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“She’s pretty, isn’t she?” Aerion was pointing down the street, his skinny arm raised in a gesture towards a girl that walked a few stalls ahead of them, as they made their way through the market.
It was a rare day, the sun shining with all the might of mid-summer, and the two of them were on a walk. Daeron hadn’t been sleeping too well, his mornings drenched in the sweat of lost nightmares, and the maestars had suggested that fresh air on a good day might clear him of the clouds that plagued him. Aerion, sweet boy as he was, had jumped at the chance to join his older brother, and Daeron had easily obliged. His head hurt from the weight of sleepless nights, and the dread that seemed to follow his every step the past few days was always eased by the presence of his family, his worries tempered when he knew at least someone was there.
“Who?” Daeron’s head was foggy, and he hadn’t been listening much as Aerion rambled throughout their walk, the noise pleasant nonetheless. It beat the moos and clambers of animals and humans alike, a bustling day made even more crowded by the heat that seemed to solidify around them.
Aerion rolled his eyes, his white hair even more dazzling in the sun. Sometimes Daeron wished he had the more typical Targaryen hair, which his siblings seemed to share without him, especially on days like today. It turned little Aerion into a beacon of light on the street, and combined with the mischievous expression on his face, people tended to give the two of them a wide berth. Aerion gestured again, grabbing Daeron’s shoulder to point him towards a girl with brown hair that reached below her shoulders, a basket of apples slung across her back
“Her!” he exclaimed, though he kept his voice an excited whisper. Daeron nodded, and freed himself of Aerion’s grasp enough to straighten back up. The boy hadn’t yet hit his growth spurt, and he seemed determined to drag others to his level when he wanted their attention.
Daeron shrugged. He hadn’t thought much on what the girl looked like, she seemed pretty normal to him, all things considered. Pretty, maybe, but only in the way that he knew had to be true, since his brother had pointed out pretty girls to him before.
“I guess,” he replied. He was struggling to keep his eyes open, and this line of thought Aerion seemed insistent to bring him on was not terribly exciting to him.
“You guess? Look at her!” He grabbed Daeron’s arm again, forcing him back into a slouch. He waggled his eyebrows conspiratorily. “Check out that ass.”
Daeron curled his lip, shooting his brother a look of disgust. “Seriously? You sound like the guards back home.” He raised his voice in a mock impression. “‘Ohhh look at her! Check her out! Hear about this!’”
Aerion pouted, glaring off into the distance. If Daeron was getting sleepier the past few days, Aerion had been getting moodier in a similar span of time, though he’d always been prone to having his moments. For a boy of ten, it was getting quite tiresome. Daeron was on the verge of fourteen, and couldn’t remember being as frequently grumpy as Aerion seemed to be.
“What, like you’ve never found a girl attractive?” Aerion asked, sounding incredulous, like that was an impossibility he was annoyed at having to pretend existed. Daeron just shrugged again, unbothered.
“And you have?”
“I just told you I have, brother. Most people do.” Daeron could hear the irritation in his voice, as if Daeron was being intentionally dense or slow about something. He didn’t really get why, in all fairness, he’d genuinely assumed that when people said things like “check out that ass” or “look at those curves” they were speaking as a joke, or in exaggerations.
“Are you telling me, Daeron,” Aerion said, voice lilting up in an amused manner, “that you have never found a girl attractive?” Daeron wasn’t sure what to say. Had he? He honestly hadn’t thought about it much.
“I mean, I guess some look nice, sure,” he began, feeling far too foggy in his brain to be able to deal with this.
“But did you feel anything?”
Daeron’s face contorted as he bit his lip. What was there to feel? He tried to look at the girl Aerion had pointed out before, but she had vanished from their line of sight. He thought back. He’d felt overwhelmingly neutral, a little annoyed that Aerion’s conversation had taken a turn to somewhere that required responses. But about the girl?
“Not really,” Daeron said at last. “Do you?”
Now it was Aerion’s turn to look at him with disgust. “Obviously, brother. I’m normal, unlike you, apparently.” He really was acting grumpier as of late. Perhaps Daeron would need to have a talk with him at some point, as the eldest, but for now he let it slide.
“So? Is it really that big of a deal?”
“Of course it is!” Aerion exclaimed. “How are you supposed to produce heirs if you don’t love your wife? If you don’t find her attractive?” Ah, so that’s what he was thinking about. Daeron hadn’t given the subject much thought, seeing as their father and mother hadn’t mentioned it to any of them yet. That was an issue for the future, as far as he was concerned.
To be honest, he hadn’t even considered the possibility of marriage, or heirs, or the deed that came with it, and he was less than pleased thinking about it now. He wasn’t sure why, but the thought of it caused a coil of disgust to turn circles throughout his stomach, and he was less shocked about that than the fact that Aerion seemed almost pleased at the thought.
“I guess we’ll see,” Daeron mumbled, gripping his arms around himself to wrap his cloak tighter around his chest, not that there was a chill in the air to keep out. Aerion just smiled, a smirk that Daeron would come to see as something malicious, rather than teasing, and walked a few steps ahead of him.
“I guess we will.”
Although Daeron had had his first sip of wine a few years past, courtesy of his uncle Baelor during a night of laughter and merriment, he would come to sneak his first glass three days after that conversation with Aerion, after a particularly bad nightmare that didn’t fade with the rising of the sun. It came with a whisper, the knowledge of other men who had bid their way to sleep with the burning taste of alcohol, who had fought the demons back with devils of their own.
It was the start of a trend of disappointment revolving around Daeron, which began with those first stolen drops, that first morning afterwards where Daeron sank down into his chair at the breakfast table, fighting back a headache and debilitating nausea as his father stared, knowing but not acknowledging.
In time, he would learn to love the taste of wine, and he would stop bothering to hide how he felt the next morning. Later, he would go away with pretenses altogether and come to meals already gone from wine already consumed.
Then, his father would pull him aside and tell him to get it together. But by then, it would be too late. The dragon dreams would have won, and his mother would be dead.
It was fitting, Daeron would later think, that it was Aerion who revealed to Daeron the hobby he supposedly had, told him and his family of what he did during the night. Even later, Daeron would think back to that conversation in the market, and realize that it was no mistake or coincidence that Aerion had said what he did, and that it was cruel intention on Aerion’s part that the rumor began.
Daeron did not always know he was different, but that conversation with Aerion had made him think. Think about how it was odd that he never thought that way about a woman, or anyone for that matter. It was on that day that Daeron became someone who was an outsider to himself, an outsider in his own family.
He started recognizing the glint that would catch in his brother’s eyes, when a particularly pretty girl walked down the street, gave more heed to the words uttered by the guards when they thought no one was listening. He recognized how little he seemed to understand this, this attraction that to him seemed out of reach.
Between cups of wine, he would try to make himself understand, stare at a serving girl on her way down the hall, and try to conjure up some semblance of the thing Aerion claimed he was missing, but he never could. It remained as out of reach as his dreams of a peaceful night, except now he wondered if he would live his life without experiencing love, without knowing someone who understood him.
At some point, he knew, he would be married, and there would be certain things expected of him. He dreaded the day, and shoved the thought as far from his mind as he could, for the cold it sent down his spine was enough to launch him into a full-body shiver. And the dread he had for the future was already high enough, without the pain of what was supposed to be a good thing added on.
It was on this particular morning at breakfast that things took a turn. Maekar was already past the point of disappointed glances, and now just stared at him in cold resentment whenever he turned up to a meal already tipsy.
But today was different. When Daeron sat down, his father’s face was flushed with the red of anger already decided, a judgement already made.
Daeron wished that he’d dranken a little more earlier, even if last night’s dream hadn’t been the worst of his dreams, by far. It had been coated in blood, as per usual, but at the center had been a figure with eyes as blue as sapphires, who Daeron hadn’t seen before. He wasn’t sure what meaning he was meant to glean, but he was intrigued, and that outweighed the fear he usually felt.
He made a note to avoid people with blue eyes regardless, just in case.
“Father,” Daeron greeted as he sat down. Maekar said nothing, just took another bite of his meal, fixing Daeron with a glare cold enough to freeze, had there not been the warmth of wine in his veins.
If he doesn’t care to speak, that’s fine with me, Daeron thought to himself, smiling a bit as his eyes met with those of his youngest brother, Aegon, from across the table. Aegon was still a kid, nearly a baby, at only six years old, and hadn’t yet learned the cruel ways of his older brother, or the failures of his oldest.
Aegon still smiled back when he looked at him, and though it made Daeron’s day a little brighter, it came with the guilt that he was deceiving him. The knowledge that one day he would look at Daeron the same way everyone else did–scorn, disapproval, and pity.
The family ate in silence for a bit, as Aerion seemed to grow more and more impatient. Inside, Daeron sighed, already weary. It was not an uncommon occurrence to wake up to some broken pot, some missing trinket, being blamed on him, the only question was what he had done this time. Based on Maekar’s expression and Aerion’s barely concealed glee, it must’ve been something bad.
If only he could remember all these curious misdeeds, it was so strange! Daeron fixed Aerion with a glare, but the boy only smirked back. The kid, who wasn’t really a kid anymore, needed to learn to respect his older brother, and if Daeron could get away with slapping him without the blame getting pinned on him, he would.
“Daeron,” Maekar said at last, voice grating against Daeron’s ears. That was the issue with his father, he thought. The man never tried to conceal his anger or disappointment, never issued out justice with the calm, fair hand of his brother, Baelor. While Daeron admitted that it could be hard to read his uncle’s moods, he thought he’d take his even voice over the sharp tone of his father any day.
“Yes?” Daeron trailed out, smiling a bit as his voice slurred. Maekar hated it when he showed up drunk, and though for once, he wasn’t, it was a bit funny to watch his face grow redder as Daeron played it up.
“Do you want to tell me where you were last night?” Maekar questioned, and Daeron rolled his eyes. He’d been at his favorite tavern, a quiet one down the street, that didn’t stop the cups from flowing or kick him out when he began to slump over.
“Out,” he replied. “Why don’t you tell me?”
Maekar slammed his fists on the table, making the silverware jump and Daeron flinch back. At this point, he hadn’t yet learned when to keep his mouth just, when to exchange indignance for quiet sadness. It had gotten him in trouble before, a beating last week.
“You can’t keep sullying our family’s reputation with your antics, Daeron!” his father shouted, and Daeron blinked back at him with wide eyes. It was no secret that he frequented taverns, he knew his father had been aware of this fact long before today, so why was he choosing today to bring it up?
“I’m not,” Daeron said, glowering into his breakfast. “No more than Aerion is by antagonizing the people in town with his dragon-talk.”
Aerion’s face dropped into a glare, and he opened his mouth to speak. Maekar’s hand on his shoulder cut him off. It was heavy, but it had a comforting look about it, something that Daeron could only dream of, if his dreams let him dream of anything other than the future.
“This isn’t about him, Daeron. This is about you.” He patted Aerion on the shoulder twice, before straightening out his outer layer, as if his presentability declined every time he spoke with Daeron.
“Well then, father,” Daeron bit out. “Do tell me where I was yesternight, it appears I’ve forgotten.”
Maekar’s teeth ground together, and his knuckles went white as his hands clenched. “Don’t play games with me, boy. You know perfectly well where. Or has the wine dulled those memories as well?”
That was harsh. Daeron only needed to fade out his memories of the time he spent asleep, which meant that by evening he had no new ones in need of fuzzying. His nights were clear, it was the mornings he occasionally lost.
“My memory of last night is fine,” he said, growing old of this questioning already. “I was at the tavern, same place you sent the guards to fetch me the last time I was absent at breakfast.” He’d made a bigger point of trying to make his way home, after that. He was fine with being known as a drunkard, but it was still embarrassing to be dragged home like an unruly child at his age.
“Is that so?” Maekar spat. “Because I heard that you were seen at a brothel, indulging in much more than just the wine they offer there.”
Daeron felt his face pale, the nausea in his stomach from more than just the hangover. A brothel? He would never.
The past few years, his lack of attraction had spiraled from a lack of fondness for thoughts of sex, to an active distaste for it. The older he got, the closer he was to expectations of marriage and offspring, and the knowledge of what he would be expected to do appalled him. Call it fear, call it cowardice, call it some other broken part of him that had shattered in his mind along with the dreams, but Daeron would rather die than go to a brothel.
He wanted to wonder how this supposed information had come about, but he already knew. Aerion was looking far too pleased, like he knew exactly how uncomfortable this would make Daeron. The little shit.
“I don’t know who told you that,” Daeron spoke slowly, over-ennunciating each word, knowing he could only save himself if he acted with all the stone-cold sobriety of a man with no knowledge of any alcoholic substance. He was bent forward, hands held open over the table in a placating manner. “I was at a tavern, and then I went home. The staff can vouch for me, if you need confirmation. Whatever rumor that instigated this has nothing to do with me.”
Maekar’s face twisted into a snarl, disgust in his violet eyes. The same eyes Daeron had, and the ones he shared with Aerion as well. “Enough of your lies!” he shouted. “Get out, I don’t want to see you at this table the rest of the day.” His lip curled, and he looked away. “Take this time to dry up, if you will. And I don’t want to hear anymore about you spending your time in such a way.”
At this point, Daeron recognized that it was pointless to protest. His eyes stung, and he was grateful for the haze of the wine he’d had, if only because it kept the tears at bay.
When he didn’t immediately move to stand, Maekar did so instead, shooting up like a man possessed, taking his fork with one hand and throwing it at Daeron with all of his strength. Daeron stumbled out of his chair, falling down in his haste to avoid the flying object, and tripped over his pant leg, which he was embarrassed to admit was the bottom half of his nightclothes from the night before.
“Get out, I said!” Maekar thundered, and now everyone was staring and watching him and they thought he was a failure and he was, it was true, but not in the way they thought. “And if I hear of these sorts of escapades again, it’ll be a far worse punishment than a day without food that you’ll be receiving!”
Daeron didn’t say anything, just scrambled out the door as fast as he could. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes, especially not Aegon’s. He was the only one that hadn’t given up on him yet, and just because it was only a matter of time didn’t mean that he sought to expedite it.
That day, completely against his father’s wishes, Daeron got drunker than he ever had before. He didn’t leave the castle, didn’t give anyone any reason to doubt that, and instead stumbled through the halls in an obnoxious haze, crashing into the tapestries and knocking over chairs.
That night, hunched over the bucket in the washroom, the door creaked open and for a moment Daeron feared it was Aerion, unsatisfied with his father’s lack of action and come to take even more. But when Daeron looked up it was small Aegon, eyes wide but already so intelligent, a damp rag in one hand as he brushed Daeron’s sweaty strands away from his face.
Daeron sat back against the wall, holding his head in his hands as he tried not to throw up again, tried to forget that he was making his baby brother take care of him. His shoulders shook as he fought back tears, and this time lost.
Hunched and shivering, his chest was tight and cold as Aegon wrapped his little arms around him, holding him as tight as his tiny strength would allow. He was the first solid thing Daeron felt like he’d felt in a long time, and that just made him cry harder.
Aegon didn’t say anything, didn’t ask him if what Maekar had accused him of that morning was the truth. He was so young, Daeron reasoned, that he probably didn’t even know what it was, what kinds of things went on in brothels.
But he knew what went on in taverns, and what happened when people drank and drank until their fingers went numb and they couldn’t remember most of the day, and for that, Daeron was to blame.
That was a guilt Daeron would carry with him until the day he died.
And that night, Daeron would have the worst dream he’d ever had, an incomprehensible mountain of blood and fear and pain, and he would seal the fall of his reputation with the bottles he drained the next day.
It wasn’t the brothels that Daeron had a problem with, it was the fact that it was him who was the star in these rumors, and he knew that Aerion knew it.
Word began to circle, first through the town, and then across the continent, a fact that was solidified for Daeron as the whispers of his supposed escapades trailed him all the way to their lodgings as they went on yet another trip, this time to visit some distant relative whom Daeron didn’t remember.
It was hard, keeping his head held by, when the knowledge of what people thought he did was hard at his heels, the few bits he caught enough to rattle him when he thought too hard.
At this point, there was no question that sex was something most people did, and most people enjoyed. He saw how Aerion would slip out of the castle late at night, when most people were asleep but Daeron was awake. Saw how he would come back the next day, flushed and pleased with himself, while Daeron sent him a look of quiet disgust. Aerion would always smirk at him, the knowledge of Daeron’s shortcomings their little secret, yet one that Aerion was quick to use against him when he wished.
One night, Daeron tried to imagine himself in that way, falling into bed with some faceless girl to see if he could make himself like it, at least in his mind. The thought alone had him scrunching up his face, choking back a wave of nausea that was exacerbated by the wine he’d had, and he had to scrub himself hard in the bath that night to rid himself of the feeling of imagined hands, trailing to places he didn’t want to think about.
His father had heard the rumors, of course. He knew how they circled, and the second time they made their way back to him, not even a week after that disastrous day of overindulgence, he’d dragged Daeron into his room by the hair and slapped him, hard enough to leave a mark but not enough to break anything.
Daeron had been having more dreams of the blue-eyed man as well, some good, some horrible, and all awful in their own way.
In some, he saw the man collapsed underneath a great dragon on a meadow, except the dragon was dead by some blow or another, while the man stayed breathing beneath. In others, he caught only glimpses of his eyes, on a stream, in the forest, in a room.
Those ones were tinged with an embrace of adoration, something good. They made Daeron feel sick, and when they happened he woke up with the worst nausea and incurable hangovers. If that was love, or the promise of future love, it was as much a death sentence as any other vision. Because as much as he tried, Daeron couldn’t bring himself to want sex, to be able to consider doing it without a cool dread sweeping across him.
And he knew that he was alone in this way, and that whoever this man was, if it was desire he felt in his dreams, then it would only end badly for both of them.
As Daeron grew drunker, Aegon grew bigger, and Aerion got crueler, his malices no longer limited to his strange and weak older brother. One night, when the moon was low and Daeron got that restless urge he sometimes got when he thought too hard about sleep, he wandered the hallways and caught the open door of his youngest brother’s room.
Curious, and a little unnerved, Daeron crept down the hall, the blanket he’d thrown carelessly around his shoulders slipping a little it brushed against the stone walls. He could hear murmurs, but it wasn’t Aegon. The voice was too cold, had too great a lack of empathy for it to be his little brother’s.
Worried now, because what business did he have in Aegon’s room, Daeron walked a little faster, and peered in. His breath caught in his throat.
There, crouched over the bed, Aerion had a knife pressed to the space in between Aerion’s legs, who was looking at Aerion with a mixture of horror, terror, and worse, resignation. He was saying something too, something that Daeron didn’t wait around long enough to catch, before he was flinging open the door, standing in the entryway like some diseased creature.
“Get out!” he snarled, flinging his blanket at Aerion, since it was the only removable thing he’d brought with him. He staggered into the room, still offkilter from the afternoon’s bottle, and grabbed Aerion by the shoulder, throwing him off Aegon.
Aerion was stronger than Daeron by a long shot, but Daeron had the art of surprise, and he was on the ground before the shock thawed from his features enough to use the dagger gripped in his hand.
“Get out,” Daeron spat through gritted teeth. He stomped down on Aerion’s hand until the dagger skidded away, and kicked him once in the leg for good measure. “Get out and keep your hands to yourself before I call the kingsguard in here and have them removed.”
Aerion glared up at him, face indignant and enraged.
“Really?” he laughed. “You really think they’re going to listen to the town drunk? The town whore?” He said that last word because he knew how it would make Daeron bristle, and chuckled at the sweat that gathered on his brow.
Daeron bent down, not willing to let Aerion get to him. “I’m still the eldest son, in case you’ve forgotten, brother.” He almost smiled at the way Aerion’s face fell, nearly imperceptibly. “Which means, drunkard or not, I’m still the heir. Got that?”
Aerion didn’t respond, didn’t say anything, instead just left, reaching down, much to Daeron’s distaste, to take back his dagger before departing. For a moment there was silence, the door slamming shut a thunderclap, before Aegon and Daeron were cast into darkness once again.
Beneath the blankets, Aegon quivered, his eyes damp with unshed tears, while Daeron stood still, fighting the urge to scream.
How had his little brother grown into such a monster? What had happened, what had Daeron missed? He wanted to go back in time, to intervene before the sweet kid he remembered was no more, but Daeron could no longer remember when exactly that was, when it had started.
Fuck, he wasn’t drunk enough for this. Damn it, he wasn’t sober enough to talk to Aegon.
Little Aegon, who still hadn’t said a word, and was staring up at Daeron as if he expected him to finish the process of whatever thing Aerion had started a moment before.
Daeron sighed, and snatched back his blanket, from where it had fallen on the ground. Then, walking over to the far side of the bed, he threw himself next to Aegon, blanket and all, and curled up at his side, closing his eyes.
They didn’t touch, and Daeron didn’t reach out to force it, just let the two of them breathe in silence for a period. Eventually, Aegon’s breaths evened out, and he began to match the rise and fall of Daeron’s chest. And that’s when Daeron spoke.
“You know, he shouldn’t treat you like that,” he said, as if it wasn’t clear. And to Aegon, maybe it wasn’t. He didn’t know a time before the monster appeared, didn’t remember a time when the summer skies were always clear, and Aerion laughed with the cutest little dimples and asked Daeron if they were going to ride dragons together, some day. Aegon had only ever known the cruel beast he’d become, even if that wasn’t always directed at him, he’d seen the arrogance and indifference, seen the entitlement he walked with.
“I know that,” Aegon whispered into the night, and damn, maybe the kid was smarter than Daeron gave him credit for, because his voice, despite being high-pitched with the youth of an eight-year old, seemed to speak of lives lived and years spent knowing.
“That’s good,” Daeron said back, his words slurring a bit. He traced a finger up and down the swath of blanket that stood between the two of them, stretching his legs out as far as the bed allowed.
“He used to only go after me, you know.” He wasn’t sure he should be telling Aegon this, but the words were tumbling out, and he couldn’t put them back. “That was nice.” He paused. “Well, it wasn’t nice, but it was better knowing that you were safe, that he wouldn’t hurt you.”
Daeron let the silence grow. Finally, Aegon whispered, “This isn’t the first time he’s threatened me.” And that was the cold douse of failure Daeron should’ve seen coming. That his little brother had been tormenting his baby brother while Daeron slept under the same roof, and had presumably been too drunk or stupid to see it.
“I’m sorry,” Daeron said, because that’s all he could say. It wasn’t enough. “While I’m here, you’re safe. I’ll keep you safe, little Egg. Aegon. Egg, Aegon. Egg.” He hiccuped. Perhaps he was still more drunk than he’d thought.
Aegon turned to face him and scootched closer, though their bodies remained separated by the fabric. Daeron could almost feel the heat from his body through the covers, and with his eyes closed, he could almost see the way Aerion had done the same when he was younger, cheeks awash with the tears of a dream, caused from the disappointment that the dragons were gone.
“Why do you drink so much?” Aegon asked, and the illusion was gone because even at an older age, Aerion had never asked him something so personal without a hint of malice in his voice. “Everyone says it’s because of dreams, but everyone dreams, and not everyone drinks.”
With anyone else, Daeron would’ve felt the heat of accusation slam against his defenses, but Aegon was only curious. So Daeron shrugged, and tried to explain.
“Everyone dreams, yes, but my dreams are not like yours, or theirs. My dreams come true, and the things that happen are never kind.”
“Not kind? Like what?” Daeron debated whether or not to tell him, and caved.
“I dreamed of the death of our mother,” he said, sounding too loud in such a quiet place. “And I’ve dreamed of flames consuming our house. I wake up with visions of horrible events that I cannot interpret nor understand, and therefore cannot prevent. So that’s why I drink, because it would be too horrible otherwise.”
“I see,” Aegon replied, and somehow Daeron believed him. His hands had come up and were bunched in Daeron’s nightshirt, though Daeron still didn’t reach out, didn’t want to impose on him after his experience with Aerion.
“Is what they say true?”
“Huh?” Daeron wasn’t sure what he meant, since there were quite a lot of things to be said about him, several Aerion had already named. Some others included failure, disappointment, worthless, waste of privilege, and idiot. Most of those were true, Daeron figured, but it could be any that Aegon was referring to.
“That you frequent brothels,” Aegon said, as if it were obvious. “Because they make it sound like you’re there every night, but I know that you’re in your room most nights, and in a tavern the other times.”
Now it was Daeron who got to be even more confused. “How do you know what a brothel is? And how do you know where I am, are you following me?”
“I’m not an idiot, Daeron,” Aegon said, and Daeron knew he was rolling his eyes, even without having to look. Then, he sounded sheepish. “And yes, but only because I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Oh. That was… sweet? Unnecessary, of course, but it was a kindness no other member of the family had bestowed upon him. He wasn’t sure what to say.
“How long have you been doing that?” Daeron asked.
“About two years.” Ah. Since that night. Daeron should’ve known, and he was ashamed he hadn’t.
“Well, I appreciate the concern, but I’m okay. I’ll be okay, you don’t have to worry about me.” To that, Aegon shook his head, the movement burrowing his face into Daeron’s chest.
“But I do! Because no one else does, and what if one day you don’t come home? And I know you don’t visit brothels, but everyone seems to think you do, and no one seems to see how uncomfortable you look when it’s brought up! You don’t seem to care about yourself, but someone has to!”
Okay, ouch. Daeron felt tears gathering in his eyes, and he brought his knees up, curling his body around Aegon’s. “I’m sorry I make you worry. I’m really so sorry.”
“Then stop!” Daeron shook his head.
“I can’t,” he whispered, voice breaking partway through into a sob. “I can’t, I’m so sorry, Aegon.” He shuddered, and he felt even worse because Aegon’s hair was getting wet with tears, and his baby brother wasn’t supposed to have to deal with him.
“Okay,” Aegon whispered. “Do you ever go to brothels?”
“No,” Daeron said immediately, feeling another tear leak out.
“Then why?”
“I don’t know,” Daeron said. He’d never talked about this with anyone before. “Aerion, I think. A dumb rumor he started.”
“But why?” Aegon asked. “Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know,” Daeron mumbled.
“Do you even want that? Want sex?” And damn, if that kid wasn’t too perceptive for his own good. Daeron tried to shake his head, tried to deny it, to say that no, he was normal, and that of course he liked it, hell, he loved it!
But the lie was too great, the effort it would take to say too immense. And so Daeron shook his head, and for the first time since Aerion, he voiced his shame.
“I don’t,” he said. “I really don’t, I hate it. Hate the idea of it. I’m so sorry.” And what he was sorry for, he didn’t know. For being a failure, maybe. For being a role model to look away from, rather than toward.
Daeron braced himself for retaliation, for the scorn he knew would come from his father, if he were to find out. But there was none. Because Aegon was too kind and too good for this family, and he would never be like the rest of them.
“That’s okay,” Aegon said, rubbing Daeron’s back as he broke out into another sob. “You’re okay.”
And if Daeron cried himself to sleep that night, and woke in the morning with a headache from dehydration as well as the alcohol, then that was another secret kept between him and a brother, this time, however, with one who would guard it.
Things only got worse from there.
Aerion got crueler, more temperamental, more prone to rash decisions that typically came swathed in ribbons of violence. While Aegon stayed mostly the same, kind and intelligent, he became more withdrawn. Daeron caught Aerion in Aegon’s room twice more, and though he intervened when he saw, Daeron knew there were many more instances which he missed, he saw it in the shadows that lurked behind Aegon’s eyes, the darkness that emerged when he stared over at Aerion.
Behind closed doors, away from Maekar and their sisters, Aerion’s mockery of Daeron’s condition got worse, and the rumors in the town grew more explicit.
Maekar didn’t even bother scolding Daeron at this point, would simply sigh when over breakfast Aerion would say something about “Do you know what Daeron was up to last night?” Aerion would grin, the point of his teeth inhuman and unnatural, and Daeron would feel his heart sink as he braced himself for the glorious misdeeds he’d apparently engaged in.
Alone, Aerion would whisper to Daeron in the halls. Some things were innocuous, a brother asking a brother about his experience.
“So, have you lain with a girl, yet?” he asked one day.
The next, he said, “I heard a boy isn’t considered a man until he has his first experience, if you know what I mean,” waggling his eyebrows, while Daeron shot him a look, begging him to shut up.
Some comments were worse, targeted, pointed insults that cut deep, even through the haze of wine and other alcohol that Daeron drank.
“If you can’t get it together, brother, then perhaps you’re not cut out to be the heir.”
“No one wants a son who’s a failure, what would our father think?”
“Do you think I should tell him?”
At that last night, Daeron had pulled him up by his ear and threatened to tell Maekar of Aerion’s own exploits, which had launched the two of them into a fight that ended in bruised faces, scratches across their arms, and Aerion’s nose bleeding from a stray punch Daeron had managed to land.
As the two of them panted, hearing the sound of footsteps around the corridor, Aerion leaned in close.
“Figure it out, Daeron. Or you won’t like what happens.”
Daeron wasn’t even sure why this was such a big deal to his younger brother, Aegon certainly didn’t care. He wondered if it even was caring, perhaps more just a weak point he had found to exploit.
Or maybe he really did see it as some catastrophic failure on Daeron’s part, in line with his drinking and inability to cope with his dreams. Maybe he thought that if he pushed Daeron hard enough, he’d crumble, and go back to being the normal big brother he’d been when the two of them were young.
The days passed, and Maekar’s glares deepened, the worry on Aegon’s face increased, and Daeron spent his days more drunk than not, so that all he could remember were flashes of his family, glimpses of future events, and the red of his cup as it sang with dark wine, before lifting it to his lips.
One night, he dreamed of the man again.
His eyes were bright blue, a color so perfect and serene that it made Daeron’s heart stop, his hands growing cold and clammy. The man was leaning close, closer than Daeron had ever let anyone get, and Daeron wanted out.
He wanted out because he knew, as all people his age did, what came after. He heard the stories, knew the impact of body against body that followed a kiss. He knew that he couldn’t do it, but when he tried to pull away, his feet were frozen.
He woke up before their lips met, and immediately hurled what little he’d eaten the night before onto the floor.
That night, he made his decision.
If it was an inevitability that he would need to have sex, if it was something predetermined by the dragon dreams he’d been cursed with, then he needed to get over his petty fears of the act.
For the first time in his life, if someone were to say the next day that he’d been spotted at a brothel, it wouldn’t be a baseless rumor.
The wind cut cold through the cloak he’d thrown on as Daeron stumbled up to the door of the brothel. It wasn’t hard to find them, this late at night it was only brothels and the taverns that remained open, and Daeron knew where all the taverns lay like the back of his hand.
He chose one at the edge of town, the farthest from the castle also being the hardest to turn back from.
His hands shook, and he gripped the flask he brought with him, eyes wide with fear. He took a sip, then another. If he was going to do this, then it couldn’t be while sober. He wanted to be unable to remember any of the details of this night when he awoke.
He walked in.
He walked out.
He forced himself to turn back around and enter the building.
Inside, he closed his eyes against the stimuli that assaulted him, hunched his shoulders against the noises of girls giggling, of lips meeting. It was warm, too warm, as far too many bodies moved throughout the small rooms and halls of the place.
A woman, older, was waiting at the counter when he walked up. He didn’t have to say anything, she just took a look at him, eyed him up and down, and nodded.
“That way,” she said. “Third door on the right.” He left. She didn’t follow.
Behind the doors he passed, Daeron braced himself against the sounds of couples meeting and taking pleasure. He felt hollow. He still didn’t understand the appeal, couldn’t understand why this was something people would want. He’d really tried, in the past few years. He’d made an effort to want to want it, to look at people the same ways the other men in the castle did. But nothing had changed, there’d been no grand revelation inside of him.
Just the continued persistence of nothingness. The lack of what was supposed to make him human.
Was it even possible for him to love? Or had that shriveled up inside of him, too?
When he opened the door, the girl greeted him with a smile, and he gave a small grin back, but it shook. She was wearing only a thin shawl, swaying her hips as she walked up to him, threw her arms around his neck.
She whispered something in his ear, but Daeron could only hear the pounding of his heart, and nodded to whatever it was.
Then she kissed him.
Daeron was taken by surprise, stumbling back a pace, before she caught him and pulled him down, his golden hair falling over their faces. Her mouth was wet, lips warm against his, and she pushed and pulled against him, guiding him farther into the room.
This isn’t so bad, he thought, though the dread of the next part hadn’t ceased. But maybe, if this wasn’t so bad, neither would what came after. So he hoped.
The girl pushed him back, his knees hitting wood, and he fell back onto the bed that took up a wall of the room. Their mouths hadn’t parted for a time the whole time, and Daeron’s breath was getting heavy, coming fast through his nose as he let his hands rest on the blanket underneath them. It was warm, everything was warm.
She climbed onto his lap.
The weight was unexpected, but not horrible, and Daeron thought it was kind of nice, like an embrace. It had been a while since he’d received a hug from his father, and although Aegon was the friendliest to him out of their family, he was so flighty that Daeron rarely got to give him more than a pat on the head before he was off again.
But this girl here, sitting on his lap, kissing him, was nice. She was gentle, and didn’t seem to mind that his breath smelled of alcohol. She pushed the cloak from his shoulders, revealing the dark red shirt he’d thrown on earlier in the day, and straddled his hips, pressing against his mouth harder.
And then she reached down.
And Daeron froze.
This was what he’d been dreading, the feeling of hands down there. While the kissing had been better than he expected, this was worse, and in an instant his whole body tensed and his breathing ceased.
The girl stopped, her hand drawing back.
Daeron leaned forward.
No, this wasn’t right. He had to keep going, he had to.
He tried to kiss the girl, but she’d stopped that too, which was unfortunate because he was actually enjoying that bit. It was nice to feel close to someone, if only for a little while.
But she was climbing off of him, and backing away.
“Wait,” Daeron croaked, his voice shaky and unsure. “Stay, I’m sorry. It’s okay.” He wasn’t sure why he was comforting her all of a sudden, but he felt bad, so he must’ve done something wrong. She just shook her head, coming forward again, and carding a soft hand through his unkempt hair. He leaned into her touch.
“Do you really want this?” she asked softly. “You know, we get a lot of people who come here, either chasing or running from ghosts. Sometimes they think this is what they need, but it isn’t. And that’s okay.”
He wanted to reply and tell her that she’d gotten it wrong, that there weren’t any ghosts in his life. He wasn’t some sad old man, looking for his lost wife in a different girl. He wasn’t after anything he couldn’t have. He just wanted to feel normal, to be normal.
“I’m sorry,” was what he said instead. Her hands felt nice in his hair, and he leaned into her warmth, resting his forehead against her skin as she held him close.
“I’ll ask again, do you want this?” This time, Daeron shook his head.
“No.”
They stayed like that, for a while. Long enough for Daeron’s neck to start to ache and his eyes begin to grow heavy. When he left, he paid her in full, and wiped away the remaining tears from his eyes before heading back through the building into the cold night air.
Outside, Aegon was huddled against a wooden beam, cloak wrapped tight around him, shivering from the cold. When Daeron approached, he stood up, taking Daeron’s hand in his own and squeezing tight as they began the walk back to the castle.
Daeron said nothing, and Aegon didn’t ask. It was warm for the time of year, but night was night in the end, and by the time they reached the castle Daeron’s ears were numb and Aegon’s steps had begun to falter. Before reaching the gate, Daeron paused, staring dully at the ground. Aegon waited patiently for him to speak.
“I didn’t do it,” Daeron said, and he couldn’t imagine the sigh of relief that left Aegon in one full breath. “She didn’t want me.”
Aegon shook his head. “You didn’t want her.”
“I failed.”
“You didn’t fail. You made the right choice.”
“What right choice?” Daeron wanted to scream. “The choice to fail? The choice to disappoint our father, the man in my dreams?”
But he didn’t say any of that. Instead, he whispered, more to the wind than to anyone else, “I’m never going to be normal.”
Aegon’s little hand squeezed his, and they walked into the castle. That night, Daeron curled up around Aegon, holding him close to his chest, and tried not to cry while he dreamt the night away.
The tournament was drawing near, and Maekar was determined that Daeron was to fight in it.
“The boy needs a chance to squire,” he’d ordered, and apparently Daeron was the knight to teach him. “You know how Aerion is, and I’m not letting him waste his time with a commoner. It’s you, or nothing.”
Daeron was sure his father was as displeased about this arrangement as he was, but Aegon’s eyes were shining bright with hope. The boy wanted nothing more than to be a squire, to learn to be a knight as his father and brothers were. So what could he do but oblige?
“Fine,” Daeron mumbled, “we’ll leave in the morrow. Without any guards, so we’ll travel faster. And so we can stay more under the radar.” Maekar moved, as if to protest, but held his tongue. Daeron was still his eldest, despite all his flaws.
And so the next morning, they did.
The road to Ashford Meadow was a bumpy one, one that was lined with trees and shrubs and all the greeny Daeron never cared to see. Their nights were spent huddled in some inn or another, and each time he fell asleep, Daeron had the same dream. The blue-eyed man, covered by a great dragon, on a meadow. The dragon was dead. He was not.
Each day on horseback left less and less time for wine, so Daeron’s hands shook and trembled with the withdrawals of his addiction, and the dread of the dreams was given no opportunity to wash away.
By night, he tossed into a restless slumber.
By morning, he screamed himself awake.
The night before they were set to arrive at the tourney, Daeron awoke with a shout that burned his throat and set his lungs ablaze, his chest heaving with breaths, yet unable to take air in. Aegon was next to him, as they’d taken to sleeping, but from this he flew from the bed, putting some distance between himself and the mad brother.
“We’re not going to the tournament,” Daeron said, words a blur.
“But brother–” Dareon cut him off.
“No! We’re not going, now hold still.” Daeron fumbled around in his bag for the shaving razor he’d brought with him, and downed a few sips of wine he’d stored in his flask with the other hand. “Your hair’s too recognizable, you have to stay still.”
Aegon twisted in his brother’s grasp, but finally relented. It was the only way, Daeron knew. They’d need to hole up in this inn for a few more days. They could buy the silence of the innkeeper and her family, but other guests were not so trustworthy. Daeron was glad for his hair color, as it was the golden-blond of his mother, and not the silver-white of his father and siblings. It made it easier to blend into the background of a bar, or to hole up in the corner of an inn.
Aegon didn’t move while Daeron finished the work, and smiled sadly as he felt his head.
“There you go,” Daeron stated, relatively proud of his handiwork. Now that they were for sure not going to the tournament, he could sleep. “Looks great.”
Aegon stared at himself in the grimy mirror of the room. “At least I don’t look like Aerion, anymore,” he said, and Daeron felt his heart break.
Daeron flopped back onto the bed and fell back asleep, though Aegon didn’t join him for quite some time.
Now that they weren’t going anywhere, Daeron finally had the chance to drink again, and the next day he quickly drank himself into a slumper, head slumped over a table and drooling into his arms. He wasn’t sure where Aegon had run off to, but he wasn’t worried. They were a day’s ride from Ashford Meadow, and he was certain his brother wouldn’t know the way there on his own.
He comforted himself with the knowledge that he’d avoided whatever horrible fate awaited them, and let himself drift off.
When he awoke, it was night.
The walls of the inn flashed quietly with candlelight, a cozy arrangement that had Daeron nearly dozing off again. And that’s when he saw him.
The blue-eyed man.
He was here.
How? Daeron had avoided the tourney, he was supposed to have been able to keep this man out of his life! He thought of Aegon, and ice cooled in his veins. Whatever fate was in store for him or his family, it wouldn’t touch his little brother.
“You!” he snarled, reaching for his dagger and waving it in front of him as he spoke. The man looked confused, as if it was unclear who Daeron was talking to. “Yes, you. I’ve dreamed of you.” His voice got lower, and his hand trembled. “You stay the fuck away from me, you hear?”
Daeron shoved himself up, slamming a coin on the table. He blew at the strand of hair that fell in his face, and angrily brushed it back with a hand when it didn’t move. He stomped up the stairs, never straying from those bright blue eyes until the floor came in between them.
He collapsed on his bed, feeling spent.
If only the walls were thicker, here.
He could hear the innkeeper talking to the man, telling him about him. “He just drinks, and talks about his dreams,” she said, which was unfair. He didn’t actually remember talking about his dreams, so why did it need to be brought up? His heart stilled as she continued.
“You know,” she said, “I’ve heard rumors that he frequents brothels, in all the towns he visits. Hasn’t left the inn yet, but who knows?” Daeron could almost see her shrug. “You know what the little lords are like, they’re all the same. Take what they want, because they can pay for all of it.”
Daeron didn’t get any sleep that night, and he only hoped that he would never have to see the man again.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck! The tournament was starting that day, and there was no sign of Aegon. He’d run off, disappeared into the night like a little thief, and left Daeron none the wiser.
It was his fault, of course. Should’ve seen that the sadness in his eyes was not only for the loss of hair, but for his loss of a knight. He should’ve recognized that sparkle in his eyes over the last few days to be the look of persistent determination that he’d seen in Aerion as a child, a stubbornness that reminded him that Aegon was also still a child.
But Daeron really didn’t want to die, and the wine went down so smoothly, now that he was used to it.
He decided a drink would help him figure out what to do, so he had a glass. When that one wasn’t enough, he claimed another. When three became five, and five became eight, he forgot why he’d even wanted to think in the first place, and disappeared back into his room to drift away a sleepless night, where the same dream haunted him.
That morning, he awoke to a loud knocking at his door, and his father’s voice coming from the other side.
In his scramble to open it, Daeron knocked the half-full cup he’d left on the nightstand over himself, so when he opened the door the evidence of his activities shone clear on his shirt. Maekar just looked down on him with a scoff. He asked where Aegon was, and Daeron had no clue.
And then he remembered the man, and thought that if there was a possibility the man was to kill a dragon, perhaps a member of his family, it would be best to keep the kingsguard on the hunt for him, while covering his own ass.
“A robber stole him!” Daeron exclaimed, waving his hands wildly through the air, eyes glassy with the remaining alcohol still in his system. “A big, tall man with blue eyes. He made off with Aegon in the night, and I couldn’t stop him!”
“Then why,” Maekar bit out, “didn’t you go after him?”
For that, Daeron had no excuse, and he knew it. And by the way Maekar studied him, Daeron knew that Maekar was fully aware of why Daeron hadn’t pursued his brother, and hated him for it.
It was a very silent day’s ride to Ashford Meadows.
The business they arrived upon was unseemingly, the blue-eyed man having attacked Daeron’s brother while they were away. Daeron was sure the man had a good reason for it, but Aerion’s retaliation was swift, and to make matters worse, Aegon had grown fond of that giant of a man.
Dunk, he was called. To him, Aegon was Egg.
Daeron spoke with him only once, before the tournament. He told him of the dream he’d been having, and warned him that he had no clue what it meant. But if someone else knew about it, then perhaps the blame would not fall solely on his shoulders when everything went to shit. And it would, because it always did.
As Daeron walked away from the tent, leaving Dunk and his brother behind, he tried to fight off the flutter in his chest that sprang up at the thought of the tall man, the thoughts that now steadily veered towards how it would feel to kiss him in the same way he’d kissed that girl in the brothel. It was odd, to say the least. Nothing at first, but the warmth was growing, the fog in his head not only to do with the wine.
Daeron had never really had thoughts like this before, and he wasn’t sure what to do with them. He couldn’t act on them, that was for sure. The gentle hedge knight was sure to die the next day, and even if he didn’t, he’d never be satisfied with a man like Daeron. A drunken fool, who was too appalled by the thought of sex to even fake his way through it.
Daeron knew he would die a loveless man, and perhaps that was for the best. Better loveless than someone with a pitiable marriage, with someone who couldn’t tolerate him for all his faults.
The next day, Baelor died.
A great dragon fell upon Dunk, just as Daeron had predicted, yet been unable to stop. It was Daeron’s fault, he knew, and the world got hazier as he spent the funeral drenched in wine from the inside out. Aegon was mad at him for his lie, glowered at him every chance he got, and he knew that he’d grown closer with Dunk than Daeron had ever been with him.
His world got a little darker, and Aegon got gloomier. In one moment, Daeron paled.
Wait, he had seen this before, hadn’t he? Aerion had been a happy child, once. Had looked up to his older brother with all the light of the radiant sun. And now, was Aegon set to go down the same path?
Maekar had offered the hedge knight a spot in their castle, but Dunk had understandably declined. And now nothing could sooth the pain in his youngest brother’s face, nor quell the itching rage that Daeron could see simmering beneath the smooth skin of his head.
He looked just as Aerion did, back when Daeron had been content to dismiss the warning for growing pains, ignore the signs for childish antics.
He had to stop this. He couldn’t go back in time and fix Aerion, but he could prevent it from happening again.
It was more than professional respect that had that fluttering feeling prowling again through Daeron’s stomach, as he faced the hedge knight once again. His glare, not unlike the look he’d given Daeron in the tent the other day, would’ve seemed severe on any other man. Instead of subduing him, the expression on Dunk’s face made Daeron’s cheeks grow warmer, his heart begin to beat faster.
Dunk was, unsurprisingly, displeased to see him, but listened as Daeron pleaded his case. Someone had to save Aegon, after all, and that person couldn’t be Daeron. He couldn’t save anyone if he couldn’t save himself, and this Dunk had proved himself more than worthy.
And maybe Daeron was happy that he got to see the man one last time, see him smile as he walked away.
The next day, as the Targaryen procession made their way out of the town, Aegon was nowhere to be seen.
Daeron smiled.
It was a clear summer evening, a number of moons later, and Daeron was leaning against the bark of a tree, when he felt the man approach. It was a sort of imperceptible feeling, the sensation of being watched growing stronger, until suddenly Daeron was not alone. Dunk was standing next to him.
Daeron smiled.
“You’re tall,” he slurred, eyes unfocused. He’d been drinking more, now that Aegon was gone. The wine was just so easy to reach for, with the only concerned family member far, far away.
At first, it hadn’t been too hard to manage, and when they arrived back at Summerhall he’d almost decided to try and quit altogether. The thought of Dunk, with his wide shoulders and blue eyes had been enough to persuade thoughts of his dreams away, and the knowledge that Aegon was out bettering his own self mitigated the urge to reach for a bottle, when the need arose.
That attempt had lasted about a week, and by then Aerion was feeling well enough to start his torments once again, the grating insults that tested Daeron’s nerves and rattled something inside of him.
“You fool,” he’d snarled, when he passed Daeron in the hallway. “What knight lets himself fall in a trial? How weak do you have to be to just give up?”
At least Aegon was gone, he’d said to himself. Aerion couldn’t get him anymore.
And now the house was emptier, Aerion sent off to go mature somewhere else, and the silence was almost worse. With Aerion, he could tolerate the comments because they came from someone who was evil, who hated him, but alone, his thoughts were just his own.
Clearly, he couldn’t be trusted to think by himself, so he let the alcohol do the thinking for him.
“You’re drunk,” Dunk replied, as if that wasn’t obvious. Daeron just smiled, hair falling in front of his face. The scar on his cheek, that still throbbed when he thought too hard about the day he fell down, had grown lighter, but the moonlight made it shine like the day he’d gotten it. Some childish part of him didn’t want to let Dunk see it, to see the permanent evidence of his failure.
Next to him, it was easy to see how much taller Dunk was. Daeron wanted to know what it would be like to kiss him.
“Why’re you here?” Daeron managed at last. “You’re, uh, off. Off with Egg–Aegon. Aegon. Egg. Why’re you here?” He stared up at Dunk quizzically, stumbling a bit as he tried to push off of the tree. It didn’t go well, his legs deciding at that moment to stop working, but Dunk caught him, his large arms propping Daeron up easily while Daeron seemed so keen to fall.
“Decided to come visit, mi’lord,” Dunk said. “Egg went to look for you, and I went to make a camp. Though turns out I’ve found both.”
Ohhhhh that made sense. “Is this your tree?” Daeron asked, running a hand along the smooth bark as the edges of his words blurred into each other. “It’s okay, I’ll move. Not my tree, don’t worry. It’s allllll yours.” He moved to walk away, push himself away to wander the town alone, but his legs didn’t appear to be working all that well. No matter, that happened sometimes. The only odd thing was that he didn’t seem to be falling.
“Are you okay, mi’lord?” Dunk asked. His arms were wrapped around Daeron’s midsection, holding him aloft in the air. “Do you need me to fetch someone?”
“Oh, no one’s coming, don’t worry,” Daeron giggled, and it sounded harsh in the quiet night. “Father doesn’t send for me, anymore. I wonder if he hopes one day I’ll fall in a ditch and not wake up. I wouldn’t blame him, though.” He blinked as his violet eyes met Dunk’s blue ones. “I wouldn’t want me either.”
Dunk shook his head. “I’m sure that’s not true,” he said. “He’s your father, he loves you.” That drew a laugh from Daeron’s throat, which turned into a cough as he choked back a sob.
It wasn’t the time for that, he told himself. A Targaryen shouldn’t cry.
“He hasn’t loved me for a long time,” Daeron slurred, his voice almost a whisper. He was going to leave it there, but there was something else, something on the tip of his tongue. He thought for a moment.
He smiled as he remembered. “You’re really pretty, you know that?”
Dunk blushed. “Thank you, mi’lord.” And now, what did Daeron want to do? Oh, yeah!
“I want to kissssss you,” he exclaimed, still unable to figure out how to get his legs to stand himself up.
“I’m not sure you do,” Dunk said, quietly. “You’re very drunk. I think you should get to sleep.” His voice was stern, but not unkind, as he maneuvered the two of them to a better position, and began to half walk, half drag Daeron to where the castle sat. “I’m going to take you to your room, okay?”
His words were wrong, sounded off to Daeron’s ears, but boy did he want to kiss him.
It was the only thing he was sure of, in his haze of wine and dreams. He definitely wanted to kiss Dunk, but Dunk wouldn’t want to kiss him. Because of his hangup. Because he would never want to go any farther. Someday, Daeron would get married to someone, and he’d either be forced to do it or waver, because no one would ever want someone like him.
“Daeron!” a small voice cried out. Aegon was taller, his voice louder and more confident than the last time Daeron had seen him. That was nice, it was good to see he was getting better, no longer stifled in the dark rooms of the family castle. “Daeron, are you okay?”
“He’s okay, I think,” Dunk answered when all Daeron could manage was a nauseous groan. “Just extremely drunk, it appears.”
Daeron muttered something about kisses, and Aegon looked at him with alarm. Then Daeron mumbled something about his bed, and sleep, and he nodded.
“Let’s get him to his room, Ser,” Aegon said. “He’ll be safer there.” Aegon led the way while Dunk and Daeron followed, trailing behind at a much slower pace due to Daeron’s inability to walk in a straight line.
The castle was silent, his father and their servants long ago gone to bed, which was good because Daeron made quite the ruckus as he slammed into walls and cabinets left in the halls. Aegon led them to a very familiar door, which was as such because it was Daeron’s, and opened the door to usher them in.
Daeron’s room, of which he had once prized himself for its cleanliness, was a mess. Empty bottles littered the floor, with droplets of wine spattered across where they’d spilled out. Cups decorated the surface of his nightstand, and his sheets were rumbled and left askew.
When Daeron collapsed, he pulled Dunk down with him.
The man fell across him with a grunt, and Daeron wriggled a bit to get comfortable, though it was hard with the large man flung atop him.
“Daeron!” he heard Aegon gasp. Ever the worrier, that one. But why was he here? He wasn’t meant to be taking care of him, that was his own job?
“I’m fine,” he mumbled, waving his hand at the boy. “I’m all good.” Aegon was shaking his head, which Daeron found hard to make out through the darkness.
“But you’re not good, Daeron!” Aegon cried. “You drink too much, and you’re always sad. You’re going to die if you keep this up, and I don’t want that to happen! Do you think you deserve to die?”
Daeron shrugged. “Don’t you?”
Aegon looked distraught, face gone paler in the cold moonlight that streamed in through the curtain. “Of course not! I love you, you’re my brother.” Daeron wanted to say that Aerion was also their brother, and that neither of them should love him, but resisted.
“You don’t understand, Aegon,” Daeron said, his voice strained. “I’m broken, and you know it. Aerion saw it, and I see it too.” He turned to face Dunk. “I still see you in my dreams, and I don’t know what it means. I don’t understand anything, and that fucking scares me.” He paused, breath heaving out of his throat in heavy gasps. “Don’t leave.”
The rest of the night was a bit of a blur. He fell back on the pillow, though he didn’t remember having sat up. A blanket was tossed over him, and he heard the murmur of voices. One high pitched and frantic, one low and calm.
With the sun, most of the wine was cleared from Daeron’s body, and he could think clearly again.
He sat up, drawing a hand over his sweaty face, although the dirt caked under his fingernails probably meant he should wash those too. When he opened his eyes, Daeron was shocked to find he was not alone. Aegon’s arm was thrown around his stomach, and although Daeron couldn’t see him, the soft snores of Dunk rose steadily from the floor beneath his bed.
Oh gods, I’m gonna be sick. The covers were thrown back, and before he had to run to a washroom, a bucket was thrust into his arms, which Daeron gratefully took. When he was done, the hand took it back, and Daeron wiped his mouth, glancing up.
Dunk was looking at him awkwardly, sitting halfway on Daeron’s bed, holding the bucket in one hand.
“Egg said you’d be needing this, and I’m glad I listened to him,” he said. Daeron just nodded and looked away, feeling the familiar shame begin to creep back in.
Was this what he’d come to? The hedge knight he’d once strived to avoid was in his room, taking care of him. Aegon must’ve asked him for help, and he was too good to say no.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he mumbled, the stringy strands of hair disgusting him as much as he knew they would for Dunk. “I’m sorry Aegon had to.” The boy was beginning to wake up, but quickly fell back to sleep when Daeron’s hand made its way to his forehead, petting it gently.
“He worries about you,” Dunk said. That was the worst part. The caring, like Daeron was worth that sort of effort.
“I know,” Daeron muttered. “He shouldn’t have to.”
The days got a bit brighter, finally, now that Aegon and Dunk were back in Daeron’s life for a while. Maekar seemed more at ease, too, and his glares were spread across three people instead of one, which made it a bit more tolerable.
Daeron still felt that familiar touch of shame whenever he looked at Dunk, though.
The fluttering he’d felt since the tourney hadn’t gone away, it had only gotten worse. Whenever Dunk’s face lit up, it was like beams of sun peaking through the clouds on a rainy day. All days were stormclouds for Daeron, and those tiny rays of light quickly became warmth he had to feel.
Daeron was hopeless, and yet he remained steadfast in his truth, that to make a move would be a horrible mistake. It would only end badly, because if Daeron made a move, then everything said about him would instantly be proven to be true. They’d have fun for a bit, but at the end of the night Dunk would expect something Daeron could never give.
Dunk knew the rumors. He would have certain expectations. Even if he, by some miracle, felt the same for Daeron, there’d be something further in his longing, a deeper thing that Daeron couldn’t reciprocate.
He felt ill, whenever he thought of the disappointment that would surely decorate Dunk’s face. He considered trying the brothel again, trying again to learn how to be okay, but that seemed worse.
Plus, Aegon had been watching him too closely as of late, he’d never allow it.
At a party it all came to a head.
It was another namesday, this time for some lesser noble in their town, and her father was throwing a celebration. A simple feast, this time, as the land had learned the wisdom against tournaments, but this meant that Daeron was expected to show.
And where Dearon went, Aegon followed.
And where Aegon followed, Dunk went.
By the time the three of them arrived at the celebration, it was already in full swing. Lords and ladies danced about, kids Aegon’s age were playing in a pond near the edge of the forest. It was bold and colorful, whimsical and awash with music and smells, and despite himself, Daeron felt himself considering the possibility that this could be a good time.
Aegon’s eyes brightened, the glint he apparently hadn’t grown out of dancing across them, as he tugged on Dunk’s shirt.
“Please, Ser, may I go play with them?” Apparently he was a very dutiful squire, and took matters of assisting his master very seriously.
“What? Of course, Egg, it’s a party.” Dunk’s voice grew quite serious, a low tone that warmed Daeron’s heart and had him looking away to hide a flush. “In fact, I expect that you go have fun. I want a full report when you’re done!” The last part was half-shouted as Aegon sprang away, already running off to make new friends. The boy was good at that, always had been.
And that left Daeron and Dunk alone.
“I guess it’s the two of us, them,” Dunk stated, and Daeron nodded.
“Gonna keep me from drinking too much?” he teased, amused by the immediate nervousness in Dunk’s eyes.
“What? No, obviously you can do what you like, but, well–” Daeron held up a finger, cutting him off.
“Don’t fret, I know what my brother’s put you up to. You’re welcome to prevent my drinking however you see fit, but for now, I’m after a cup of wine.” Dunk stuttered as he trailed after him, clearly unsure how to handle an unruly prince.
“I mean, you could, but I would recommend, well. Uh. Not that,” he said at last, and Daeron snickered.
“You’re fine,” he said. “I won’t make life harder on you, gods know you put up with enough from my little brother. But I do ask that you have fun as well, since this is a party, after all. I may not be drinking, but don’t let that stop you, by any means.”
Truth was, Daeron had had a few glasses earlier in the day, just enough to steady his hands. Aegon claimed that quitting cold turkey was a bad idea, and it was likely part of why he’d crashed and burned so spectacularly the last time he’d tried.
Daeron smiled, as he watched Dunk merge with the crowd. Then his smile dimmed.
Alone, he allowed a frown to darken his features, and all of a sudden he ached for the feeling of a cool breeze upon his skin, the porch they arrived at too bright and loud for his tastes. People making merry, couples dancing, and everyone drinking would surely fray his nerves more than they already were. He eyed up a path off to his left and started down it, letting the wind carry him away from Dunk and Aegon, away from the reminder of his failures and repetition of his shame.
He knew that Aegon and Dunk would worry, he was surprised at how fond Dunk had seemed to grow of him the past few days, but he could manage whatever future concern they felt. They could stand a little separation, couldn’t they? Perhaps it would be nice, to live without him for a few hours.
Daeron ached for a drink.
He longed for a cup in his hand, for the taste of alcohol on his tongue, for the soothing numbness to wash away his dreams and his desires, if for a few minutes more. But according to Aegon, and corroborated by Dunk, that was the wine talking, and he needed to not listen.
But boy, did he want to.
After a long while, he was finally standing under the shade of a large tree, watching the stars sit in their spots in the sky, wondering what it would be like to be one of them.
It was there that Dunk found him.
The tall man with those too blue eyes shuffled up to him, far quieter than he had any right to be. Daeron didn’t flinch, didn’t move, just stayed still, his back pressed up against the tree, reaching a hand up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind his ear.
“You’re missing the party,” Daeron said, voice ringing too loudly in the still night air.
“So are you,” Dunk replied. His face was flushed, though if he’d had anything to drink, he didn’t show it otherwise, just crept up to Daeron until their shoulders were almost touching.
“You’re good to my brother, I can tell,” Daeron murmured, letting his head droop down. Perhaps he didn’t need wine to feel melancholy, considering the pit that he felt beginning to form in his chest. “That’s good. He deserves it, he’s too kind to stay in our family, with us. We’d ruin him, just like we ruined Aerion. He’d turn out the same, if he stayed with us. That’s why I’m glad you changed your mind.”
“Maybe,” Dunk said. “I agree that he shouldn’t be in that house. But while he was there, I’m glad he had you.”
“Me?” Daeron asked, incredulously. He laughed. “I’m just as bad, just as much one of them as Aerion is. If you remember, I lied about you at the tournament, got you into worse trouble, just to save my own skin. If you think I’m an exception, then you’re wrong. Only Aegon is.”
“That’s not true,” Dunk stated immediately, and maybe he had been drinking because Daeron had never seen him so bold before. “Egg’s told me about you, said how you helped him, even when dealing with your own stuff. I think that takes bravery, and that takes courage.”
Daeron nearly laughed. “Sure. If you say so.”
They sat in silence for a moment, and then Dunk spoke five hushed words.
“Daeron, can I kiss you?”
For a moment, all was still. This was the moment he’d been waiting for, and yet he froze. Because this was also the moment he’d been dreading, the thing he’d been waiting to hit him ever since he first dreamed of that blue eyed man, all those years ago.
But wasn’t this what he’d been longing for? Who was he, to deny this small pleasure? It would all come crashing down around him in the end, everything would. Perhaps it would be better to enjoy a short moment, rather than get no moment at all.
And so, Daeron nodded.
Dunk held him so gently when their lips finally met.
Daeron’s face felt small in Dunk’s hands, as fingers lightly caressed his cheeks, cupping his face to pull him in. Dunk’s mouth was warm, so warm, and he tasted far sweeter than the brothel girl, whoever she had been.
Daeron must’ve leaned in at some point, because when Dunk broke away to breathe, Daeron fell forward until they were pressing together once again, Dunk’s tongue hot and pleasant against the seam of his lips.
And then the two of them were backing up, Dunk crowding Daeron back against the tree he’d stood against, pressing him into the bark like a man in need. They were close, closer than Daeron thought two people could get without merging, and although the pressure was intense, the meeting of lips forceful, there was a tenderness behind the action that had Daeron nearly melting in Dunk’s grasp, turning into a puddle and seeping into the dirt to leave nothing but a small patch of mud behind.
The moment was wonderful, and for the first time, Daeron felt that maybe he’d be able to go the full distance, do the thing he knew he was supposed to do.
But then Dunk’s leg was pressing in between his own, and just like before, Daeron froze, body chilling and tensing as he fought the urge to run away.
Dunk stopped immediately, looking at him with concern.
“Are you alright?” he asked, and the glare Daeron shot was less at him, and more at himself.
“I’m fine, I’m good. Let’s continue,” he said, reaching up to pull Dunk back against him, but this time Dunk pulled away.
“Are you sure? You’re shaking.” Was he?
“Probably just cold.” That was a blatant lie. It was a warm night, the warmest they’d had in ages, as a matter of fact, and Dunk knew it. Thankfully, Dunk had the decency not to directly call him out on it.
“We don’t have to go any further,” Dunk whispered, his breath soft against Daeron’s burning cheeks. “It’s good to take things slow, or so I’ve heard.”
“That’s not the issue,” Daeron bit out. Gods, now he was close to tears, eyes burning as he fought to keep them dry. Why did Dunk have to be so sweet, so caring, when he was just going to leave if Daeron told him?
“Then what is?” Dunk asked, and he’d asked it so quietly, so earnestly, that Daeron broke. Who the hell cared, anymore? So what if his secret got out, Aerion could just as well be spilling it from all the way in wherever he was!
“It’s not ‘taking it slow,’” Daeron said, and his voice came out strained. “I’m never going to want to. To do it.”
“It?” Gods, he was so dense!
“Sex!” Daeron whisper-shouted. He brought his voice down, leaned his head in closer. “I can’t do it, I’ve tried. The thought of it makes me sick, not just with you, with anyone! So you don’t want to do this to yourself, you should go find someone else who’ll make you happy and not leave you stuck with,” he paused, thinking of the right word. “Well, nothing!”
Daeron’s chest heaved, his breaths coming in short gasps that seemed to seep more air than they brought in. He had no clue what Dunk was going to do. That time with Aegon had been the only time he’d been truly honest, Aerion’s method of wrenching the information later seeming like a ploy to find an exploitable weakness.
He was wrong, there was something missing within him, and it was clear to see that. Even the kindest person would have his limits, and even the most understanding man would reach a point where he could tolerate no more.
Dunk was looking at him with those big blue eyes of his, that seemed so empathetic, even as Daeron’s world was shattering around him.
When Dunk finally spoke, his words were soft and gentle, but roared like fire in Daeron’s ears.
“And?”
Daeron wanted to smack him.
“Don’t you understand, Dunk?” he hissed. “There’s no waiting, there’s no ‘maybe.’ It’s never. Do you understand that? Do you?” The alcohol must have been cooling him, because Daeron hadn’t felt this bold in years. There must have been some fire in his eyes, because Dunk took a step back.
“I do understand,” he said. “And I don’t care.”
Daeron was in disbelief. Just because he said that now, didn’t mean that years down the line, he wouldn’t. “You can’t know that.”
“I can,” Dunk reiterated. “Listen, Daeron, I’ve never had much interest in that stuff either. Doesn’t make me sick, but it doesn’t excite me.”
It was impossible, that the man he’d tried to avoid and plan for could actually understand. No one could understand, it wasn’t right.
Because Daeron wasn’t right, wasn’t he?
“So you’re saying that you don’t care about sex either? Seriously?” To this, Dunk nodded, and something in Daeron untangled.
“It took me a while to realize the things people said weren’t jokes,” he said, and chuckled. “My late master thought it was quite funny, that. But seemed to forget about whatever I’d told him by the next day.”
Daeron laughed, this time a breathy, disbelieving thing. This night was going far better than he could’ve imagined. If he was broken, as Aerion said he was, then perhaps it was well for he and Dunk to be broken together, like two bent and marred pieces of a puzzle whose edges happened to fit perfectly together.
“Is that okay?” Dunk asked, an expression akin to worry spreading over his features. Daeron nodded, closing his eyes, pressing against Dunk as the dread and fear began to trickle away. Nerves raw, but healing. He could work with that.
“That’s fantastic,” Daeron whispered, and Dunk held him tight against his front.
“You’re not broken,” Dunk murmured into his hair, and Daeron squeezed his eyes as the tears finally began to trickle out. “And I would be with you regardless, it doesn’t matter that I share this lack. I want to be with you, and that means you,” he tapped Daeron’s head, next to his temple. And then he pressed a finger against Daeron’s spine, over his heart. “The physical doesn’t matter. If we never touched, I’d still be happy. You’re beautiful, just as you are.”
The two of them remained like that, holding each other under the tree, Daeron’s face buried in Dunk’s chest to hide the tears that fell softly. He was comfortable, the pain dripping away, leaving only the scars that would linger through the spring melts but fade as summer returned.
Later, they would kiss again, slower, and they would dance in the moonlight as the two of them began to navigate the boundaries they needed.
Aegon would find them there, and they would spring apart, none the wiser that Aegon had heard their whole conversation, and smiled fondly to himself.
Somedays, Daeron would still think back to that first day with Aerion, the day he’d realized the truth about himself, and wonder how things might have been different if it had been Dunk there, realizing it with him. Perhaps the insults would not have been so biting, when Aerion would have learned of it. And maybe Aegon would’ve been just as glad as he was now, seeing the two of them as they secretly held hands on walks by the riverbank, stealing brief kisses in the stables.
The warmth in Daeron’s chest was real, and the familiar terror and dread that came with the sensation began to fade. He felt free, his mind clear.
For the first time in a long time, Daeron let himself dream.