Chapter Text
The library was never empty. Daeron knew that better than most. Even in the deepest hours of the night, when the Red Keep fell into that uneasy silence between revelry and dawn, there were always remnants: half-burnt candles, abandoned scrolls, the lingering presence of men who believed knowledge could be ordered and contained.
He had come there to escape it. Or to hide from it. He wasn't entirely sure anymore.
He did not remember deciding to come here, that had been happening more often. He only knew that his feet had carried him through corridors he could not later recall, past doors and guards and torchlight, until the smell of parchment and dust settled something restless in his chest.
His steps were quieter than usual, not from caution—he had long since stopped caring who saw him wandering where he ought not—but from something closer to instinct. A pressure at the back of his skull, the same one that came before a dream, urging him to slow, to listen.
He had had to escape.
Cups were prohibited to him. That had been father's first rule: if he wished to appease his siblings and let them all stay in the capital for the tourney, he wouldn't get drunk anymore and indulge in shameful behaviours like his last one.
Father's second rule: Bloodraven would analyse his peculiar dreams—Maekar probably wished that the sorcerer told him they were caused by alcohol more than powers.
Brynden Rivers had ordered guards to clear his rooms of any flask they could find that contained or might contain alcohol.
He had told him to come to him when the headaches would start. Daeron hadn't mentioned any of those, but he wasn't surprised by the fact that Bloodraven would just know.
The drunken prince would have rather cut his own cock.
So he had started to wander with no end: his focus always dimmed when a dream was approaching, up to the point where he would look steadier in a drunken state, in comparison.
But the library was a safe choice. There were no dreams here, not yet.
That was when he saw a dim light.
Daeron stilled.
He wished for no one to see him in this state. They would believe he was drunk and report him back to his father.
Daeron was almost sure that that cunt of the Grand Maester hated him and would wish for nothing more than see him shipped back to Summerhall.
He took a deep breath and got closer to the shelves, his back against the wood that housed so much knowledge, in order to peek without being caught.
And that he saw her.
Aelora Targaryen.
He would have known that hair anywhere now.
He should have turned back then. Instead, he moved closer.
Slowly, quietly; one step, then another, until the shelves thinned enough for him to see her.
She sat alone at one window, a pool of candlelight gathered around her like she were the Goddess of Light. A giant book laid open before her, a thin parchment on the edge of the windowsill instead. One side was held down by a small weight, while the other had slipped loose, curling slightly at the edge, but she paid it no mind.
She was wearing a thin light blue dress, that made her hair look more golden than silver, especially in the shadows of the room.
Daeron wondered if she felt cold. Surely drafts came from the window and hit her back. He had not worn his cloak—he rarely did—but he wished now he had, if only to put it on her shoulders and shield her from the chill.
She was speaking. Not to anyone, to herself. "...symbols," she murmured, tracing a line of text with one finger. "They must be symbols. Otherwise there would be no—"
She stopped, frowning slightly, and shifted to another line.
"Dreams are the language of dragons..."
The words hit him like a blow. Daeron's hand tightened against the shelf beside him.
She continued, softer now, the High Valyrian rolling off her tongue with an ease that made something in him twist.
He should not be hearing this. He should not be here.
And yet...
"...not meant to be read as they are written," she went on, almost to herself. "But as they are... arranged?"
Daeron closed his eyes. That was too close. Too close.
He stepped back. The movement was small, but the world felt suddenly too narrow, the air too thin. If he stayed another moment, she would...
He took another step back, but landed on a broken tile, that cracked beneath his feet.
He saw her raising her head from the corner of his eye.
"Who's there?" she called out, her head moving around to look around herself.
That's when he turned and nearly ran. His steps quickened the moment he reached the first row of shelves, then the next. He did not look back. He did not think. Only distance mattered: distance from her voice, from the words she had spoken, from the shape of something forming that he did not understand and did not want to.
He heard soft but quick footsteps behind him: she was following him.
Fuck.
If he had been clear minded, he would have been able to slip out of the library without her even catching him. But the headaches were making it difficult for him to even see properly.
"Aelor?" she tried, her voice uncertain.
No.
Wrong name.
"Daeron!"
He stopped. For a heartbeat, he considered continuing anyway, pretending he had not heard and that he was already gone.
But her steps were already behind him: light, quick, determined like she was. So damn determined.
He exhaled once, sharply, and turned just as she came around the corner of the shelf.
Aelora halted a pace away, breath slightly uneven from the short run, one hand still half-raised as if she had meant to reach for him.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Up close, the candlelight followed her poorly, leaving her half in shadow. It made her look less certain than before.
Or perhaps that was only his eyesight completely failing him.
Pity he couldn't see her clearly: she really was a beauty.
"You were listening." she said suddenly, making him snap back to reality and hold back a breath. Her tone wasn't accusing, but rather certain.
Daeron forced his expression into something neutral, something empty. "I was leaving."
"You were running."
"That would imply urgency," he replied.
"It did not seem lacking."
Her eyes searched his face, sharper now, more focused than they had been that morning. Whatever embarrassment had lingered from before was gone. Replaced by something else, something that Daeron didn't want to acknowledge.
"You were spying me." she said.
"I just happened to be in this place."
"Do not be clever with me." the words were quiet, but they landed cleanly.
Daeron's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "I would not dare."
Everyone knew she was a smart girl, trained by Baelor himself. She really must possess incredible qualities, for their perfect uncle to select her.
Pity she wasn't the heir.
Aelora took a step closer, not enough to crowd him but enough to stop him from leaving without brushing past her.
"You knew the text," she said. "Is that why you were listening?"
"I know fragments."
"You knew it."
"Just partially." Daeron looked past her, toward the darker stretch of corridor beyond. Freedom, if he chose to take it.
He did not move.
"You should return to your chambers, Princess," he said. "It is late."
"So you may continue spying from the shadows?" she asked.
That made him look at her, really look this time. There was no mockery in her expression, only intent.
"I was not spying." he said.
"You see things." she went on, quieter now.
He blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"Not as others do." she added.
"No." he said. It came too quickly.
Go away, Daeron.
Aelora's gaze did not waver. "You run from them," she said instead. "From what you see, from what you understand."
Something in his chest tightened. Perhaps she would have worked better as Bloodraven assistant. "You presume much."
"Then correct me."
"I have neither the time nor the inclination. And certainly I lack the mental capacity."
He moved then, intending to step past her.
Aelora caught his sleeve, firmly enough that he stopped.
The contact burned.
Daeron tried to snatch it back, but to no avail. He lacked every ounce of strength that he normally possessed.
He braced himself for the worst, another vision of her screaming beneath cruel men.
But it didn't arrive.
When he blinked his eyes open, he was surprised to notice that his sight had improved. When she spoke again, it didn't sound as if she was underwater and his ears didn't ring.
"Do not lie to me." she said. It was not a plea, it was not even a demand. It was expectation.
No one expected anything from Daeron since he were twelve and used to ditch his studied to drown in his cups.
He looked down at her hand on his sleeve, then back at her face.
"I lie to everyone," he said quietly. "It makes things simpler."
"I am not everyone."
That was the problem.
"No," he said. "You are not."
Aelora did not release him. "Then do not be simple." she said.
A strange, almost humorless sound escaped him. "You do not know what you are asking."
"Then tell me."
"I cannot." He shook his head once. "You should not want to understand this."
"I do not care what I should want."
Of course she didn't, of course.
Daeron closed his eyes briefly. He could leave, he still could. He could pull away, walk past her, let this end here before it began.
It would be easier, it would be safer.
For her.
For him.
For them both.
He had done it countless times: when Aerion expected him to join him in the training yard, when Egg asked him to take care of the cats with him, when Daella wished for him to help her braid her hair, when Aemon thought he could talk about books with him, when Rhae desired to play in the gardens with him.
Daeron had always deflected, running away from expectations and hiding in his sorrow.
But she had dressed lilac in his dreams, just like his mother. And Daeron missed his mother terribly.
When he opened his eyes again, she was there. Dyanna wasn't there anymore, but she still was. Still watching him, still waiting.
The two women even had the same smell.
Did she love him like his mother did?
Daeron wished she didn't, not like that anyway. Not in a familiar sense of the word.
But she didn't love him, how could she after what he had done?
She should hate him instead.
Hate me, Aelora.
Hate me, hate me, hate me.
Run away from me.
"What did you mean," she asked, softer now, "about the text?"
He exhaled slowly. "You do not read it as it is written," he said at last. "You take parts, pieces. Not all of it."
Aelora's grip loosened slightly, but she did not let go. "According to what?"
He hesitated. "According to what fits."
You do not fit in this family, Daeron.
Her fingers slipped from his sleeve, not in retreat but in thought. She looked like uncle Baelor, always trying to be polite, always trying to understand.
And she was equally perfect. Daeron almost wished she would be the Baelor to his Maekar, the perfection to his disappointment. He wanted for her to wrap her arms around him and console him, like his uncle had done with his father.
Instead Aelora stepped back half a pace, creating space between them—but not distance.
"Then come back." she said. Not as a request or an order, it sounded like an inevitability: he had to take a step in her direction to be understood.
Daeron glanced once more toward the corridor behind her, then past her, then nowhere at all.
"This is unwise." he muttered.
But she turned, already moving back toward the table, as if certain he would follow. As if the decision had already been made.
Daeron stood there a heartbeat longer. Then, despite himself, he followed her.
She was incredibly cultured, Daeron was sure he had never met someone like her. Maybe only Baelor could compare, but yet again when had him and his uncle ever had a serious conversation?
He had provided her with a clear translation—apparently he knew Valyrian better than her, a side effect of his dreams—and she had asked him about the exact meaning behind Jaenara's words.
The Valyrian adventurer had started her trip on discovering Sothoryos on the base of a dream, a dragon dream in which she had seen deep forests and different species, all of them bowing to a real dragon, who sat on a high throne.
"Maybe only a dreamer can understand a dreamer." Aelora had said, when he had given her his own explanation to Jaenara's words. Daeron wished that was true.
"I thought the saying was different." he chuckled humourlessly. "Only a dragon can truly understand a dragon."
"Yet dreams made us kings."
"Three dragons gave us the throne." he argued softly.
"But Daenys dreamt about the Doom." she replied. Daeron liked talking to her. "She understood what she saw and acted accordingly."
Daeron swallowed dry. "It was different then." he murmured, keeping his eyes to the page. He didn't want to see her amethyst eyes, he was sure he would forget his own words.
"How so?"
"They knew about magic. I mean, look at them." his fingers traced the draw of the dragon. "Valyrians knew about this sort of things. They believed in what they saw."
Aelora held silent for a long moment, before her hand grasped his.
Daeron held back his breath, noticing how his eyesight only improved whenever she touched him.
"Do you not believe in what you see?" she asked softly. Daeron was sure she was pitying him.
He hated to be pitied. His siblings pitied him. His grandparents did it. Surely his mother as well, before her passing.
Yet he wanted hers.
He had been in pain for so long, let him be comforted for once.
He would get anything she gave him.
"I see nothing." he whispered so low that, if it hadn't been only them in the room, she wouldn't have heard of him. "I'm just mad."
His father had told him so. Right after Dyanna's passing, he had told him he had foreseen it. And his father had told him he was mad.
Mad Daeron, Aerion sneered at him when he felt in the mood for cruelty.
"Did you ever dream of me?" she asked in a soft murmur. Her voice was musically familiar, like she had lulled him to sleep several times, back when he didn't dream.
Daeron had learned how to lie a long time ago. "No."
She didn't say anything for a long time. He didn't have the courage to raise his head and meet her pitiful gaze.
Daeron the Coward.
"Maybe we could find something, some books that can explain how to interpret them, how to ease the horrors."
Here she was again, trying to fix him.
Everyone was set on this mission, nowadays: Baelor, Bloodraven, his father.
She had a pragmatic approach to everything. She believed she could bend anything to her control.
Daeron knew she had the best intentions at heart, but this was not his case. He was sick of feeling like a burden, a problem to solve, a puzzle to put together.
He just wanted to be understood.
But Aelora couldn't understand him.
No one could.
He had been stupid enough to think otherwise.
"Maybe you could take the tea from that flower I was telling you about the other night. Or find something else that may help you fall into a dreamless sleep." she continued rambling. Daeron wanted for her to shut up, to shut up forever. She had already held him awake with her screams, she didn't need to add those hopeful words to that.
"No." he choked out. "Please, stop insisting. There's no cure to this curse. Trust me, if there had been I would know."
Surprisingly she didn't speak further.
Silence stretched between them. It was tense, filled with too many words let unsaid. But Daeron didn't want to hear them.
His ears rang, his eyesight failing him once again. A dream was approaching, he could feel it pressing against the back of his head. But he refused to fall asleep.
He had been drunk all week long, now his father had taken alcohol away from him. He didn't understand that wine eliminated dreams, made him lose his consciousness and pass out on his bed.
Now dreams would start haunting him every night. It was like they were ready to explode.
"Daeron?" her voice sounded muffled. She was underwater again.
She didn't know how to swim.
Daeron remembered a day of many and many years ago, when they had all gone to Dragonstone. Rhaegel's family was there as well.
His uncle had seemed happy, his eyes dry; he was rarely happy. Aelor had been Aerion's shadow, the two of them sparring together on the shore.
Aelora had tried to swim, unaware of how dangerous the sea could be when one didn't know how to stay afloat. Lady Alys had shouted when her daughter's golden head had disappeared beneath the surface, but Maekar had been swift enough and grabbed her before she could drown.
Daeron wanted to save her now, to be as brave as his father.
"What?" her voice came again, even more distant. "Your father?"
He tried to shake his head, pressing his eyes shut. He imagined her underwater, so little and scared.
And then beneath those laughing men, again so little and scared.
Why could he never save her?
Why could he never save anybody?
"Do you want me to go get your father?"
Gods, no.
His father was the last person that could help him now.
"Or should we go to his chambers?"
He tried to grab her hands, to stop her. She only took his as an agreement instead, squeezing his hands and guiding him up from his seat.
He felt weightless, as if he was floating. Maybe he was flying, atop of his dragon. He wondered if Jaenara and his ancestors felt the same.
"It's alright, it's alright." he tried to hold on to the sound of her voice. She sounded closer. His hands grabbed silk, red silk. It turned into blood quickly.
He felt his feet moving, which was strange because he was sure to be atop of a dragon.
Dreams were strange.
He dreamt of dragons dying, but they were all dead already.
He wanted to ask Aelora if she had a dragon. He imagined her flying in the skies of King's Landing, so fierce and beautiful. She would certainly race him to go back and forth to Dragonstone.
He wondered how long it would take him to fly back to Summerhall, to make his mother join him on dragon back. Many were afraid of dragons, but Dyanna was certainly not. She was brave like Aelora.
He had been a kid when he had asked his mother if he could marry her. The woman had laughed and told him she already belonged to his father.
He had despised his father, he always took everything away from him. He had taken Dyanna away from him twice: first in marriage, then in death.
Daeron had watched both his mother and his father die that day: he had gone from having loving parents to being utterly alone.
And he was still alone. He feared he would always be.
Aelora seemed to be alone as well. Aelor was her twin, yet he always stuck with Aerion or Matarys. Kiera was her friend, but she had Valarr and the babies. Daella was too small to be of company, same for Egg and Rhae, Aemon in Oldtown.
No one was worthy enough of her in their family. No one was as beautiful or as intelligent.
Baelor, maybe, but he was married. No High Septon would let him have two wives, like Aegon did.
Daeron was no match to her either. But he had no one, plenty enough space in his heart for her.
He could have not married his mother, but he could marry Aelora.
And then they could fly together.
"We're almost there." she sounded reassuring.
Where?
The sept?
Were they about to get married?
Or maybe it wasn't a joyful event, maybe it was a funeral. Otherwise why was he crying?
He wondered who had died now. Surely someone he had already seen dying soon.
He wondered if she would die as well, leaving him alone again. If she would make him happy, like his mother had done with his father.
He wanted to see the future now, to know what would happen to her, if he'd be good enough. Was she happy? Was she sad? Did she die like all the rest of them?
He hoped not. He wanted to protect her, pull her out of danger, like Maekar had done.
Why couldn't he have saved Daeron as well? Aelora was just his niece, while Daeron was his son. His first son.
He suddenly hated her. Why did she get what he had always wanted?
But then he felt two strong hands grabbing his face, calloused and warm.
He could recognise them anywhere: Father.
The first hands that ever held him, that raised him high in the sky, that slapped him.
"Daeron?" his voice arrived to his ears, filled with worry.
Yes, it's me, he wanted to tell his father. Your first son.
Why couldn't he always say his name like that? Why did it have to be filled with anger and disgust most of the time?
He thought for a moment that he would crush his skull with his strong hands.
No once could hurt him like his father.
No one could make him happy like his father.
He thought everything was bearable whenever he caressed his face and told him that everything would be alright.
And every time his father acted bitterly, the pain returned, as if it were still a fresh wound.
"Daeron, can you hear me?"
Yes. Yes, I'm here.
Can't your hear me, father?
Can't you see?
"Go call Bloodraven."
No. No!
He wanted to stay with his father. He wanted to be cradled in his arms, like when he was a child and his father a mere green boy.
His father was warm, always smelled of lavender because he was always kissing Mother.
Summerhall was empty when he went away to war, or to court, or to pay a visit to uncle Baelor.
His siblings hid in his bed, while he wanted to hid in Maekar's.
But then two cold hands grabbed him and Daeron fell.
When he had been four, Daeron had gotten ill with the Shivers and put to bed. He had been secluded in his room, with the company of a Maester and his parents. His mother used to keep vigilant on him during the day, while his father watched over him at night. Mother would feed him the little crumbs of food his system could get, while Father would rub his temples at night. Dyanna would sing happy Dornish songs to make him smile, Maekar would sing lullabies to get him to sleep.
He used to do that so rarely—singing—that Daeron couldn't strain from the memory. It had felt strange even then, but in a positive way: his father didn't posses his mother's melodic voice, but he tried to hold back the sobs and that was enough.
There was singing now as well.
No, not singing.
More like a monotonous tune.
A chant.
A prayer.
Daeron opened his eyes and was met with lilac ones. For a moment he thought he had died and his mother had come to greet him in the afterlife, to cradle him and sing to him in death like she used to do in her life.
But then he remembered that she rarely prayed. And her eyes were a deep shade of purple.
Dyanna wore her hair loose and smiled brightly. This woman had a veil around her head instead and looked sad.
She clutched her Seven Pointed Star around her neck and stopped praying when she noticed him opening his eyes.
"Daeron?" she whispered, her hands shaking while she reached for his.
He wanted to push her away, to tell her that she wasn't Dyanna and to cry out for his father.
But Aelinor was a childless mother and Daeron was a motherless child.
"How do you feel?" her voice broke through his thoughts.
"Bad." he didn't want to lie to her.
She moved suddenly, reaching for a cup nearby and bringing it to his lips.
Daeron wasn't surprised when he tasted water.
He emptied two of them before he let go to the pillow again, closing his eyes. "Where's my father?"
He wanted his father.
"Training in the courtyard."
"And Aelora?"
"Attending a Small Council meeting with Baelor."
Daeron let out a humourless laugh. "So you're the only one that cares enough to stay?"
He knew it was wrong even to assume that. Aelinor didn't care for Daeron, she just wanted a child.
"It is not like that." her hand found his again, caressing ever so slightly. She was sweet, he wondered why his uncle refused to share her bed. For being so bookish, Aerys really was stupid.
"They've been here all night long, they were so worried." she continued with her small voice. "But Aelora's presence was needed for the meeting."
"And Maekar? Was his presence needed in the training yard?" he sneered at her reasoning, but she only sighed.
"You know your father better than me." she murmured.
Aye, he did. That's why he dreamed he would be at his bedside when he woke up.
He turned around, not able to look at the piety in his aunt's eyes.
Why did she look at him like that? He should be the one to piety her. She was doomed to a sad life, tied to a mad man too focused on books to care about her.
Yet what was Daeron, if not a mad man as well?
"Ah, I see you're awake."
Daeron's heart stopped when his voice reached his ears.
No one had heard the door opening, but Daeron didn't even question it: Lord Bloodraven moved like a snake in a garden, silent but deadly, ready to bite the lamb and feast upon its flesh.
And Daeron was his lamb.
He didn't turn to look at him, at his red eye that saw more than what everyone thought, at his empty socket that seemed to stare at him nonetheless.
How many eyes does Bloodraven have?
A thousand and one.
He didn't turn when the man sent Aelinor away or when he sat in her chair. Daeron wanted to remind him of his station, of the fact that his aunt was a noble woman and the wife of a prince, while he was only a bastard grown proud thanks to his half-brother's benevolence.
But he didn't.
He just couldn't look at him.
He was sure that if he did turn, Brynden Rivers would see everything: his dreams, his desires, his own thoughts.
But then two hands grabbed his shoulders and forced him on his back. They were so cold that Daeron had goosebumps spread across his skin.
He saw now that red eye which stared into his soul.
Brynden Rivers wasn't a warrior, not as muscular as Baelor and Maekar—who kept training even in their older days—he wouldn't be able to raise the hammer that his father still trained with, bigger than Rhae herself. Bloodraven flesh, instead, was flaccid like Daeron's, yet he had forced the drunken prince to look at him so effortlessly.
He remembered that Bloodraven had put an end to the Blackfyre rebellion, by killing his half-brother and his two children.
Kinslayer, that was the name used for people killing their own blood. The septons said that those men were cursed, yet Daeron saw Bloodraven only being rewarded for it.
Maybe the gods had mistaken them and had sent Daeron the dreams, right after Redgrass Field. He wondered how that could have happened: Bloodraven was a pale, white-haired man; Daeron had sand brown locks and his skin was tanned after spending his afternoons running around Summerhall.
"You dreamt."
It wasn't a question. The master of Whispers knew it better than him.
"I did not." Daeron whispered. He didn't remember anything, only being unable to see and losing his conscience.
"I'm not talking about tonight." Brynden Rivers stood up from his seat, walking slowly toward the window.
"What?" Daeron asked confused. He was always an enigma to him and the entire court.
Bloodraven didn't turn. Daeron was glad about it, he didn't want to see that red eye. Yet staring at his winestain birthmark upset him all the same.
"Come." he ordered. He never asked about anything.
Daeron saw no point in laying in bed and disobey: Bloodraven would probably raise him on his feet with his own weak hands that held incredible strength.
He took a deep breath, pushing up in a seated position: his head didn't spin anymore, his eyesight was clear, yet he felt exhausted.
He craved for wine, that always made him feel stronger.
He let out a groan, putting his feet down on the floor. It was cold, but still warmer than Brynden's hands. His legs felt like jelly, his entire body felt weak.
When he pushed himself up on his knees, his pace was unsteady and lame. He looked as if he would crumble on the ground at any moment, but his resolution was as strong as his exhaustion: he wouldn't fall before the bastard's eyes.
When he reached the window, just a few meters of distance from his bed, his chest was shattered by laboured breaths.
It felt as if he had just fought for his life, not taken a few steps.
"You're weak." Bloodraven noted out, as if Daeron hadn't noticed.
He didn't have enough breath to voice out his affermative response, so he just nodded.
"You know why is that?" his tone dimmed, sounding even raspier.
Daeron raised his gaze on him: on his red eye, the red and raw skin of his eye socket, his red birthmark, the red of his robes.
Daeron was starting to hate that colour.
"Because you fought against it."
Daeron's heart dropped even further. "What?" he didn't understand. He probably wanted not to.
"Your mind was aching to dream, yet you refused to close your eyes and let go to that need. So you exhausted your body and passed out." Bloodraven's voice sounded like the screeching of Valyrian steel against a rock.
Daeron stared out of the window.
He always dreamt of red blood, he didn't want to see anymore red.
"You have no idea of what you're playing with, of the power that you have. This is more than just dragon blood, which permitted us to soar the skies: this is pure magic." his voice raised, sounding like a roar. "This is a gift."
Daeron sneered at his words, still refusing to look at him. "This is a curse."
"Call it what you want." Bloodraven attacked. "You would have died tonight."
Now his words hit the mark.
Daeron's breath itched, keeping his eyes glued to the window. "You're bluffing," he whispered; he was Master of Whispers, he knew how to lie to carve out informations. "I told you I didn't dream tonight."
"That's only because I stopped your dream." Bloodraven replied. "Or, to be clear, Shiera did with her potion. If it weren't for her, you would have met the gods that you curse upon."
Shiera Seastar, known as the most beautiful woman alive. And the most dangerous.
Daeron remembered her mismatched eyes, the colours of green and blue reflected by the sapphires and the emeralds of her necklace. But she didn't come to visit at Summerhall, like Rhaegel or Baelor; or roam around the court, like Aerys and Brynden. She kept herself locked in her rooms, hidden in the Maidenvault. But unlike her cousins Daena, Rhaena and Elaena—the daughters of king Aegon III that he had seen sometimes in his dreams—who had been secluded there to preserve their innocence, she didn't keep her virginity for her future husband and permitted men into her bed; so many men, the rumor said.
And some of them had been her half-brothers: Bloodraven and Bittersteel.
Daeron wondered if their animosity had started once Shiera had flowered into a woman, or if the hatred was sown from the womb.
If she had chosen her strong brother Aegor or the smart one Brynden, when she gave away her maidenhead.
Daeron had never bedded a virgin. They were offered to him, of course, as a prince of the realm: the fairest and youngest of them all. Daeron had always refused them.
He believed one ought to be gentle with a twelve year girl, whore or not, and he knew nothing of gentleness.
But he didn't see gentleness either in the man standing before him, nor could he imagine it in the brute warrior that had hidden away in Tyrosh. Whoever had been first, he hadn't been gentle.
But she probably liked it better this way. Shiera was a witch. And witches are not gentle creatures. The smallfolk said that she bathed in blood to preserve her beauty.
Daeron raised his eyes on his cousin now, on his pale face and pale hair. He looked right back at him, making Daeron's skin prickle.
Witch. Just like his sister. It was clear who Shiera had given her maidenhead to.
"Why did you let her save me?" he choked out on his own breath. He felt like rotting flesh. That was all he ever was.
Bloodraven looked away, he was probably wondering the same thing. Daeron would have been better off dead.
Let him meet the gods. Let him look into their eyes and pray for their forgiveness. His brother believed himself a dragon, a being closer to gods than to men. He wanted to be a god as well, to be worshipped by the ones that loved him. Instead they were just terrified, wondering when his next fit of madness would hit.
The gods were cruel and his brother was as well. Daeron was nothing but lame. He couldn't be a god, nor a prince or a knight.
He thought he could be a martyr, if they killed him quickly: he didn't want to suffer any longer. And yet they had saved him.
Bloodraven smirked. He probably enjoyed watching him suffer, that's why he nodded towards the window and said those words.
"He begged for your life."
Daeron shouldn't have turned, because the sight of the bastard's birthmark was better than the one of his father, hammer in hand, getting ready to fight against his opponent, a poor little knight who would be the target of the man's rage for that day and yield soon enough.
"Maekar." the raspy in his voice made Daeron's skin crawl. "How sweetly he begged for your life, asked me to try anything in my power to save you."
His father was a stern, cold man. He had never begged for anything in his life. Not even for his own life, when he had gone to war, or for Dyanna's one, when she was bleeding in a bed.
Yet he had done it for him.
And despite his father's wishes, Daeron wanted to die even more.
"So the princess runs away with the love of her life..."
"It doesn't have to be this dramatic!"
"Why am I the horse in this story?"
Poor little Egg was asking this question for the third time in a row, yet neither Daella or Rhae were answering him. They were far too busy conjuring up a story to distract Daeron from his "long recovery"—that's how the Grand Maester had called it, claiming that the prince needed resting and should not leave his rooms. The old man acted so arrogant and sure of himself that Daeron had felt the need to remind him that he had done nothing to save him, rather it had all been Shiera's merits.
The Grand Maester had gone a deep shade of red, while Baelor shut him down with an exhausted look.
Now his siblings had joined him after supper, to keep him company until they had to go get changed for dinner. Egg had missed his training appointment with cousin Valarr to be there.
"I think you look cute as a horse." Daeron leaned forward to catch his cheek between his thumb and his index. His youngest brother had the softest cheeks since birth and Daeron has always pinched them in an act of affection.
Egg smiled at him now, leaning forward in his embrace and resting his head against Daeron's shoulder. The little one let out a sigh, used to their sisters' attics by now. He was in minority, since Aemon's departure for Old Town. Not that any of them could impose themselves around Daella or Rhae: the former would have smiled gently and shaken her head at their proposal, while the latter would have screamed until they played by her rules.
Daeron kissed his head, with his silver-gold hair that reminded the world of their heritage as dragonlords, a long time ago. Egg payed back his affectionate gesture with a bright smile, before Rhae grabbed her young brother's collar and pushed him up.
"Egg, you can't lay atop of Daeron! He's weak!" she reprehended him vehemently, as if Daeron might pass out from the mere exertion.
"I'm fine, Rhae." Daeron sighed, trying to push himself up on his hands to get into a seated position.
But two firm hands pushed him down on the pillows again, Daeron wouldn't have been able to fight them even if he had all his strength.
"You aren't." Valarr replied calmly, shooting him a hard look.
He had come earlier than his siblings, to pay him a visit after hearing the news of his almost death. It was a polite thing to do—to visit someone on the verge of dying—and his cousin was the picture of formality.
Daeron had expected for him to stay five or ten minutes, before taking his leave. Yet he had talked to him for half a hour and remained there even after his loud siblings joined. Valarr had smiled at the chaos and said that he was used to the noise: Viserys was already a handful and he had no doubt that Vaelor would join his brother when he was old enough.
Daeron had asked about his family, of course he had: he wasn't as galant as Valarr, but he knew the etiquette of court. His cousin had spoken fondly of his children, of pale haired Viserys and dark haired Vaelor.
But when Daeron had asked him if he meant to have another child ("The dragon has three heads." he had joked), his cousin's expression had darkened and he had not answered. The situation had not gone better when he had asked after his wife: Valarr had said that Kiera was recovering but that was all.
Then an embarrassing silence had settled, thankfully soon broken by Daella, Egg and Rhae walking in.
Valarr hadn't left, hadn't even stood up from his seat at his side. Whoever he was avoiding by remaining in his chambers, Daeron didn't know, but he had a sensation it had to do with Kiera. They probably had argued, but he didn't ask about what. It wouldn't have been polite.
Daeron sighed now, but didn't protest. if they had been kids—like many years ago, when they used to be inseparable—Daeron would have reminded Valarr that he was older (by mere months), while his cousin would have replied with his usual politely sarcastic remark: "But I'm the heir."
But they weren't children anymore: Valarr had grown into the responsible heir, husband and father, while Daeron drowned in cups and desperation.
He would lie if he said he didn't miss those old days, filled with warm afternoons in Summerhall where they would run in the gardens; or their time at Dragonstone, where they would go down on the beach and find comfort from the heat in the waves of the sea.
Valarr had loved the sea; he bet he was happy to live still on the island, to roam on the shore of his childhood with his kids and his wife. Kiera came from Tyrosh, she probably liked the sea as well.
His cousin passed him a cup of water, bringing it closer to his lips. He seemed to have several nervous habits, something that Daeron had noticed in that half hour spent together: he fidgeted with his rings, readjusted his hair or the covers around Daeron, reached for his cousin's cup every ten minutes and refilled it immediately.
Daeron drank all—he had learned it was pointless to pass it back to Valarr half empty, he would find a way to make him drink all the water—before laying back down as the future king commanded.
Then Valarr resumed in his usual routine: put the cup down, refilled it and readjusted the covers around him. It was a crazy behaviour and yet he was called Mad Daeron.
After ten minutes, the motion repeated. Daeron was about to say that this was psychotic behaviour, when a knock on the door interrupted him right before.
The white cloak assigned to his family—Ser Willem? Willie?—walked in to announce the next guess: another relative that was coming to say his last goodbye to "dying Daeron."
He was already sighing, an afterthought of telling to the sworn shield to send the person away, before the man told him who it was.
Daeron's breath itched.
Aelora walked in, draped in red and black. She looked like a Valyrian goddess. Yet again, when didn't she?
She looked around herself, surprised probably by the amount of people already in the room, before curtsying respectfully. "Cousins, I didn't expect these much people. I came to look in on Prince Daeron."
She was as polite as Valarr, that's why Daeron was surprised when, instead, his cousin answered to her words by standing up abruptly and storming out of the room, without even saying goodbye.
His expression had turned sour, he had raised to his feet and got ahold of the door, before slamming it behind himself.
Aelora looked back once, but she didn't try to stop him. Even Rhea and Daella, still immersed in their story, knotted their eyebrows in confusion.
"What..." he began unsure, eyeing her and the closed door from which Valarr had walked out a moment before.
The dragon princess swallowed, keeping her eyes glued to the floor. "I fear the prince is crossed with me."
Daeron's attention was piqued at that, though he didn't feel it in himself to be so bold as to ask. And she didn't explain further.
She just raised her eyes on him and waited, like a litter waste cat that waits to be fed after the rest of its siblings have eaten.
They had had tons of kittens back at Summerhall, when he was a child. Daeron always used to feed the unwanted one, knowing that no one cared if it lived or not.
It had reminded Daeron of himself.
She reminded him of himself now.
He wanted to throw up at the thought.
"Princess." Daeron greeted her after a long moment of silence.
She wasn't going to be left like a stray cat. Or like Daeron. She was a princess.
His voice was gruff and raspy—had been so since he had woken up that morning—but he tried to stand in a seated position nonetheless.
It was shameful, to be honest, how he always seemed on the verge of dying whenever she was near.
How pathetic he must look to her eyes.
Yet the moment he tried to raise, she walked towards him immediately. "Please don't." she tried to push him back with her soft hands, but she wasn't as strong as Valarr. Daeron could resist her even in his condition, but he gave in to her wish.
Now her amethyst gaze hoovered over him. Daeron could read fear and alarm in it and he wanted for nothing more than to comfort her.
Maybe that was why he took her hand with his, the one she had laid on his chest, right on his heart.
Daeron couldn't explain to himself why he had done so—or probably didn't want to admit it. But she couldn't leave her hand there, feeling how fast his heart beat. She would call for the Maester, claiming that he was feeling unwell again.
He would deny it, of course, but she would insist because she was so damn stubborn. She would lay her head on his chest just to hear the tumbling noise of his heart beat and Daeron would kiss her hair, her brow, her cheek to reassure her.
He was going mad, Bloodraven was right. He still wondered why he had left him alive, why his father had pleaded for his life if he hadn't even disturbed to visit him since he had woken up.
Everyone had come, but him: Aelinor and Jena, Baelor and Matarys, queen Myriah and king Daeron, his brother Aerion with Aelor, cousin Valarr.
And now Aelora. Sweet Aelora who had put her hand on his chest and who now retrieved it back.
Daeron took a sigh of relief, despite himself.
Better this way, he thought. Run away.
Her eyes moved to her lap, while she twisted those shining rings of hers. The one she had given him—red and black just like her dress—burned on his chest, hidden beneath the collar of his chemise. It had been too little to wear and only betrothed men wore rings belonging to maidens, so he had stolen a small necklace from Daella's collection—she had far too many—and wore it around his neck now, above his heart.
"How are you?" her voice was but a little whisper, Daeron was sure he wouldn't have heard it if his siblings hadn't been awfully quiet.
"Well." was his answer.
"You almost died."
"I should have."
She raised her eyes at that, but Daeron couldn't read the emotions behind them. He didn't want to feel pitied again, not from her.
He shot Daella a look and she understood immediately. She took both of her youngest siblings by hand and guided them out.
Aelora watched them go, waiting for the door to be closed before speaking again. "There was no need to send them away."
"There was, instead."
"People may talk about the fact that we're here alone."
"Are you scared about your honour, princess?" he chuckled humourlessly at that, looking away just like her. "Do not worry, no one will conjure up anything, since I'm almost dying."
"Why do you say such a thing?" she snapped now. Daeron hadn't even noticed he had gotten closer, but her sudden shout and turn in his direction made him pull back in surprise.
She never snapped, not even when her twin and his brother used to play tricks on her, back at Summerhall during their usual visits. She would hold back the tears—because she was a proud dragon, like everyone in their family—and walk away gracefully. But as soon as she reached the first dark corridor she would crumble on the floor and cry; Daeron would follow her and hide away just to hear her cry. He never knew why he did that, why he wouldn't comfort her like Mother did when he was the one upset. He would just pry on her during one of her weak moments, as if to remind himself that she was equally human. She had looked like a goddess since she was born.
Then she had grown and looked even more unreal. Aerion and Aelor kept teasing her, but still she didn't snap; she was Baelor's pupil now and already so similar to him in this aspect. He was sure that the heir to the throne didn't wish for emotional distressed people by his side: a capable ruler should know when to master their emotions and let logical thinking prevail.
Yet now she snapped. "Why do you keep saying that?" her eyes shined with fury. "You shouldn't wish to die, you have a family that loves you."
That was the least of excuses he had ever heard and made him furious just like she was.
His family couldn't even comprehend what he was going through.
His mother was dead.
Aerion despised him, he called him Drunken Daeron or Mad Daeron, he kept repeating what a nuisance he was to their family's reputation.
Daella, Aemon, Aegon and Rhae loved him, but that wasn't enough to prevent nights of horrors.
And his father...his father had begged for his life, but not because he cared for him: only because that was the right thing to do and Maekar always did his duty.
"With all due respect, you know nothing about me." his tone was bitter now as he got closer to her. He wouldn't raise his voice like she did.
"And you know nothing about me!"
"I've made no assumptions about your life, princess."
She chuckled humourlessly, looking away. She sounded like Aerion when she pronounced her next words. "Oh poor Daeron. He's haunted by visions of the future." She stilled, as if hearing her own words too late.
"I AM!" he snapped just like her. He had promised himself he would not lose his temper, but if he had gotten his looks from Dyanna, he had gotten his rage from Maekar, boiling hot like dragon fire.
He had launched himself against her, taking her by the shoulders and shouting those words in her face. And she had shrunk back, scared.
Daeron swallowed, tightening the grip on her. He bet he looked like a madman before her terrorised eyes.
He wondered if she'd start crying now. If he would stand there and watch her cry or if he'd press her against his chest, letting her listen to his heartbeat.
Instead he let her go.
She pulled back, but didn't stand. He had expected her to run away, he almost wished she did.
"Then learn to live with it." she whispered, her eyes still fixed on him, still shocked.
He only looked away, having nothing to say.
He had tried, he was still trying to. But there was no cure, the gods had given him a...
"Curse." he breathed out. "This is a curse."
"Still, there's no excuse to say such things, your father..."
"What about my father?" he was trying so hard to keep his temper at bay.
"He begged for your life." her tone changed, getting lower and sadder.
Pity from her, again.
"You have no idea how heartbreaking that scene was." she whispered, looking away. "You have no idea, Daeron."
But he had. Hadn't he witnessed his father begging the gods to keep his mother alive?
They hadn't listened, they never did.
He watched a tear roll down from her eye. She was looking down, her head slightly tilled, so the tear barely rolled down her face and stopped right under her temple. He caught it before it could fall on the bedsheets, making her gasp in surprise.
But he kept his hand there, caressing her skin. Dyanna always used to kiss his temple, wishing for him to have nice dreams.
Even if it was born out of pity, he wanted to kiss it off, to wish her nice dreams, all those dreams he had never had.
"I should have died." he repeated. No bitterness, no dramatics. Just facts. "It would have spared us both a great deal of trouble."
"I am not troubled."
"Then you have not been paying attention."
Aelora's breath barely caught, but he saw it.
Good. Let her understand.
"You should leave me be," he said, taking his hand back. "Return to your books, your translations. Find some other mystery that does not..." he stopped, his jaw tightening. "...that does not rot from the inside out." he finished, quieter.
That was closer to the truth.
Aelora moved forward, close enough now that he could see the fine details again: the steadiness in her gaze, the absence of pity he had expected and found himself almost... disappointed not to see.
"You think this is beyond understanding," she said.
"I know it is."
"You are wrong."
"I am dying," he replied flatly. "That is not a matter of interpretation."
"Then fight back and live."
The words landed harder than they should have. Daeron let out a breath that might have been a laugh. "You speak as if it were a matter of will."
"It is a matter of refusal." she corrected.
He looked at her then, really looked: there was no uncertainty in her face, no hesitation.
Only that same relentless clarity she had shown in the library. It irritated him. It intrigued him.
"You refused to sleep," she continued. "You fought it until your body failed. That is not weakness."
"It nearly killed me."
"But it did not."
"That is not an argument."
"It is," she said calmly. "You survived."
Daeron pushed himself up, slowly, using the wall behind him for support. His legs protested the movement, unsteady, but he forced them to hold.
"I survived because Brynden Rivers interfered," he said. "Because his witch brewed some concoction and forced me back into waking. Not because of anything I did."
Aelora remained silent for a moment, her eyes wandering away as if she was searching for something, for a solution perhaps. "Then we remove him from the equation."
That made him blink. "You...what?"
"You do not go to him," Aelora said. "You do not rely on him. If this is something that can be understood, then we will understand it without him."
Daeron stared at her. "You say that as if you have a choice."
"I do."
"You do not."
This was madness. She was mad.
"I decide what I involve myself in. And I have decided."
Of course she had. Of course.
Daeron shook his head, once. "You are involving yourself in something that will destroy you."
"Then we ensure that it does not."
"We." he almost laughed. Gods, she was convincing. 'We' sounded too good, coming from her lips. He could get addicted to that.
Daeron's mouth twitched faintly. "You presume much, princess." he said once again.
"Then correct me."
He moved closer. The world tilted slightly, the edges of it softening again, that familiar pressure beginning to build behind his eyes.
Not now.
Not here.
Aelora saw it. Her hand moved before he could stop her, fingers closing around his wrist.
The effect was immediate: the noise coming from the window sharpened, the blur receded, the pressure eased.
Daeron stilled. Slowly, he looked down at where she held him, then back at her.
But he didn't focus on the fact that her touch had eased the tension in his brain—like the other night—rather on the fact that she had touched him with intente for the first time.
"You will regret this." he whispered, eyes wide as he looked down at her.
"Perhaps." she said, meeting his gaze without flinching. "And yet, I will not stop."
Silence stretched between them, filled now with something heavier than before.
Daeron looked at her for a long moment.
Then, despite everything...
"...what did you find?" he asked.