Chapter Text
He had dreamed of her, he dreamt of her every night: that lilac lady, comforting him from his sorrows.
He had dreamt about her for days now. Even on the street to King's Landing, he had dreamt of her.
And now she was here, before his eyes.
It was her, Daeron was sure.
She had silver hair, the most beautiful colour of silver hair. It wasn't pure blonde like her brother, or silver-white like his grandfather, his uncle or even his own father. No, hers was like a ray of sunshine just when it peeks through the curtain, meaning that Daeron has survived another night of doom.
Daeron liked the sun, it reminded him of his afternoons spent in Summerhall, playing with his mother.
He had almost thought he would forget her, with her warm arms and sweet perfume, but it all came back again as he looked into Aelora's gaze: two amethyst eyes to accompany the rays of sunshine.
She bowed gracefully, exchanging a complicit look with uncle Baelor, before sitting right before Daeron.
"Now that we're all gathered..." his namesake began, standing up with a cup in his hand, but Daeron couldn't tear his eyes from her.
He had seen her in his dreams. She was sweet, her hands used to caress him, like Mother's did.
And now here she was, before his eyes. With a lilac dress and silver-gold hair, with his mother's eyes and his house's scent.
He saw the king sitting down from the corner of his eye: he had probably ended his speech, which he hadn't paid attention to, but Daeron could bet it was about family, love and unity, like all of them. Daeron had stopped listening aged eight.
But she was listening, of course she was.
She didn't know that Daeron dreamed about her every night and was wondering now if her hands were really that soft.
His father's voice brought him back to reality: "Daeron will enter the lists."
Daeron's eyes blinked twice, enough to make him stop stare at her and look around confused. "What?"
"The tourney." Egg whispered at his side, knowing that Daeron used to disappear from conversations so often, his mind drifting away.
It was mostly hollow places, but now it had been a sweet one, filled with ladies dressed in lilac who comforted him.
But his father had crushed his happy memory, for once. Of course, he would offer him: the worst of all his kids with a sword. But he was the eldest and needed to do his duty, so Maekar said.
"As will I, father." Aerion spoke up from the other side of the table.
Aerion the Kind, Daeron thought with a humourless chuckle, who wanted to ingratiate himself with their father every chance he had. And his father was quick to nod proudly.
He hadn't even started eating yet and he already wanted to puke. Let him go back to his lady and her warm hands.
Valarr, of course, would attend—it was a tourney held in honour of his sons after all—as his red haired brother. But as soon as Matarys said his name, a surprising thing happened: Aelor said his own as well.
"I will enter the lists." he announced, shocking everyone, his mother especially.
Daeron remembered him training with Aerion when they came to visit: that was their definition of fun.
"You're too young." Alys Arryn argued.
"I'm a knight."
"You're barely one."
At that statement, her son gave her a look of admonishment. He may not have the same violet eyes as his sister, but he surely shared the Targaryens' personality.
Aelor turned to stare at his mother, almost daring her to show her opposition to his decision again.
The room felt suddenly tense, a game of blue glances over the table keeping everyone on the edge of their seats.
Daeron remembered Alys Arryn's decisive nature, even if he had met her less and less during the last few years.
"He is," Matarys broke the sudden silence that had settled above the table. "I knighted him myself." he murmured.
Aelor looked surprised at their cousin, before immediately turning his back and engaging in a conversation with Daella. The dinner resumed as if nothing had happened.
"You will behave." his father had ordered him, earlier that afternoon, when he had summoned him to his rooms.
The Red Keep was larger than Summerhall, yet their rooms were smaller than the ones they had at home. Another slight, in his father's eyes: he was only the fourth son, he didn't have lavish rooms like his brothers.
Daeron had arrived there, expecting to find his other siblings as well and receive the usual lecture, but the room had been empty, if it weren't for him and his father. His blood had ran cold.
"You won't drink like a pirate and mention whores and brothels." Maekar's voice still echoed in his ears.
Daeron had grown up tall, taller than his father, yet he still felt as if that broad warrior towered over him.
"And you will not mention your condition."
Meaning: you won't mention your dreams.
Daeron couldn't shake the feeling that his father had proposed his name for the tourney as a way to punish him, to embarrass him in front of the entire realm. If he didn't wish to suffer further shame, always feeling inferior to his brothers, why had he chosen him?
He claimed he needed discipline, but that wasn't true.
He had dreamt about him, but never dared to say anything: his father was at a pyre, so similar to Dyanna's one, yet it was different.
He was different. There was guilt in his eyes, one so profound that Daeron had never seen anything of the sort in that violet gaze, the same one that now stared at him from across the table.
He offered him a nod, but his father answered only with his stern expression and turned to Baelor, continuing their conversation.
His uncle.
The only one who brought a smile to his father's face. Daeron was jealous of it sometimes. Not because he didn't have brothers who could make him happy—Aemon and Egg always made it their mission to ease his demons and his fears—but because he knew he would never be able to make his father proud. To make his father smile like that.
With no worries and no restraints.
Daeron wouldn't even think about challenging the heir to the throne—Baelor was perfect in everything—yet he couldn't let that slide.
Maekar rarely smiled at his children: he did sometimes to Aerion, when he proved himself in a tourney; or to Aemon and his perfect Valyrian accent; to Daella when she looked like their mother; or even to Egg and Rhae, the youngest of them all, when they behaved, even allowing them a bit of his affection.
But not to Daeron. He didn't recall the last time his father had smiled at him—even worse, the last time he had been proud of him.
Not that his mother would be so pleased with him, if she were alive. Daeron spent his nights whoring and his days drunk, when he wasn't plagued by his dreams.
Not even there would she come to visit. Maybe it was a relief, he could interpret it as a sign that she was at peace. After all, whenever he dreamt about someone, it meant they wouldn't live a peaceful life.
Daeron looked at his sister Daella, with dark hair and violet eyes so similar to their mother, and he was damn sure she didn't look like that.
She wasn't in Aerion's cruelty—she had always been gentle—or in Egg's innocence—she had been an astute woman, that was probably what had drawn his father in. She wasn't capricious like Rhae, but not even Aemon's sweet disposition could be associated with her.
Daeron sometimes wondered if he wasn't the one most haunted by her, instead of his father.
Maekar was damned to see her in his children's faces, while he was damned by the knowledge of never seeing her again.
He had been old—old enough to remember her screams of agony—yet he couldn't have saved her.
Not only her.
He looked around the table, his eyes moving on each person sitting there.
He had mourned them all already.
"Cousin?" a voice brought him back to reality and Daeron was met with deep amethyst eyes again. He believed he saw his mother for a second, but then silver-gold hair clashed against his vision.
He blinked, realising he hadn't listened to a single word. "Mhm?"
"What do you think?" his sister Daella asked, as if Daeron had been paying attention to the conversation. She was trying to act older than her years, she was wearing one of their mother's dresses.
"About what?"
"The tournament." Aelor filled in. "Your father said you'll enter the lists."
As if I want to.
But he didn't say it.
Aelora smiled at him, her eyes sparkling with something that he couldn't quite catch. "Are you a capable knight?"
Not at all.
"Of course."
"You'll need the favour of a lady." Daella pointed out, rather cocky.
"I can have yours, dear sister." Daeron smirked, but Aelor intervened.
"Actually," he began uncertain. "I wanted to ask for Daella's favour."
Daeron's eyes widened in surprise, turning from his sister to the guy next to her.
What?
Daeron sighed, trying to keep his stupid brotherly jealousy at bay. Aelor would carve him like a cake, if he challenged him to a duel. "I guess I'll ask for Kiera's favour then."
"She'll give it to Valarr."
Daeron sighed, closing his eyes and throwing his head back in a gesture of mock exasperation. "Do I really have to ask for Aerion's favour then?"
Egg and Rhae chuckled at his other side, a sound so beautiful that he opened one eye and smirked at them.
Aerion, on the other side of the table, tried desperately to be included in the conversation between his father and Baelor, but neither was actually paying him mind.
He always did that, trying to catch Maekar's attention and act accordingly in his presence.
Daeron sometimes thought that Aerion was their father's favourite son. He was striving for greatness, in his own cruel way, while Egg didn't shine in anything in particular, Aemon was sent away to serve other people someday and Daeron himself spent his days crying for 'nonsense', or so he called his son's dreams.
Daeron thought about what Aerion had done to Egg, his little Egg. He had beaten him bloody at the news. Maekar had separated them himself, but he hadn't looked proud.
For the first and last time in his life, Daeron had shown a spark of Targaryen temper and his father had punished him for it.
And there was another long series of mishaps that had long pointed to Aerion's cruelty: when he had killed the kittens, when he had burned Aemon's books, when he had pulled Daella by the hair or pinched Rhae's arms.
"She squints like a pig." he had laughed, before adding with rage: "Mother is dead so that stupid Rhae could live."
Their father always justified him. "He's grieving for his mother." he would say.
Aerion had been Dyanna's shadow, once, many and many years ago. She had been the only one who could ease his cruelty. He couldn't actually even remember Aerion being cruel, when their mother lived.
"My little dragon." she would call him.
Daeron had been their father's favourite at the time and didn't have others to compete for his attention: Aerion was always attached to their mother's gown and the world hadn't yet known Daella's sweetness, Aemon's affection, Egg's love or Rhae's funny temper. He loved all his siblings fiercely, he would give his life for them, yet he would also give everything away to relive just a day in the past.
Their mother snuggled in bed, Aerion sleeping in her arms, Maekar throwing Daeron high in the sky, laughing along with him. He couldn't recall the last time he or his father had laughed.
"My little prince." Maekar used to call him like that.
Then the dreams had started. And his father had been disappointed: they had told him his firstborn had been touched by the Targaryen madness.
Not even his mother understood. She loved him still, of course, but her family was known for having great warriors and great beauties, not people with prophetic dreams.
And Aerion had become their father's favourite, his bright hope. He had grown arrogant in the light of Maekar's favouritism, believing he could do whatever he pleased.
"My uncle, Aemon the Dragonknight..." the king was saying, surely telling something about his younger days as heir to the throne.
Aemon the Dragonknight, king Aegon IV's younger brother: a just man, destined to live in his brother's shadow, even in love. And then the warrior had perished and the king had kept living and doing wrong.
Daeron thought about his namesake, he couldn't have foreseen his brother betraying him and rebelling against his rule. Yet it had happened. Another brother who betrays the other.
He had seen it: his father and Baelor, Maekar clutching his brother's corpse. And the voices, those followed him everywhere: he had meant to kill his brother.
He wouldn't. Even Daeron, who had known Maekar's harsh treatment more than others, knew that was beyond him.
"Daeron," a voice interrupted his train of thoughts. Dark hair, like his mother, but warm brown eyes. Queen Myriah was smiling softly at her grandson. "I couldn't help but eavesdrop. You could ride with my favour, if you'd like." she proposed. "After all, the king is not entering the lists." she added with a chuckle.
Daeron looked at her for a long moment, trying to find in him the strength to smile. Riding and failing miserably would already be a shame, but doing it with the queen's favour would represent eternal scorn. And his father's rage and disappointment.
"Well..." he began.
"It's a beautiful idea!" Aelora exclaimed, while his sister Daella agreed with them.
He looked at the queen. Sometimes he could still see those brown eyes filled with tears. Past and future.
"You must be strong." she had said while his mother's corpse burned. Daeron had failed to do so.
His father had hugged Aemon and Daella, dried Aerion's tears, picked up Egg and cradled Rhae. Where was he for Daeron?
The cups had eased his pain from that day on.
He nearly choked at the idea, shaking his head.
"Why not? It would be a nice gesture." Aelora took his hand from across the table and then...
Nothing.
Black.
Falling.
Void.
And then the screams began.
Another pyre, a young silver-haired woman crumbling on her feet.
And then the screams of terror. "Please, don't!" she was shouting, crying, sobbing. "I beg you! Stop!"
Men laughing and a face: Aelora.
He gasped, pulling his chair back and standing up. It fell on the ground, but Daeron scarcely cared. He was actually choking now.
Voices shouted around him, but he didn't recognise any of them. His father wasn't among them.
Then a small, slender hand on his shoulder. "It's alright." the voice was saying, but not to him. "Daeron meant no arm." she was saying, that same voice that had been screaming. Was it blood on his hands or wine? He couldn't see.
It wasn't him.
He would never...
"Let's go get fresh air." the voice added more softly, but despite blinking rapidly, Daeron couldn't look at her.
Then the sound of a door opening, two hands on his chest and his back hitting the wall.
"Daeron!"
He felt as if he was drowning and, finally, he reached the surface. He gasped and choked on his own breath, his hands searching for something—someone—to grab and come back to the real world.
Two hands found his own, as his breathing slowly calmed down and his eyes began to see the world once again, leaving the wretched images behind.
"You're alright." The voice was whispering, hands squeezing his, as silver-gold hair filled his sight. Beautiful amethyst eyes, reassuring smile, soothing tone, lavender scent: Aelora.
She looked like a dream. A beautiful, sweet and haunting woman.
"There you are." she whispered, half a smile on her face, before taking a step back. His hands fell at his side, empty now.
"What...what happened?" he murmured, knowing exactly what had just occurred. Dragon dreams, they called it. He preferred curse.
"Nothing, I'm alright, don't worry." She took a step forward. Daeron would have shrunken further, if the wall hadn't prevented him from doing so.
"Let's go take some fresh air." she offered him her hand, but he didn't take it: he barely trusted his legs now.
But she didn't stop. No, she was a stubborn Targaryen through and through, Daeron should have known from the start. She got even closer and wrapped her hand around his arm, pulling him forward. And he was too weak to protest or resist.
"You have been missing from the capital for so long, you probably don't even remember the gardens." she was saying as they walked down the corridors.
Daeron followed without talking, he didn't have the strength to do much after a vision: he didn't recognise a single place, even though most of his nightmares took place in the halls of the Red Keep. He hated the castle.
Then the evening breeze hit his face and he hated everything even more.
"Should we take a stroll around?" Aelora proposed to him, but he finally found his voice once again: "No."
"Let's sit then." she led him to a bench and he couldn't refuse that.
Once he finally sat down, he let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. The gardens were beautiful, she was beautiful and he hated everything.
All the tension left his shoulders and he started trembling, his body betraying him.
"Did I hurt someone?"
"Daeron..."
"The truth." he demanded, without finding the courage to turn to look at her.
"You grabbed a knife, but Aelor was quick enough."
He exhaled once again and blinked, trying to keep the tears at bay. His eyes roamed over the dimly lit gardens before him, noticing flowers and plants.
He hated himself mostly. Why did he have to ruin the night like that? Why couldn't he be normal? Why had the gods punished him so?
"Did you have a dragon dream?" she asked, without circling the subject and going straight to the point. He appreciated that, despite everything.
He only nodded at her question, making a sound of displeasure. "I don't want to talk about it."
She nodded next to him, though Daeron couldn't bring himself to look at her. She stood up suddenly, leaving his side.
"Do you see this?" she began, entering his visual range. She was pointing to something in the bushes before them, but Daeron couldn't tell what.
"This flower." she clarified when noticing his confusion. She took a step forward and pulled the plant away from the earth, crimson petals shining in her hands under the moonlight.
"What about it?" he asked, while she walked back and sat next to him, a little smile on her face.
"This can help you sleep." she murmured, offering the flower to him.
He was hesitant about taking it, but Aelora didn't leave him much of a choice. She put it on his lap and rose to her feet once again, moving to the bushes with a certain knowledge that Daeron didn't know she possessed.
"How do you know this?"
"I like botany."
Soon she started talking about different flowers and their capacities. Daeron only pretended to listen, before he found his voice again.
"I doubt it." he raised the flower in his arms, his eyes never leaving the crimson petals.
"What?" she asked, turning to him, her eyebrows knotted in confusion.
"This...is different." he felt like choking even just by talking about it. "Dragon dreams are different."
Aelora exhaled softly, walking back to him. "You're right, I'm sorry. This is magic we're talking about."
"Don't apologise." he interrupted her, once she sat back down. "I've made up my mind long ago that I will not know a peaceful night of sleep." he added with a chuckle, but it wasn't funny.
He looked away until the gentlest touch he ever received made him turn around. Her finger was caressing his hand, barely touching his skin. "Maybe I can find something more about it. There must be some books in the library regarding prophetic dreams or related to them."
Daeron looked right into her eyes, that amethyst gaze shining under the moonlight. Her screams still echoed in his ears. Was he ready to mourn her as well?
"No." he refused her help.
"Why not? I know a great deal about plants." she protested. "And I'm interested in the matter."
He shook his head, incapable of saying more.
"Trust me, I can help you." Her hand squeezed his again, but he pulled back, as if she had burned him.
"No." he repeated, more decisively now, before standing up.
"Daeron!" she exclaimed when he turned his back to her and began to walk away.
But he didn't stop. His feet started moving even faster and soon he was running away from her.
Daeron the Dreamer, they called him. They should have used Daeron the Coward.
"My prince." the whore moaned, moving atop of him. The woman had beautiful dark hair, but no violet eyes. He had forgotten her name.
"Shh." he grabbed her by the hips and brought her down on his cock, enjoying his last thrusts of pleasure.
"Yes! Yes!" she squealed in excitement as he spilled inside her, his head falling against the pillow. He wondered if she were Dornish.
"Another cup of wine, my prince?" Another woman walked in, naked as well: it was her turn now. He always paid for more than one whore, mostly because he didn't want to get asleep. He couldn't get asleep, especially not in a brothel.
He nodded, emptying the cup in one gulp. He had lost count, not that it mattered: now the brown haired woman was walking away from his cock and the silver-haired one started stroking his chest. He had also selected a red-haired one that slightly looked like aunt Jena, but she was nowhere to be seen. Maybe she had gone to fetch him something to eat, after all he was starving: he had not returned to the dining room.
He had left his cousin there in the garden and walked away, walked through the only Red Keep's passage he knew of and got out.
He knew his father would be furious with him in the morning. Daeron rejoiced at the thought: at least he would stop ignoring him.
Better having him shout at him than not having him at all.
He had intended to find the nearest brothel, but he had stopped at the tavern before, only to drink, and had arrived there so drunk that the matron wouldn't let him in.
"You're a peasant, we serve only noble lords here." she had stated. He surely had looked like one.
Only the dagger with the three-headed dragon had convinced her of his identity and she had sucked his cock for free as an apology.
Not that Daeron cared enough to get offended. He had come to the point that alcohol and sex had become pointless, as anything else had before that. He couldn't escape his curse, no matter how much he tried to.
His mother was the only one able to soothe him, even if temporarily. He wondered if the only way to stop this torture would be to join her.
He missed her. He missed her warm embrace and her gentle voice, which would put him to sleep. He longed for those dreamless nights, spent in his mother's arms.
"Mom." he choked, as the other woman started working on his cock.
"My prince?" the dark-haired woman asked, confused to hear such words leaving his lips. She had stopped on the doorway to put her dress on: lavender, like his mother's dress that Daella had worn that night.
"I want my mom." he started sobbing, while the silver-haired girl stopped with her ministrations.
The last whore joined them in the room and looked at him with the same bewilderment, as he drowned another cup of wine, praying that the alcohol would numb the feeling.
"My prince, you should stop." The dark-haired woman stepped forward, snatching the bottle away, but he pushed her aside.
"Stop, mom!" he shouted, standing up from the bed and reaching for his robes. "I'm going now."
They all looked concerned, despite the fact he had just paid them to fuck him. He was such a low creature that even whores felt bad for him. He turned to look at the three of them.
Three, he thought with bitterness. A dragon must always have three heads.
"My prince, you're in no condition to..." the woman from Lys began, she was still naked and was silver-haired everywhere.
He ignored her and pushed his pants upward, until she made the wrong decision: her hand landed on his arm and his ran to his dagger.
The red-haired one shouted in horror as he pushed her friend against the wall, the blade pressing against her throat.
"STOP IT!" he shouted against the unarmed whore. "YOU MUST STOP IT, AELORA!"
The words left his mouth before he could stop himself. The dagger fell on the ground and he crumbled soon after.
Two hands caressed his cheek, but Daeron didn't dare move. He was enjoying some dreamless sleep, finally, and hoped to fall into it once again.
"Poor Daeron." a small voice whispered, sounding sad: Rhae, he recognised her immediately.
"Let him be." an older voice sounded and Daeron almost pulled up instantly: father.
He wanted to stand up, to open his eyes, to look at his father.
"Let's go, Rhae." A sweeter voice came: Daella. His gentle, gentle sister. Aerion had been so harsh with her, pulling her hair. Maekar had been angry with him, for once. Said that no knight hurts a lady, even if she happens to be his little sister who annoys him to no end.
"Will you call us when he wakes up?" Egg's preoccupied tone reached his ear. He had worried his little brother. He wanted to throw up, or maybe it was the alcohol in his system.
No response came, though soon the sound of a door creaking open reached his ear and then silence.
Daeron didn't know if he had fallen asleep again, he only knew that, when he found the courage to open his eyes, a warmer voice could be heard.
"You must look after him, brother."
A warm, wise voice: Baelor.
"I've been trying to do so!" his father hissed, maintaining a low tone despite his anger. Daeron knew he was restraining himself.
"I know you've been trying to do your best." Baelor's voice always sounded reassuring. Was that why his father loved him so? "I wish I knew how to help you."
Not even the perfect heir knew what to do; this was unfortunate.
"I'm surprised that a man like you is incapable of finding a solution." Maekar put into words Daeron's thoughts.
There was a moment of silence, before Baelor spoke again: "I don't know about the solution, but everyone can clearly see the cause."
He heard the sound of a chair rattling against the floor, before his father's voice rang again, tense now: "You don't need to tell me the cause. I'm already doomed to see her every day when my eyes land on my children."
There was the rush of another chair being pulled back. Daeron opened his eyes, but the moment he did he wanted to close them again.
He really wanted to, but he couldn't tear his eyes off that scene: his father sobbing on Baelor's shoulder.
He felt his heart beating so fast, his breath itching. He felt like choking. Like dying. He wanted to die.
I should have killed myself, he thought. I wouldn't have witnessed this.
His father had made him cry countless times, with his indifference, his stern looks, his harsh tone. Yet now he wanted for nothing more than to wrap his arms around his father, like Dyanna did.
Let me die, please. He was praying. Let me die in his arms like mother.
Would Maekar mourn him? Would he call him his 'first boy', like he did when he was little? If he had stabbed himself in that brothel, would have his father felt it? Would he have felt his heart breaking while Daeron's bled? Would he have come running, searching for him desperately, clutching his body while Daeron let out his last breath?
After all, his father had held him when he took his first one, cradling him like he did Baelor's head now.
Daeron felt an unexpected feeling of rage.
He wanted to be in Baelor's place, to comfort his father like he was doing. What right had Baelor? He didn't know about their constant fights back in Summerhall, his father's hands around him when he found Daeron passed out right outside the castle.
He always made it back home, didn't matter where he was or how much he had drank. He always made it back to his father.
But he wasn't perfect Baelor. His uncle was always more capable, even at comforting. His hands were gentle around Maekar, they didn't strike him like Daeron had done in a fit of madness, sheets dump with sweat and throat raw from screaming while his father woke him up.
Maekar's sobs were heartbreaking. Daeron had heard people scream in horror while fire engulfed everything and this was still worse.
His father, his strong father. He was a warrior, he had come back from Redgrass Field and embraced Daeron. Said that he had promised him to come back and he had kept his word.
Daeron wanted to cry like him. To sob louder, to make him hear, to make him understand.
Cry for me, father. Mourn me, like you did mother. Bury me, like you did mother.
He was sobbing, clutching his uncle's shoulder. Did he care for him?
Maekar's eyes opened then, lilac meeting lilac. Daeron sealed his eyes shut, desiring that a dragon dream reached him now and made him scream in agony: it would hurt less.
And always, the gods heard him only when he wished for the worst.
He dreamt of fire and dead dragons. He cried and tossed around the covers, while the maesters tried to tend to him. He didn't even know where he was staying: it looked like a room, it might be his, but the Red Keep wasn't his home.
He only knew that, once he settled against the pillows with his eyes wide open in horror, his uncle Baelor was there and Queen Myriah's hands tried to soothe him: something that his father should have been doing.
"You're alright, Daeron." his grandmother calmed him down, when he woke up gasping for air.
"The fire." he croaked out, sweating like a pig.
"Should we put out the fire?" the queen asked, confused by his rambling, while her first son stopped with his pacing and stared right into Daeron's face.
He groaned, knowing that a lecture was due. But Baelor's eyes were gleaming with something different from the rage he was usually met with by his father.
"Do you remember what happened?" the heir to the throne asked calmly. Somehow, he preferred Maekar's shouting voice to his composed tone.
He wanted his father.
Daeron wished to answer honestly, but words failed him. He was barely capable of shaking his head, before Baelor interrupted him.
"You don't?" he raised his eyebrows. Daeron knew that he expected such an answer. "A whore brought you back to the Red Keep."
"Baelor!" the queen hissed at her son for such language.
"Forgive me, mother, but one can only say the truth in this case." he replied, his tone becoming harsher.
Daeron thought about his father. The two brothers looked nothing alike: one was gentle and pitiful, preferring calm strategies to decisions taken in haste; the other was a hard man who couldn't rule his temper.
He wondered how Maekar reacted when a whore brought him news of his son, how ashamed he must have felt. His brothers' children would have never shamed their fathers as he had done.
Daeron the Disappointment.
He tried to hold back his laugh. He didn't know why he felt the need to laugh.
"Does this amuse you?" Baelor noticed his grin.
"Which one?"
"Excuse me?"
"Which one of the three ladies risked everything to bring me back to the castle?" he clarified, his amusement clear now.
Baelor's face was stone cold as he replied: "Dyanna."
Daeron bursted out laughing, so loud now that he almost choked on his own saliva.
He turned his gaze to his grandmother, who was assuring him that everything was alright. She always tended to him, despite everything.
The Hand of the King walked outside the door without another look at him.
"Do you think that Father will let me dance at the feast?" Daella asked him, looking up at him from her position on the floor, right in front of the fireplace.
"I don't know, love." he murmured on the armchair, his hand absentmindedly stroking Rhae's head. She was sleeping on his shoulder and he didn't want to break Daella's heart by telling her that she was deemed too young.
He had deflected to their shared room the moment he was left alone, seizing the opportunity.
He was rather used to their company, they always hid in his room, because of Aerion's temper. Not that he could actually protect them: he was drunk almost every night, passed out on his bed, yet his younger brother never dared to step foot into his room, aware that Daeron, despite his drunken state and haunted eyes, was still a Targaryen.
And he raged like one.
"Aerion said we'll go away before the tournament starts." Egg said what Daeron had been trying to hide from his younger siblings. "He was angry when he said that."
We're going away because of me.
He wanted to prove his worth and I prevented that with my actions.
It's all my fault.
"But Prince Aelor had asked for my favour!" Daella exclaimed, heartbroken at the idea that such a thing would not occur. "We can't go back home already!" she raised her violet eyes on him, full of tears.
Daeron felt his heart breaking.
"I'll talk with father." he choked out. He would sooner face a real dragon than him, but there was nothing he wouldn't do for his siblings.
"Will you? Really?" Even Egg was impressed by his statement. Daeron felt his bile rising in his throat.
"Yeah."
Daella gifted him with the sweetest of kisses, while Egg hugged him tightly. Even Rhae, unaware of the situation, snuggled closer to him. That was enough to master his courage.
Maekar sneered in his face.
He had woken up early—or at least, earlier than usual by his standards—shaved and cleaned, all just to be presentable to his father's eyes.
Daella had looked at him with pleading eyes, the message inside them clear: please, convince our father. Egg had hugged him tightly again, whispering "good luck" in his ear, and Rhae had gifted him flowers.
Even Aerion had not been a monster for once and gave him a rather uninterested glance. He had expected him to shout, curse him for the fact that he was losing his chance to spark in the tournament because of him.
Instead, nothing.
As always, Daeron would prefer anger over indifference.
Just like with his father.
Aerion was Maekar's copy and Daeron was terrorised by it. He was terrified because he loved them.
He had prepared a strong argument and had tried not to let hope slip inside his heart, yet it had reached him anyway.
All for it to be shattered by his father.
Sneering.
"You're bold, I'll give you that."
He didn't have to ask if that meant no, he already knew.
"Did you think you would impress me, coming here clean and shaved, smelling of lavender and using great words?"
Lavender. Mother's perfume.
Daeron missed her. Did his father miss her as well?
He had said he was haunted by her, could see her every day in his children's faces. Could he see her in Daeron? In his hollow eyes, his slumbered expression?
He was the most similar to her. Was that why his father had taken his distance? Why he didn't cradle him anymore and call him 'his first boy'?
His siblings all resembled Maekar in some ways, but, unlike them, he hadn't inherited the Targaryens' stubbornness. He slumped his shoulders and took a step back, ready to return to his chambers and drown in a bottle of wine.
"You give up so easily." Maekar's voice sounded behind his back. "You're not my son."
Daeron deemed himself untouched by words and judgments. After all, he had heard whispers about his madness his entire life. And living tormented by prophetic dreams meant to learn to be unbothered, at least if one hoped to keep his sanity.
Yet nothing could hurt him as much as his father's words.
Daeron had given him his first breath. He wanted to give him his last one as well.
He swallowed, his eyes stinging with the need to cry. He didn't answer, he didn't even know what to say, really.
"I..."
"You?"
Daeron turned, taking a deep breath in. "I came here on my siblings' behalf."
Maekar's face remained composed, his violet eyes fixed on him.
His boy.
His first boy.
Therefore, his first disappointment.
"They should know that their brother prevented them from attending the tournament." his father stood up from his chair, turning around to look at the view of King's Landing from his balcony.
"Do you want them to hate me?" The words escaped his mouth before he could stop himself.
Like you hate me.
Now Maekar turned to look at him, but Daeron didn't dare to raise his eyes.
Daeron the Disappointment.
Daeron the Coward.
His father's glance found his face before Daeron could take a step back and turn his head away. That look hurt more than a slap.
His father never raised his hands on him, despite the many headaches that Daeron had caused him, letting servants do the work. Maekar was strong, he probably thought he would kill him.
What a blessing that would be, to die by his father's hand.
"You put me and our entire family to shame. I will not risk it again and leave you here, in a city full of wine and brothels, so that the rest of the court can make me the laughingstock."
Daeron's hand went to his throat, as if he could feel his father's grip around it.
"I came here on my siblings' behalf." he repeated.
He had said he gave up too easily, marked him as his personal disappointment.
He raised his gaze now, his violet eyes burning in Maekar's lilac ones.
He faced dragon dreams every night, he wasn't a coward as his father claimed.
"Punish me, but don't take this from them."
If only he had known that he would seal his death warrant with that, he would have stayed silent.