Chapter Text
King’s landing stank
Of smoke and sea, of sweat and horses, of piss-soaked alleys and perfume-laced courtyards. It reeked power, ambition, and blood beneath the cobblestones.
Oh don’t get me wrong he loved his heritage but why Kings Landing when dragonstone is right there?
From the heights of Aegon’s Hill, the Red keep watched over it all, the crimson fortress of towers and battlements, veiled with the black stone and shadow. Its walls held tails that had whispered down through the decades, but betrayal and secrets ran deep, through the Kings and queens, its halls had tasted more blood than any battlefield ever could.
Technically Bruce is not married so...King?
The city itself was a maze, bronze domes rose over brothels; marble columns flanked taverns that stank of ale and spilled secrets. Gold cloaks patrolled the cobblestones with that peculiar brand of bored menace—lazy until provoked, cruel when roused.
Deanys Targaryen could watch it all. The sun was setting over the city, bathing the city in golden light, rooftops shimmering under the dying light. Its shadows stretch long and thin, turning the Red Keep’s spired into figured clawing at the sky.
It was more imposing like this.
The wind off Blackwater Bay carried it up to him, cutting through the smoke and stench. The torches burning along the battlements added the faint tang of fire and wax, adding a smokey mix
Daenys, rather more preferred—Dick, but only to those he trusted in unofficial settings. He stood at the edge of the balcony in the tower overlooking the city. Back bent, elbows resting on the ledges, not at all the formal composure of a Prince. His silver-white hair caught in the light forming a halo of molten moonfire.
At seventeen, he was already the image of ancient Valyrian beauty: slim built but muscular, handsome leaning more to pretty, with the eyes the colour of a pool of sea, stillness that drew you in that could be mistaken for serenity. At first glance they seemed calm, like the smooth surface of the sea under the sun, bright, clear, inviting. The blue was striking with a hue so vivid it seemed to burn with an inner fire. However the longer you looked at the father you were sucked into the depth. His beauty was more than physical, it was a presence that commanded attention without him needing to ask, a kindness that people could not help but gravitate toward.
Magnetic
Even the calm feel of wind brushing on his skin, cool and alive, couldn’t calm the uneasy churn in his chest. Making his dragon—Nightwing, restless within the shared connection between him and his she-dragon.
Deanys apologized softly through the bond.
It had been days since they last flew. The Keep was too busy preparing for a wedding, his duties keeping him bound to the ground.
Oh right, his wedding.
The day before, the small council decided to inform him of his to Jaehaerys Baratheon, the Stormlander heir. The words, spoken in the dry monotone of his father’s advisors, had lingered in his mind, and now they would not rid his mind. The meeting had been particularly unpleasant due to his Father not being able to look at him at all.
Bruce could have at least warned me.
He had barely heard the rest of the meeting after that, which is out of character for him, but not one person commented on it, too busy with their other plans. They didn’t care that they had forgotten to mention they had been planning this for months.
And now he’s told?!
The wedding was in a week.
A week.
Finding out the wedding was in a week has been quite a shock, the suddenness had left him unsettled, as though the ground beneath his feet had shifted without warning.
Why the rush? Betrothals were supposed to take years.
Jaehaerys Baratheon.
A boy, one year younger, a boy he has never met, though his name had been passed between the courtiers for months, whispering like a gentle click of a coin, just to draw attention but never enough to make a sound. Though Dick has noticed they went particularly quiet around him when he walked in on their whispering.
Guess that's why they always stopped their gossip.
He was to be Dick’s future husband. The heir of Storm’s End. A union of storm and fire., a bond meant to unite two powerful houses. A marriage of necessity, they said. The end of a decades-long feud.
Dick couldn’t recall the cause of.
Dick wasn’t angry - anger was too hot, too fast, No, this was something tamer more frustration than anything. He was supposed to share a bond with a boy he had never seen, never spoken to.
His mother would have hated it.
The marriage was a political necessity. Dick knew that. His mother came from another ancient Valyrian line, proud and free. Her death when Daenys was nine had left a void no one could fill, shattering the crown. He remembered flying with her—the wind, the fire, the sound of their laughter carried through the clouds.
Now all that was left was expectation.
Two old bloodlines flowed in his veins. He was valuable. The crown’s greatest prize.
The top prize
He had been raised for this moment. Raised to rule, to lead, to marry with intention. But to marry a stranger? Someone so far removed from his life, from his world, it was not something he had prepared for. Dick’s mother had raised him in the ways of old Valyria, two souls meant to be, uniting. It was supposed to be someone Dick knew.
Dick’s thoughts were soon interrupted by the faint sound behind him, the faint sound of footsteps on stone.
Alfred, no doubt, Alfred had never been a servant to him, more so a grandfather.
Coming to fetch him for the evening feast. He turned, his movements languid but purposeful, blue robes swishing behind him.
One thing about being a Prince was having great clothes. His dress or outer robe was regal and elegant, the deep midnight blue fabric gives it a cool, rich tone, reminiscent of the depths of the ocean, the same underscales of his dragon as well as his mother’s house colour. His father’s colours had always been black but Dick preferred blue.
Less depressing
The fabric being adorned in faint but intricate floral patterns, subtly etched into the material. The high collar, beaded with pearl embellishments around the, dripping onto his chest. They caught the light with a delicate, almost ethereal gleam. The beading and the pearls are designed in a fluid but symmetrical pattern representing the sky above. The long, flowing sleeves are dramatically wide as the wrists, tapering in at the upper arm, enhances his sense of grandeur and movement as he walks. The almost silk-like quality flowed behind him. The bodice was slightly structured but soft design, with subtle paneling around the bust and waist, providing shape as the dress opened at the front with a thin, vertical chain of pearls and beaded details.
Alfred stood in the door, gaze flickering to Dick’s, “Prince Daenys, His Majesty the King requests your presence in the hall."
With a small smile at Alfred, he nodded, thoughts swirling inside his head, making an incoherent mess, a storm.
“Thank you,” his voice smooth as silk, steady, revealing nothing of the weariness inside.
He followed Alfred down the circular staircase, torches lighting their way, passing through hallways lined with tapestries of old Targaryen victories and depictions of dragons in flight. Shoes clicking on the cobblestone, every footstep echoed like a heartbeat, settling heavy in his chest. The weight of his father’s approval pressing down on his shoulders.
More like an expectation of him
He was the Heir to the Iron Throne, he rode a fierce firebreathing dragon for gods sake, he shouldn’t be this scared. The Red Keep hummed in his ears around him. From the smallfolk in the streets below to the servants scurrying around the palace to the great lords and ladies vying for favor.
More like embarrassing themselves in front of the King, who had only favored him.
The air seemed thick, everything seemed wrapped in a tension, the calm before the storm. It was the ever-present possibility of change. A change you could smell in the air, a whisper of heat before dragon-fire. A change Dick did not know if he could adjust too. He had only ever lived in King's landing or Dragonstone; he had no idea what Baratheon life was like.
Apparently nothing good according to whispers.
When he entered the great hall, he could see Bruce seated at the high table, flanked by his advisors and other nobles of the realm.
No queen at his side. There never had been, not since her.
Though Dick knew Bruce had plenty of lovers
The seat next to the King had saved, empty, waiting, just for him. Daenys repeated his father’s earlier behavior and did not look at them for long, his mind still on the idea of this boy, this heir, this Jaehaerys Baratheon, his future.
Dick, no Daenys now, took his seat beside his father, he scraped wood on stone muffled in the humming hall. The hall was a strom of sound, silver platters clattering, goblets ringing, courtiers laughing obnoxiously loud, desperate to be heard above the din.
All celebrating him and his engagement
Yet all of it felt distance, muffled in his ears, as if wind were rushing past his ears.
Bruce had not said a word to him. Hadn’t even looked at him
His face was unreadable, carved from the same black stone as the keep itself, unyielding, severe, disciplined. The faint firelight of the torches caught on his crown, throwing shadows across the hard planes of his jaw. Bruce was a decent king, just not much of a people person. Once, Daenys had adored him, idolized him, and wanted to be him.
Don’t get him wrong, he still deeply loved him.
Not now.
Now, all he saw was a man who couldn’t meet his own son's eyes.
He had once believed every legend told of the Dragon order who ruled with strength and mercy alike, but strength as he was learning could hide fear, weakness.
The wine in his cup trembled faintly as someone behind him filled it. He lifted it to his lips, his hands were steady, his heart not.
One wrong move and Dick was going to drop the cup
A voice cut through the hum of the feast, knocking Dick from his thoughts, “To House Targaryen and To Daenys Targaryen the jewel of the realm.’
Ah, it was lord Lannister, looks like it's the annoying one too. What was his name? Well I should probably refresh my memory before the wedding.
The Lannister’s words dripped with the ease of someone born into too much gold, too little restraint, and too spoiled. “And to the blessed union soon to come!”
The cheer that echoed throughout the hall was hollow in Daeny’s ears. The air itself seeming too thick and heavy to breathe.
Breathe
Bruce lifted his goblet, gold decorating in red rubies, his face still expressionless, “To Storms End,” his voice steady and calm, a little too steady, “To the future of our realm.”
Dick raised his cup out of pure reflex. The wine was sweet, but it burned like fire down his throat. The lords and ladies resumed their laughter, their yelling, the music rising again, and the courtiers spun back into their dance of flattery and deceit.
He wondered what Jaehaerys Baratheon was doing now. Did he know his name had been chained to a Targaryen’s in the name of peace. If he dreaded it as much as Daenys did—or if he welcomed it, the way storm meets flame, violently, beautifully, inevitably.
The thought unsettled Dick but also gave him a sense of desire, a pull to see his flame in the storm.
He pushed food around his plate, every once in a while taking a bite, before pushing his plate away. The noise that had blurred around him, became replaced by a quiet pull of another presence, a thrum deep within his chest, providing warmth.
Nightwing, his dragon.
Her presence promised a whispered thought of soon, through the blond. Her presence was calm and filled with smoke, soon.
He longed to leave this banquet, the stone surrounding him, the politics, the endless eyes watching him. He longed to fly - to feel how the world fell away from him until the city was only a blur beneath him.
Freedom
But he was the crown itself, there was no escape, no way to leave, faking his death wasn’t an option either. If he left Bruce was sure to chase him. So he stayed seated. The heir apparent. The dutiful son.
As the feast dwindled, he pushed back his chair and stood, excusing himself with a practiced smile. Bruce didn’t stop him, didn’t even look up.
The outside air of the corridors hit him like a cold caress. The city stretched below the Keep, a sea of torches and secrets. Above, the moon hung pale over the dark wings circling the red keep.
“Tomorrow,” Daenys murmured to himself. “If they won’t let me fly by day, I’ll fly by night.”
The bond flooded with the purr of approval.
He turned from the courtyard, his robes whispering, swishing, against the stone. The faint smile tugged at his lips, the secret flicker of freedom when flying.
For now let the council plot their wedding, their alliances, their careful game. For tonight, Dick could see a storm gathering in the distance, lighting reflecting in his eyes, a promise of fire that had not yet spoken.