Chapter Text
The Dreams come to him like they always do. Creeping in no matter how much Daeron tried to drown them.
A muggy hot air led him forward to cool waters. Something, anything, to parch his dying thirst. Beneath his feet dry twigs snapped, and high above a waxy eye stared down as he stumbled aimlessly forward; a direction he knew not where.
Nothing felt entirely real in his dreams, as much as the waking world did. At times the wine worked to empty his head of any foul vision of misfortune, but it just as well lead him astray. Case in point: when a tree reveals itself to him, he has not the time nor balance to guess it for an elm or an oak before it collides right with his face.
Pain—blooming, aching pain—that is real, he’s sure. Or at least half so. Daeron had broken bone, been devoured whole, been stabbed and seen himself waste away in a sickbed time and time again, and each pain felt new and fresh. This, though…
He steadied himself with shaky limbs, only to stumble further into the brush.
“Who’s there?”
It’s not his voice that calls out, but it draws him forward. The only thing to make sense in the pitch-black, stick-snapping, too-hot air.
Everything fell into place as he broke the treeline, and the moonlight revealed the pastoral scene. A watery stream, a bundle of clothes, and there on the shoreline, as his dreams have foretold:
A badger.
Snarling, wide eyed, furious at him. Exactly as expected. Straight from his dreams.
Daeron’s wasn’t one for hunting—no matter his father’s disappointment. The sweat, blood, the rampant fear and howls of dogs. He could go a whole extra life without another hunt if it were up to him, and another still after being ordered to join the jousting lists. If he had his way, he’d remain in the tents drinking, whoring, hoping the next time closed his eyes, sweet oblivion would await him. Endless, blank nothingness. Dreams without consequence. Sleep that felt whole.
He never got what he wanted, though.
Something whizzed past his head, and Daeron blinked his eyes to the moonlight. He was still in the forest. The dream wasn’t over for whatever reason, therefore his suffering wasn’t either.
Something nagged at him from the back of his mind, another vision from before. Something about an egg, and a lance, and oak tree—
Aegon. Right, he’d lost his littlest brother at the inn after he’d planned for them to miss the tourney. What in the hells was he doing in the woods?
Last he remembered… stairs. Worn wood against his feet…then…just one more drink before bed.
“I’ll not warn you again!”
A notch clicked.
Daeron blinked again at the badger, spotting wet, glistening bare skin and ink-black hair beneath the moonlight. She looked like a river-nymph. Like something pulled straight from his most shameful and pleasurable fantasies. Nothing he ever dreamed of ever looked so lovely. He had to be awake after all. Daeron couldn’t take his eyes off her—
Then she shot at him with a crossbow.
“Achk—!”
It was a beautiful shot, actually. Straight and true. It would have been a clean kill straight to the head if he had done her the justice of staying still. Unfortunately for the badger, Daeron had never been one for keeping his balance, especially out in the woods, and even more so as out of sorts as he was.
So instead of making clean work of his head, and fashioning it into something akin to a burst gourd, the arrow sliced clean though the air and shot the right past side of his head. Through his matted hair, burning a trail of fire atop his ear, and down the back of his skull.
And then, that was when Daeron did what Daeron did best.
He fell.
Crashed, really.
Straight into the muck.
“Fucking maniac,” spat the voice. Hastened footsteps through the wet as she shuffled to grab her things, though all Daeron saw was white. Pained, burning oblivion nearly in reach. Surely the gods were laughing at him now. “If you meant to rape me, I’ve another bolt to the brain for you.”
Daeron gasped, choking and fighting for breath.
A beat passed, before mud squelched closer. “...Are you dead?”
He answered with a moan. He wished he had died.
The woman cursed and stepped toward him. A boot connected with his shoulder, pushing him onto his back, and he cried out as his head was forced to move. Through the haze of red and filth in his eyes, he mustered a glare up at his attacker.
She wore clothes now, but all Daeron saw in the dark was the sharp tip of a crossbow bolt right in front of him.
She, however, managed to see a fair better than he, and swore again. “The hell did you come from?”
“The—“ Words felt so distant as he fought his eyes from crossing. He wondered for a delirious moment if dying was as painful in real life as it was in his dreams. “T-The inn.”
Her head snapped in the direction he’d come from, and then the crossbow bolt faltered, dipping away.
“Shit.”
“MARI! Are you alright?! I heard the screaming!”
“Fuck, fuck—“ Away went the figure above him, and noises sounded further in the wood to indicate others crashing through the trees. “I’m okay!”
Daeron didn’t have the mind to keep track of how many voices spoke as his vision began to gutter out, and the Stranger pulled him under.
Torchlight flickered above him as a group of specters hovered over him. Truly, this had to be what it was like to die. All in all, he’d dreamt worse, but Daeron was oddly surprised his end didn’t come in a sickbead, sweating the last of his life out. He’d been misled to think the gods had a longer misery in store for him. Though perhaps this was an unexpected gift.
“Who is he?”
“I dunno, he just stumbled out of the woods. I told him to fuck off, but he just kept coming.”
“Is he simple?”
Someone sniffed the air. “I think he’s drunk.”
“I think he’s dead! Mari, we told you to be more careful.“
“Well I told you I wasn’t going to bathe unarmed. Not again—“
“You should have just taken one of us with you.”
“And have more leering male eyes around? Fat chance.”
Someone huffed. “Petunia would’ve been fine.”
“Tuney’s asleep. Besides... besides…!” a noise of frustration. “Can we just deal with him??”
“If he’s dead, just leave him.”
“And if he’s not there yet… well, you've another bolt, don’t you?”
“Hold on. Look at the state of those clothes. The buttons. Mari, if you shot some high and important noble…”
“Noble creep most like. Color me surprised.”
“What did we all say about going off on your own, girl? Anything happens to you, your father’s hunting us for sport.”
Daeron groaned as a hand reached down to pat him down. They were small hands—a woman’s. The same one who shot him knelt close as Daeron floated in a place between death and the miserable, blood-filled waking world. Warm fingers brushed over his mouth, hovering. Just the ghost of a caress. The last touch he felt before he surely perished.
“He’s still breathing. He’s alive.”
Curses. He couldn't even die right.
“Won’t be for long with a wound like that. Remind me not to get on your bad side again.”
“You better not.” The hand left his mouth, and Daeron felt a twinge of loss. Then she gripped his arm. “Come on, gimmie a hand. I know I shot him, but I’m going to feel like shit if we just leave him out here for the dogs.”
Someone kicked his foot. “And dump him where? Back at the Inn? They’ll send the guard after us for sure.”
“Well, we could always just lie and say we found him.”
“And if he survives to tell elsewise?”
A guttural cry escaped Daeron as two sets of arms wrenched him out of the earth. Dying was better than this. Anything was better than this pain. “NO—leave…. me…!”
Someone laughed. The female voice beside him let out a huff. “Goddamnit. Okay, fuck it, let’s just take him back to the wagons.”
“Are you mental?”
“Maybe. I’d rather not be run down by horses tomorrow.”
“And if he lives, only to send the guard after you anyway?”
There was a pause, where her warm arms wove underneath his, halfway dragging him up out of the muck. For a second, he feared she'd toss him back in. That he really would die alone.
Daeron would’ve deserved it.
She sighed. “I’ll figure that out later.”
And that was the last he heard before darkness took him, whole and encompassing.