Chapter Text
If he gets to be a drunken mess on our wedding day, why shouldn’t I? Elira Baratheon gestured for a serving girl to refill her cup and took a deep sip. The wine ran through her body, calming her nerves, but couldn’t dull the hatred she felt. Hatred towards her father. Hatred towards her new husband. But mostly, hatred towards herself for not figuring out a way out of this Gods-damned marriage.
Elira slumped down in her chair, farther than was ladylike. If her mother had been watching, she’d have grabbed her up by the ear, but she’d left after the ceremony, taking to her bed most likely. Her father, on the other hand, was certainly living up to his nickname as the Laughing Storm. She watched him dance around the hall, spinning and twirling as if the worst day of her life wasn’t bleeding into the worst night of her life.
He danced with her new husband, the two of them throwing their heads back in glee, the music reaching a crescendo that made her head ring. She wished she could take her leave, retreat to some quiet corner, but she didn’t even know where she could go, a stranger to this family and a stranger to the Red Keep.
It was only months ago when her father had come home to Storm’s End from the tournament at Ashford Meadow, full of tales of a giant hedge knight who had put the entire realm into a tailspin. How there had been a Trial of the Seven for the first time in a hundred years, how her father had fought in it, and how afterwards, Prince Baelor Breakspear, the heir to the Iron Throne, had fallen.
She remembered how her mother had nearly fainted at that, gripping her chair when he told her, how her father had to steady her when he told her the line of succession had been disrupted. How, even though the royal family was in shambles, this was an opportunity for him to place her, of all people, within it, and also to rid himself of a daughter who was becoming more trouble than she was worth.
He’d come back from the tournament with a manic light shining in his dark eyes, invigorated by fighting in the trial and energized by the new friendships he’d forged. And even though he’d gone up against the Targaryens in the trial, he wasn’t going to let a little momentary rivalry stand in the way of something that could gain him a political advantage, especially when it came to the unruly daughter he couldn’t seem to marry off.
His first choice, he’d said, had been Aerion, the Brightflame, but after his actions had caused the havoc at the tournament, he’d been exiled to Lys, and her father thought it best she be wed to someone a tad less temperamental. At first, Elira was relieved. After all, she’d heard tales of Aerion’s cruelty and delusions, that he thought he was a dragon, an actual dragon wearing human skin. Being wed to him sounded like a living nightmare.
But then he told her it was Daeron he had made a marriage match.
Daeron. Daeron the Drunk.
Those stories had reached Elira too, oh yes. Maekar’s heir, who couldn’t put his cup down long enough to form a coherent sentence. The prince who, Elira had heard, spent more time in brothels than at Summerhall. The prince who claimed to have prophetic dreams, although people took little stock in his ramblings. This was the prince to whom her father had tied her to forever.
Now, as she watched with disgust as her new husband staggered across the dance floor, wine bottle in one hand, not even bothering to drink out of a cup. She wondered if the prince who thought he was a dragon might not have been so bad after all.
The whole wedding was like some perverted reunion for her father and his Ashfield Meadow friends. Even the giant of a hedge knight had come back from wherever he’d been wandering with young Aegon, Elira’s now-brother-in-law, as his squire. He hefted the young child onto his shoulders and the crowd cheered. Prince Baelor hadn’t been dead for a year yet, and still they carried on.
Although now that she looked closely, she didn’t see Prince Maekar joining the festivities. He sat down the table from her, jaw set in a tight line as he sipped from a cup, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Perhaps some still mourned Baelor.
A hand fell on Elira’s shoulder, and she scrambled to sit up straight.
“May I sit next to you?” Elira turned to see the soft brown eyes of Kiera of Tyrosh.
“Oh, yes,” Elira breathed, glad to have the company of a woman.
“It was a beautiful ceremony,” Kiera said, smiling.
Before she could help herself, Elira snorted. “I’m sure it was lovely. The bride could hardly make it through without rolling her eyes, and the groom could hardly complete his vows without passing out from drink.”
She wasn’t sure what bade her to be so candid with Kiera, except that she fervently hoped she would be an ally in the household she was walking into, a household in which she had none. Elira knew it was foolish to run her mouth so soon, but this was her way. It had gotten her in trouble before, but she wasn’t about to change course now.
Much to her relief, Kiera giggled. “No one noticed. Well, they noticed Daeron. But that’s always Daeron, so really, no one noticed.”
“Great,” Elira sighed, taking another sip from her cup. “Isn’t that what every girl wishes to hear about her wedding? About her groom? That he was so in his cups he couldn’t stand straight or say his vows without slurring, and no one who knows him thinks the worst of him.”
“I think…” Kiera said, “That everyone is happy to see Daeron wed, and happy to have an excuse to celebrate.” She looked down the table to her husband Valarr, who sat next to Maekar. He wore a similar solemn expression to his uncle. “We have had a hard few months after the tournament.”
Elira felt something twist in her gut at that, at her selfishness. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sure this has been a trying time for you and your husband.”
“It has been. But I hope this wedding is the start of a new dawn for us, for our house.” She smiled, a soft, sad smile. “Besides, Daeron is a kind man, when you get to know him, under everything that plagues him. And I hope you have better luck than us when it comes to producing heirs, since there's a bit more pressure on us now.”
Elira didn’t know what to say to that. She reached out and took Kiera’s hand and squeezed it, hoping it conveyed what she couldn’t in words.
“I’m well glad to have you as a cousin-in-law,” she said. “You’re right, though. Besides the bride and the groom, the ceremony was lovely.”
And, looking at it from that perspective, it had been. Elira had been dressed in the finest fabrics of Targaryen red and black, colors that she had to admit complemented her long, dark hair and eyes. She’d never deny she was vain about her looks, and she’d spent hours preparing herself for the wedding, painting her face in a way that was subtle but emphasized her lashes and full lips without making her look like a pillow slave, spraying herself with the finest perfumes from the east.
She wasn’t certain, but she thought she saw Daeron’s eyes widen slightly when he saw her step towards him in the sept. And even though he had been more than drunk, she had to admit he looked every part the prince in his Targaryen finery.
When he’d taken her hand, it had been clammy, slick with sweat, and she could tell from the dark circles under his eyes how much it cost him to stand up there in front of the crowd. His sandy blonde hair was freshly washed, but sweat dripped from his scalp, the consequence of not having a drink with him.
It repulsed her, and Elira wondered if anyone else noticed or if it was such a common occurrence for everyone in attendance that it barely registered.
But this was her life now, a drunken husband who couldn’t be arsed to stay sober for his wedding day.
Maybe it was her penance to pay, for being such a menace to her parents. Now, she in turn had a menace for a husband, a cruel joke from the Gods.
Far too soon, it was time for the bedding, the event she’d dreaded the most. She’d avoided speaking with her new husband the entire evening, choosing instead to speak with Kiera and eventually Valarr about Dragonstone, where they would all be retiring to after the wedding festivities.
Elira had lots of questions about the seat that was typically reserved for the prince of Dragonstone, which, as the king's youngest son, Maekar was not. But with Aerys sequestered at Summerhall and Rhaegel haunting the Red Keep, King Daeron commanded Maekar and his offspring to take their seat at Dragonstone. She knew little of the lonely island off the coast, and, if she was honest with herself, was eager to explore the caves and cliffs that she thought might remind her of the Stormlands. Elira assumed her husband would not get in her way, what with his priorities being wine, whores, and more wine.
But now the time had come, and she had to do what she’d been dreading since her father told her of the match. She knew what was expected of her, yes. But that didn’t mean she had to like it.
After all the ribald jests and japes, she found herself dressed in a silk shift, alone with her husband for the first time. Despite all the wine she’d consumed that evening, Elira was much more sober than she’d liked, so she reached for the jug of wine and her cup, stalling for time as she took in the room that was to be her chambers for the short time in King’s Landing.
Stately, if not a bit drab, with its heavy red and black velvet curtain adorning the windows. A bed at the center of the room, four posters, and lush, made up with the same Targaryen colors. It looked comfortable after a day of entertaining and being on her feet, and Elira wished she could simply fall into it and sleep, not have to try and coax a coupling out of a drunken prince for Gods knew how long. But she knew her duty, and she drank deeply from her cup, thinking about how best to proceed.
“I thought I was the drunken one in this relationship.” These were the first words besides his marriage vows Daeron had spoken to her. They’d summarily ignored each other at the wedding feast, and unspoken agreement between the two. The thought of it all filled Elira with a white-hot fury. He still stood near the door, swaying slightly, eyes unfocused.
“You’re not the only one who wishes to forget this night,” she snapped, stalking over to the bed after pouring the remaining wine down her throat. “Or to pretend it never happened.” She sat, with more force than she intended, at the foot of it, and shot him a look she hoped conveyed her absolute disgust at what was about to occur.
But Daeron just raised an eyebrow at her in an almost amused fashion and walked—no, moreso stumbled—over to the jug to refill his own cup.
“I understand,” he said, stumbling back to where Elira sat. “I know the wedding night, well, it can be a daunting thing for a maiden. I promise, though, wife, I will be gentle.” He reached out as if to caress her face, but Elira dodged his touch, which sent him sprawling across the bed.
“Is that what you think this is?” She said, trying to suppress laughter. “That I’m some precious virgin, drowning her nerves in wine because she’s scared of being ravished by what I’m so sure is an incredible sexual prowess?” She looked him up and down in an exaggerated manner. “In your current state, I’m not certain you could get a key in lock, much less a cock in a cunt.”
From where he lay on the bed, propped up on his elbows, Daeron stared at her with his mouth agape, as if it was dawning on him exactly what kind of wife he had acquired that day.
“If you wanted a blushing bride, you might have asked for a different Baratheon,” she said, her voice dripping with contempt. “Or, better yet, a different house.”
Elira was no stranger to men. She’d lost her maidenhood to a stableboy when she was much younger than she was now, a scrawny, awkward thing who made her wonder what the fuss was all about. But since then, she’d made up for lost time, and had found she quite enjoyed a quick romp when she could get away with it, and had struck up a secret affair with the captain of her father’s guard. Unfortunately, the discovery of said affair was one of the reasons she was now in the situation with Daeron, her father wanting her out from under his roof as quickly as possible.
“You married the daughter of the Laughing Storm and didn’t expect her to be a crass, drunken whore?”
Daeron raised an eyebrow. “Who, exactly, are you?”
Elira rolled her eyes. “Let’s just get this over with, shall we? Then we can both pass out in a wine-soaked stupor.”
“Right, yes,” Daeron said, fumbling at his breeches. “But, unfortunately, as you said previously, I think….” He gestured at his waist. “However crass you were, I think you may be correct about my ability to consummate our marriage, at least tonight.”
“You don’t even want to try?”
Daeron maintained eye contact as he grabbed his flaccid cock and let it flop out of his breeches. “Surely an experienced woman such as yourself knows this won’t get you very far when it comes to producing an heir. You’re more than welcome to try, though.” He lay back down on the bed and shut his eyes.
Elira went through her options, none of them good, all of them humiliating.
She sighed. “Must I do everything? We haven’t even been married for 24 hours yet, and I’m already covering for your shortcomings.”
“You might as well get used to it.” Daeron’s smile didn’t quite meet his eyes. “I’m certain it won’t be the last time.”
“Give me your knife,” Elira said.
“Ah.” Daeron sat up, swayed, and grabbed it out of his belt. “Are you going to cut your hand and drip it on the sheets to simulate the virginal blood? I’ve heard of this trick, though I can’t say I thought I’d ever see it used in person.”
Elira gave him a withering stare. “No, you fool. I’m going to cut your hand and use your blood.”