah, yes. The dragon dreams. Those delightful whispers of doom that keep me up nights. I should really start selling tickets. They're quite the thrilling show."
A hollow laugh crept in again, more bitter than the taste of wine still lingering in his mouth. "But you'd need to be mad to understand them—really mad—and you've got the monopoly there, dear brother."
His brother had been a glad child once, like Egg. He had liked fishing. But then they had made a man out of him too.
Cruel, mad.
Like Daeron.
Like Maekar.
Aerion looked at him, his body moving forward as if threatening. Daeron still remembered how his brother claimed he was a dragon in human form.
But he wasn't little like Egg, his fantasies excusable things in the mind of a small child.
Daeron saw dragons every night. They kept him company, somehow.
He didn't flinch, not outwardly. But his breath hitched, just once, like a skipped beat in a funeral dirge.
He kept his eyes low, fingers white-knuckled on the reins. The gelding shifted beneath him, sensing the tension like smoke before flame.
"A dragon," he murmured soft, almost dreamy. "Yes. I forgot you like to pretend you're one of the great beasts." He swallowed. "Though last I checked, real dragons don't threaten children with hot pokers in the stables."
His voice didn't rise. It dipped, quieter now.
"They burn cities."
He had seen it. Silver hair, violet eyes, a dragon roaring and engulfing everything with fire.
Aerion didn't have sand hair like him. He looked like their father. He was the blood of Old Valyria.
He finally lifted his gaze then, weary-eyed and unafraid of what might come next.
"So go on then," he whispered with drunken calmness laced with quiet horror that never truly went away from his features. "Prove it."
Aerion's nostrils flared with fury.
Do it. Turn into a dragon and engulf me with your fire.
Daeron wanted to die at his brother's hand.
Rhaenyra Targaryen had been burned alive by her brother Aegon.
He had seen it.
A golden dragon eating her alive.
Daeron had always thought the animal looked like Aerion.
"You're all here?" his father's voice sounded from afar, before he arrived, galloping to them.
Maekar Targaryen looked every inch a warrior, every time he was on horseback.
Daeron remembered the first time he had seen him atop a horse. He had worn a black armour, that day. He had kissed his mother, embraced his sons.
"Where are you going?" Daeron had asked him. He was six.
"To war." Maekar had replied.
Daeron had giggled. For him war was a game.
But Dyanna had cried. Aerion's kisses had been to no avail: she couldn't stop crying.
Only Father's arms around her again had soothed her worry.
Aerion had smiled, too, launching himself in Maekar's arms. He was a glad child still.
Only Daeron had cried.
The dreams.
Always the dreams.
Now Rhae, Daella and Egg had walked back into the wheelhouse and both his eldest children were atop their horses.
Aerion looked as if he was about to march to Redgrass Field, even without an armour. Though he doubted that he would have embraced his family when he would return from battle, like Father had done.
Daeron didn't look like his brother, and it wasn't because of their different hair colour: he always looked like a drunken, even atop a horse. Probably even more so.
"Aerion, where were you?" Maekar turned to his second born, asking with a calmness that Daeron had never received.
Daeron winced at the familiar sight, at the difference in the way Maekar addressed him compared to his perfect brother. It had always been there, like a shadow that would never truly leave his side. Even as a child, he'd seen it.
Aerion smiled, broad and arrogant. He was confident, carefree even, as he gestured at a nearby tavern.
"Pardon, Father," he said, not an ounce of remorse in his tone. "Just needed a quick stop for some, shall we say, refreshments on the road."
Daeron sneered.
Whoring was something that both him and his brother enjoyed, but while he was shamed because of it, Aerion was appreciated.
He was the blood of Old Valyria, fierce and strong like a dragon. He was a god. And his seed held power within it.
Daeron had to pay them profoundly for a night of company, away from his dreams. He blamed it on his breath smelling of wine.
He bet they offered themselves freely to his brother. They fought for him, like the slums in Flea Bottom did for a piece of bread.
Daeron bet his kids would becom whores and drunkards like him.
While Aerion's children would become knights and princesses, even in their bastardy.
Daeron let out a slow breath through his nose, eyes fixed on the horizon, jaw tight beneath the wine-softened edges of his face.
"Ah," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "The other family tradition. Only one of us gets praised for it."
He didn't look at Aerion, he didn't need to. He could feel the smirk like heat from a fire.
Instead, he tugged gently at his rumpled tunic, too late to hide what he was: flawed, broken, shameful in every way that mattered to their father.
"But of course," he added with brittle charm, "when I crawl out of some stable girl's bed with tears in my eyes and wine on my breath...well..." He gave a crooked half-smile. "that's tragedy. When he does it? That's king's blood being fruitful."
Then softer, meant for no one but the wind: "Gods help the woman who thinks either of us loves her."
But he knew the truth. The gods hadn't helped her: their mother had died.
"Enough." Maekar grumbled, shooting him a look of pure disapproval. "Let's go, I've had enough of you two."
Daeron nodded, bowing his head, the gesture more to hide the bitter twist to his smile than out of any real submission. He understood his place in the world, though he hated it.
As they began the ride again, he kept half an eye on Aerion next to him. The confidence in his brother's bearing like a taunt, a reminder of all he wasn't. But he didn't speak. In truth, he had said more than he should already.
Instead, he leaned forward to pat his horse's neck, as if seeking comfort from the one creature who might not reject him entirely.
"The horse doesn't speak, you know," Aerion teased. "Mad Daeron." he laughed, but it wasn't the same laugh he had had as a child.
No, this was cruel.
Daeron wondered when he had started laughing like this.
He hadn't laughed like that around Dyanna.
But in truth, he had never laughed after Dyanna.
Daeron didn't bother to respond.
The familiar insult used to bother him, even make him bristle in the past. But over the years, he'd grown numb to it.
Like he had grown numb to the suffering, to the dreams.
Like he was growing numb to the wine now.
So instead, he simply closed his eyes for a moment, the sound of Aerion's laughter like a dagger between his ribs.
"Aye," he murmured. "Mad, broken Daeron, talking to horses instead of people. How terribly amusing it must be for you."
Aerion galloped forward to their father, walking next to him and leaving Daeron behind, trailing after them.
A metaphor of life, he thought.
The sight made him feel strangely hollow, watching his brother claim the place next to their father with ease. In a twisted way, it was fitting. Aerion was the one who belonged there, after all.
But sometimes his father would lay his eyes on him and look as if he were in deep thought. Daeron always wondered what he was thinking about. Was it the memory of his mother? Did his sand blonde hair remind him of her?
Or was it something else? His dreams, perhaps? His drunken state? That was the thing for which Maekar shamed him most.
Daeron rode on, hands clenching the reins a bit tighter. He felt like a ghost, trailing behind. No, not even a ghost. Something even more pathetic: a shadow, maybe.
He felt like one most of the days. A shell of his old self. He roamed with dead men more than with living ones.
But he couldn't see his mother.
She wasn't roaming the living world anymore. She had found peace in death, he knew that.
Yet he wished she hadn't.
He wished to see her one last time, smiling gently and calling him her sweet Daeron.
But she didn't deserve to suffer.
No, better to never see her again.
To forget her voice, her eyes, her smile, her perfume, her kisses against his temple, the way her arms held him tightly.
Daeron felt his skin itching—whether it was the sun or the memory of Dyanna, he couldn't tell.
The trip could have been bearable, if he had had his flask full of wine with him, but his father had emptied it before his very eyes after the first sip, stating that "a prince doesn't act in such a way, being drunk before midday."
At least they were about to arrive: the Red Keep was in sight.
Daeron tried to remember the last time he had visited his family, back in the capital. For the proclamation of his uncle as Hand of the King, surely, yet he couldn't remember anything about the feast or the ceremony. He had been too drunk to do anything.
Once they entered the city gates, Maekar inhaled sharply. "King's Landing," he murmured, as Daeron choked on the dirty air and almost threw up. He could see the streets displaying before them, stuffed with people; roads in pure chaos as the celebration approached and far too many people.
Daeron didn't like being surrounded by people.
"I didn't miss this place." the old man grumbled.
Daeron found himself agreeing with his father, for once in his life. They were there only because his cousin Valarr had had another son—who pushed them all further down the line—and a feast had been organised in his honour. His father hadn't even wanted to participate in the first place ("This is the spare." he had said), but a letter from uncle Baelor had been enough to convince him: if there was one person capable of making Maekar collaborate, that was his older brother. If only he'd give in so easily when Daeron asked for something.
"The city of dirt and whores." he stated, earning a stern look from his father.
He wondered if Maekar associated those things to him: Daeron was always passed out in some prostitute's bed, sweaty and stinky.
But he didn't have the time to think about that now. The ride up to Aegon's Hill was clumsy and tiring. Daeron felt sleepy and lightheaded, his back hurt and his father urging him to go faster only made it worse. But at least he made it to the Red Keep still atop his horse and that was a victory in itself.
"Prince Maekar and his family." Someone shouted, Daeron didn't recognise him and didn't make an effort to do so.
The courtyard still looked the same, the courtiers still looked boring and the maidens still looked at him as if he were a dashing prince and not a cursed man.
It was like a flash of colour that engulfed him all at once: the dark red of the walls, the pastel blue and pink of the gowns, feathers of hats and furs of dark cloaks. There was some white too, from the men sworn to protect the blood of the dragon.
Once he had the opportunity to get off his horse, he didn't wait for a second chance.
He had almost expected of falling into a sea of people, with hands leaning over him, trying to snatch something out of his nose.
He had witnessed a dream like this once, hands trying to grab him, to hold him, to kill him. He didn't shout when he woke up, he had stopped to do so a long time ago.
Instead that sea of people parted, as if compelled by some sort of magic, while a deep, warm, wise voice reached Daeron's ears.
"Maekar!" A tall, lean and broad-shouldered figure made his way through the crowd. Daeron thought he looked like a water wizard, that could call upon the power of the river Rhoynar. After all, the man descended from Nymeria herself: his mother was a former Dornish princess.
Wherever he walked, every head turned, everyone tried to catch his eyes, earn a glimpse of their prince.
Yet the man's eyes were fixed on Maekar.
And his father was enchanted, as if his brother had really displayed water magic.
But this was just Baelor's effect on people.
He could attract attention like no other, fight like a true knight, act like a honourable man, manage the realm as an efficient Hand, make litigants stop fighting, calculate how much gold the Iron Bank hid in their vaults, still make every maiden fall for him despite the fact that he was a grandfather already.
Daeron bet that whores would offer their services freely to him as well, but his uncle had never persevered in such activities.
Still he could do the impossible: make Maekar smile.
"Baelor," his father greeted him with less enthusiasm, but he was openly smiling. Daeron knew it was a sight so rare and that it could be originated only from true happiness upon seeing his brother.
The two didn't embrace: they were men and stood in front of the court. Yet that didn't stop the heir to the throne from placing his hand on Maekar's shoulder, squeezing with affection.
The Hammer and the Anvil, the two brothers were called, after their epic fight at the Battle of the Redgrass Field. Daeron had never cared enough to ask his father about his time of war: he had been too young to comprehend and now every mention of the name Blackfyre made his mind tremble with dark omens.
"It's good to see you." his uncle had the perfect smile. Yet what wasn't perfect about him?
Daeron wondered what it felt like to live constantly in one brother's shadow. In their unfairness, the gods had been merciful to Daeron: they had made him a drunken, Aerion a cruel monster, Aemon a maester and Egg a common prince. No display of greatness could be counted among Maekar's sons and that was partially the reason for his father's utter disappointment in their regards.
But the difference was even more pronounced when compared to the rest of their family. And just like him and his siblings stood no chance against their cousins, so did his father against his brothers.
Daeron looked at Maekar now: Baelor was at least a head taller than his younger brother and much more handsome, without those pox scars that had signed Maekar's face.
Daeron almost felt pity for him.
The king's fourth son, not as bold as Prince Baelor, nor as clever as Prince Aerys, nor as gentle as Prince Rhaegel, and now he must suffer seeing his own sons overshadowed by his brother's.
But he didn't look displeased for once, as his eyes landed on the Hand of the King.
Maekar loved Baelor.
But not like Daeron loved Aegon or Aemon. Or like he had loved Aerion, back in their days.
No.
Daeron loved them despite their mistakes.
But Baelor Breakspear had no imperfections. Maekar's love for his brother was unconditional.
Daeron wondered what it felt like to love a god.
"I guess congratulations are in order." Maekar said once Baelor let go of his shoulder.
The Hand of the King smiled and waved his hand, turning instead to his nephews and nieces. "I trust you had a pleasant journey?"
Rhae immediately dwelled into a long retelling of their journey, which couldn't possibly interest someone to the level of description she was giving, but Baelor — as polite as ever — listened (or pretended to) and nodded along. Egg would fill in once or twice to specify the exact place where something happened and which House ruled over it: he had been studying Westerosi geography and politics, he wanted to show off what he had learned.
Aerion kept looking around, searching for his next target as a dragon would with a prey (maids, married women, widows; it made no difference to him), while Daella — gentle Daella — remained silent at his side.
Daeron kept his mouth shut as well, for partially two reasons: his head ached and his father had ordered him to stay silent.
The same man whose patience now was growing thick: Daeron noticed from how his lip quivered, he was ready to give the same order he had given to him to his youngest daughter.
Thankfully, Baelor saved them all from the next fit of shouts and Rhae's tears: he interrupted his niece gently—more gently than his father ever did—and let them know that the king and queen were waiting for them in the Throne Room.
Maekar rolled his eyes but nodded, knowing he couldn't quite ignore his parents, while Daeron sighed. It was going to be a long day.
☆
"It's so nice to have you back." King Daeron said from the top of his throne, with a kind smile adorning his face. He always smiled, something strange to witness, knowing he had given life to his own father. And Maekar could be defined by anything but his smile.
Daeron liked his namesake; he was probably one of the few that he really liked: his grandfather was wise, calm, gentle. He acted warmer to him than his father had ever been, especially after his mother's death.
The thought of Dyanna always made his throat burn with the need to cry. It was like being strangled, having no air left in your lungs. Daeron knew well that sensation: he had woken up from countless dreams with the need to shout, yet his body had been stiff and uncooperative, as if he had turned to stone.
He wished to be a rock sometimes, like a dragon shaped one that adorned Dragonstone's Keep. He had seen them when he had visited the island, many years ago, to pay a visit to his new cousin Matarys, a red faced and red haired squirming thing that had just come into the world. He had asked his mother why the baby kept crying and crying, she had explained that this way the only way for babies to express their discomfort.
He had swum in the sea with his father and Aerion, he remembered laughing with them. Then Dyanna had called them from the shore and they had began to race to see who got there first. Aerion had always been quick, so it was easy for him to win. But Maekar had slowed down for Daeron to earn his second place. He wondered if he'd do the same now. But they never raced or played or talked.
Aerion had thrown the victory in his face, reclaiming his price: a kiss from their mother. But she had been kind like always and had kissed Daeron's nose as well. And Father's lips.
Years had passed now, yet a day didn't go by where he didn't think about her.
His grandmother had smiled at him sadly when he had revealed as much, claiming that the longing would only grow with time.
They were in Summerhall, burning his mother's ashes. She had tried to comfort all of them, like a mother would.
But, even if both women came from Dorne, only one possessed those deep purple eyes that could comfort Daeron from his dreams.
He missed looking into those eyes.
Myriah's brown gaze was warm, but not enough.
Yet again, his grandmother had also told him to be gentle with his father, who would probably grieve for the rest of his life, but Daeron wasn't good like his namesake.
He had heard the whispers: his mother had died because of her last labour, after four pregnancies in four years. His father's cock had done this. His father's love had done this. His father.
He used to kiss his mother: in the courtyard, in the bedroom, at the table, on the beach. She was always gentle with him: she kissed his brow, his calloused hands, his pox scars.
Why did he have to kill her?
He said he loved her.
Could love kill a person?
Queen Myriah was smiling now, walking towards them to embrace each of her grandchildren in her arms. Egg and his sisters immediately let go to such affection, that they rarely received at home. She had proposed to Maekar many times to have Daella and Rhae live at court with her; maybe this time she would succeed.
She was a strong and intelligent woman, his grandmother. And she had been a great beauty as well, back in her days: now her black hair were filled with grey.
"Daeron," the sound of her voice brought him back to reality. She smiled gently, but he could see the pity behind her gaze.
She loved him, surely, but she didn't understand him, not really. Daeron feared no one did. "I find you in good shape."
Daeron could read the meaning behind someone's words, and in this case it sounded very much as a "I'm glad you're not drunk already."
"Thank you, Your Grace." he bowed and, for once, he didn't stumble over his own feet.
"I trust you'll be present at tonight's dinner?" the King asked, walking down the steps of the massive Iron Throne to reach his Queen.
Maekar's jaw tightened just imperceptibly, something that his parents wouldn't notice but that Daeron certainly saw, before he nodded at the command. "Surely."
"Very well, then." the Good King smiled again. Daeron wondered again how his serious father had come out from such smiling people. Yet he was the eldest of his siblings and remembered a time when Maekar looked adoringly at his wife. He used to kiss her back every single time.
He bowed again and walked behind his father, groaning internally at the prospect of an entire night in his family's company.
☆
'An intimate dinner', that's how his grandmother had called it, but Daeron had known better and put on his best robes nonetheless.
Still, he knew how he would appear: face shallow, dark circles under his eyes, it was a miracle that his blonde hair didn't look disheveled that night.
Drunken Daeron, they called him, Daeron the Mad. Less and less Daeron the Dreamer. They didn't understand it, they feared it.
"Daeron!" Matarys sounded surprised when he sat at his assigned chair, close to his. His hair were still an excessive shade of red, but at least he didn't have a red face anymore. Hadn't for quite some time, to be honest. Though Daeron hadn't seen him crying since they were children and Aerion had beaten him with his wooden sword, so he didn't know if his entire face redded at the effort of crying so loud and attract everyone's attention anymore. He was dressed in red as well, Daeron thought he had never seen so much of that colour. It was starting to be nauseating, to be honest. Besides, the two different shades clashed against one another: the Targaryen-red of his robes was a bright one, while his hair were a darker hue. He had inherited that from his mother, though the colour fitted Princess Jena much more than it did her son.
It was probably a dichotomy of colours: red hair, white skin, lilac eyes. It made him look unreal.
Even more so now that he stared at Daeron in disbelief: he probably thought he would have deflected the dinner and gone whoring.
Daeron would have done so, if he had had the chance. At least the wine would have tasted better.
"You look good." his cousin complimented.
The meaning behind those words was also clear: "You look horrible."
Daeron hadn't grown up at court, yet he could easily deduce the lies behind polite words. He probably inherited that ability from his Targaryen blood.
His sweet brother Aemon, who was training at the Citadel now, had always said he had a pessimistic nature, but the truth was that he could see through people's hypocrisies. Hell, he could see the future, even if most of the time he didn't comprehend it.
People's words were an easy game in comparison.
He found himself missing Aemon more and more recently, with his kind words and his nose always buried in a book. He had agreed with his father only once, when he had opposed the decision of the King to send him to the Citadel. But the sovereign had been firm in his decision.
"Too many dragons are as dangerous as too few." he had said and that had been the end of it.
And, of course, the decision had befallen a son of Maekar.
Now Aemon wasn't there, but books that he always used to read at these sort of gatherings were still present on the table, thanks to his uncle Aerys, who excluded himself from the conversation and kept his face buried in them, while his wife Aelinor sighed at his side.
His silver hair created a curtain around his face, preventing Daeron to see much apart from his aquiline nose almost touching the parchment. His wife instead, he could see her more clearly: her big purple eyes and a seven-pointed star around her neck. Daeron had heard she went to the sept every morning, praying for a child. But prayers would fall short if his uncle spent his night in the library and not in bed.
On the other side of the table, the couple of the hour was shining among them all: his cousin Valarr, second in line to the throne, with his wife by his side, Kiera of Tyrosh.
It had been an arranged marriage, but it seemed that they had grown quite fond of each other. Two boys in two years surely proved that. They had named this one Vaelor, he had heard, another boy after Viserys, who stood third in line after his father.
Daeron still remembered their grand wedding: the tournament had lasted for a week, even though Daeron had pretended to have a heart attack once he was made to dismount his horse and procede with hand-to-hand combat against his first opponent. He had been excluded from the games soon after.
But the rest of the festivities had been quite entertaining: the Tyroshi relatives of the bride got wasted like pirates from the Summer Islands and had proved to be enjoyable drinking companions.
They danced as if the tarantula had beaten them, their colourful hair spinning on the dance floor, not at all caring about the dismay of the Westerosi nobles: after all their dresses costed more than some of those nobles' keeps. They were disgustingly rich.
Kiera's gown showed that: even though she dressed more modestly now — to either adapt to Westerosi costumes or her mother in-law dictates, Daeron didn't know — her choice of colours still resonated with her homeland, just like her hair did.
But that was the main reason why Valarr had been married to a Tyroshi woman in the first place: Brynden Rivers knew well where his half-brother Bittersteel had hid away.
Daeron had not seen lord Bloodraven for quite some years now. He hadn't come to welcome them: Maekar was just the king's fourth son, after all; no reason for the Master of Whispers to come to greet them.
Nor did he wish to meet him.
Even if they were both in King's Landing now, he sincerely hoped their paths would not cross.
Daeron took his eyes off her and let them roam around the table. A few relatives were still missing: his uncle Rhaegel, for example, who Daeron wished would be present; he would whine about the wine's taste as much as him, though he hoped he would not take off his clothes in the middle of supper, like he was known doing. His wife and his two children would surely come with him.
"Why does Princess Kiera have pink hair?" his sister Rhae asked next to him. Daeron smiled at her innocence, while Egg explained to her that Tyroshi people dyed their hair as it was their culture. He wasn't as bookish as Aemon, but he followed his studies.
"I want pink hair as well!" the little girl exclaimed, grabbing Daeron's hand. "Do you think I can have pink hair, Daeron?"
He chuckled at her request. "I don't know, little one. I quite like your silver hair."
"But they're so white!" she protested. "I want them to be pink or another bright colour!"
Daeron smiled to appease her. "We'll see, Rhae." He knew that if she came to their father with such a request, he might die from the mere mention.
But their discussion was interrupted by the doors opening again.
Daeron held his breath as a brown haired man stood in the doorway, with his eyes closed as if contemplating.
He felt his heart skip a beat for a moment.
Was he dreaming?
Could he understand?
But as the man started humming, the sound growing louder, the seriousness of the first instant began to crumble. Daella began to chuckle, but a look of reproach from their father silenced her.
The man opened his eyes suddenly, a deep purple shade, and showed the loveliest smile. "My little brother! Maekar!" he shouted, running and basically throwing himself atop his father. Thankfully, Maekar still trained and was able to catch him, without stumbling over the table in the process.
Daeron had to turn around to maintain his composure and not die of laughter right there and then. Judging by Egg's smirk, his brother was trying to do the same.
The sight was so strange and shocking that even uncle Aerys raised his eyes from his book.
"Rhaegel, dear, gentler." his grandmother's tone was stiff but hid a softness typical of mothers.
There he was: uncle Rhaegel.
Mad uncle Rhaegel.
That was probably why Daeron wished to see him.
"His wife, Lady Alys, and his children, Prince Aelor and Princess Aelora." a Kingsguard announced, but only a woman and a boy walked in, both with golden hair and beautiful blue eyes.
Daeron remembered his cousins well, after all they were just one year apart from Aerion. He remembered the warm afternoons in Summerhall, Rhaegel laughing with his father ("He's my favourite little brother." his uncle would say, while Maekar smiled indulgently and reminded him that he was his only younger brother), Aerion and Aelor and Daeron playing together.
But then the kids had turned into boys and his cousin had started to imitate his brother. The two greeted each other happily now, still friends despite the years that had passed. They had always been friends.
Thinking about it, he was probably Aerion's only friend. His brother had never inspired friendship, yet Aelor had been prone to be his right hand man, even if he lacked the sense of pure cruelty that Aerion possessed and the pleasure that derived from it.
But he was a formidable warrior. He had been knighted at fourteen years old, the youngest among all his cousins, something that he obviously showed off every chance he had: he was so cocksure, that was probably why he and Aerion got along so well. His colours were undeniably those of the Wardens of the East, yet his way of walking and acting confirmed to everyone that he was the blood of the dragon, even if lacked the look. And, at least, cream gold was much more similar to silver than Matarys' red.
His mother stood charming at his side, but she was clearly a Arryn, even if she had draped herself in black and red: Lady Alys smiled indulgently at her husband, trying to maintain her composure.
Poor woman, she was.
She had been taken away from the Vale to join the court and had been married off to a prince of the realm, only to end up with mad uncle Rhaegel.
What a different life from the one she had imagined to live at the Eyrie.
Daeron looked behind her, expecting to see her and Aelor's little copy: his cousin had a twin after all. A girl who always trailed behind her mother's skirts every time they came to visit.
She had surely grown now, because she wasn't behind her mother anymore. She wasn't anywhere, actually.
Alys Arryn had been brought up as a lady of the Vale, with impeccable manners. That's why she kept smiling even while she whispered something way too audible to her son: "Where is your sister?"
Daeron poured himself a cup of wine, enjoying this evening for the time being. Especially if he pretended he hadn't noticed his father's disapproving look.
He had better things to worry about, like uncle Rhaegel stealing Maekar's own cup and emptying it in a gulp, before spitting the wine out of his mouth in a fit of laughter.
Then a sound came.
A soft voice—so, so similar—a loud noise and then the doors opened again.
Daeron dropped his cup.