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Daeron was in his cups somewhere in Fleabottom. He did not know if he was at an inn or a whorehouse, all he cared about was to drink himself into oblivion. It was not his proudest moment, then again he could not remember the last time he felt proud of himself.
It was probably sometime before his lady mother passed.
A memory, unwanted but flooding to the surface, reveals itself:
He was only five years old, running through the gardens of Summerhall. The days never ended until the last possible moment in time, and one could feel the sweltering heat even at night.
The night his playmate, Oisin, died of a fever, Daeron wept by the fountain. His hiccups and short breaths carried through a wind, as if the Mother herself whispered to a violet-eyed beauty.
An embrace to the chest calms the boy. The dark haired woman, Dyanna Dayne, takes a gentle look at her eldest son. “It is okay to weep,” she murmured, rocking him back and forth, “I am sorry, son. I know you were fond of the blacksmith’s boy. He will be buried with full honors.”
Dyanna stroked her son's sandy blond hair, very unlike the silver white hair of the Targaryen dynasty. Then again, she thought, perhaps new blood was needed to inhibit the madness.
“I am sorry,” Daeron murmured.
“For what, my heart?”
“For..” A moment passed. Daeron could not think of the proper words to say as an explanation. His lord father had always said a prince should speak with purpose. His lord father, Prince Maekar, had many lessons for his eldest son. Daeron had always struggled to remember most of them.
“A prince does not show vulnerability,” Daeron replied, mimicking word-for-word one of his lord father’s lessons.
“They do not,” his lady mother agreed, and then amended, “in front of those they cannot trust. A prince has very few people in their lives they can trust. Which makes the few trustworthy all the more valuable.”
That was why we wept for Oisin, Daeron realized. He was not just a playmate, but someone he had unknowingly begun to consider as a friend. Now that friend was gone, and he was alone.
Daeron started dreaming of fire and blood after Oisin’s death. Small, unbidden things at first. Random faces, unrecognizable voices, and they would be forgotten within moments of waking.
His problems began the moment he stopped forgetting. Visions of fire and blood haunted his days and tormented his nights. Only drinking could numb the pain, though the dreams never completely went away. Daeron could not remember the last time he had a full night’s rest, no visions, no dragons, just the sweet sleep of black oblivion.
Daeron gripped his cup a little tighter. He envied his cousins, Valarr, Matarys, Aelor, and Aelora. They’ve probably never felt trapped in their own minds. None of them seemed plagued with dragon dreams. No visions of dragons rising from the Red Keep, no warnings of Winterfell falling to creatures of blue stone, no signs of Oldtown consumed by wildfire. The rest of his family seemed completely tethered to the reality of their world.
The last confirmed dreamer was Daenys Targaryen, or Daenys the Dreamer. Though it was rumored that the gift passed on to the green queen Helaena Targaryen. But Daenys and Heleana were women, and their weakness of the mind was something accepted, even praised.
Daeron believed the seven gods of the Andals were real. The old gods of the north. The drowned god of the ironborn, the red god in the east, so many fucking gods. They were real, and they were cruel to give him an impressive gift for an unimpressive man.
A tavern wench a few years older than him approached the table with a jug, “More m’lord?” she asked.
“I fear I have been shot by love with your comely face,” he slurred. He was pretty drunk, why not bed a pretty girl?
“I ain’t no whore ser,” she replied. “Ol’ street of silk ‘tis that a-way.”
His mood was dampened. “Leave the jug at the table,” he commanded with as much authority as his inebriated self could muster. The wench wordlessly did as she was told and turned her attention to the next customer across the room.
“No thank you,” a gentle voice said softly, but firmly.
Daeron’s entire body froze. He knew that voice. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a clocked figure trying to remain inconspicuous, though her stiff posture gave her away as someone not used to the hustle and bustle of Fleabottom.
It was Valarr’s wife Kiera of Tyrosh. The pink curls hidden underneath a dark cloak were unmistakable. What in the Seven Hells was she doing here?
He had always thought his cousin’s wife was pretty, albeit a bit difficult to understand in her thick Tyroshi accent. Then again, if he recalled correctly, he had been doing his best to be sober at Valarr’s wedding. At least until the reception when he gave up. Who was Daeron to deny such a generous gift to House Targaryen? The Tyroshi gifted them the clearest peach wine and sweetest pear brandy, with honeycakes and purple silks that stretched for yards. The wife of the Archon of Tyrosh herself attended the wedding, a distant yet irrefutable relative to the bride.
He vaguely remembered his father Maekar had a look of eternal exasperation, his uncle Baelor remained diplomatic, and his grandsire the King had an indulgent smile, the kind of smile one would give a child that doesn’t quite understand what they did wrong. Daeron had grown accustomed to those looks and paid it little thought. He gave a toast to the young couple and wished them a long happy life with many children.
Valarr gave a stiff nod in thanks, looking like he was trying not to panic. Kiera smiled and raised her glass back to Daeron.
He blinked and brought himself back to reality. His good cousin was by herself in the middle of Fleabottom.
Their eyes met and he saw the panic behind her eyes for a split second before schooling her features into a careful indifference. She raised her glass at him, as if he were a friendly stranger, and boldly took a large swig. A simple camaraderie that can only be found in two different people, drinking away their troubles in the world.
She was unabashedly measuring him, as if finding a Targaryen prince in his cups was a source of unexpected amusement for her rather than panic. Her eyes moved to the seat next to her and gave a brief tap to the table. An unmistakable invitation.
Daeron took a swig and moved to join his good cousin. The wooden chair creaked upon joining Kiera’s table.
“Hello Stranger, what brings you here?” she said.
Bright, intelligent eyes, Daeron thought. She would make a good queen one day.
“What are you doing here, Good Stranger?” Kiera asked again.
“Drinking my sorrows away,” he said, proud that the slur in his speech was nearly imperceptible. He was almost as good as pretending sobriety as he was being a drunkard.
“Join the club,” she mused, raising her mug in mock toast, “Misery loves company, and it is rare for me nowadays.”
“Surely you could have brought one of your many acquaintances,” he replied carefully. Did Valarr or his uncle know she snuck out of the Red Keep? How did she get past her ladies, the Kingsguard?
“I could have,” she agreed, nodding slightly while gesturing to the tavern wench for another cup. When the girl left, Kiera took a large swig until the mug was drained.
“I lost another one,” she said quietly, as if her courage would desert her otherwise. He didn’t need any further clarification. In the past two years of his marriage, Valarr had only sired two stillborn sons. Daeron had been with his sisters in Summerhall when they heard the news.
“I am sorry.” That was all he could say, but it left him with more questions than answers. Did his cousin know about the third loss? Probably not, if she is out here with him drinking her sorrows away. How far along was she before suffering yet another loss? He quickly glanced at her petite appearance, she did not look swollen with a child.
“It was no more than a red flower,” she replied, partially answering his unspoken questions.
It was a loss yes, but probably too early for the mediocre maesters in the Red Keep to notice. Daeron did not know if that was a blessing or a curse.
The smallfolk whispered it was black magic that strangled the Young Prince’s sons in the womb. Daeron may be a drunkard tenuously clinging to reality, but he was no imbecile like his inferiors. Life was such a delicate state, more so than people gave it credit. Babies die in the womb and in the cradle as frequently as they are born. Royals were no exception.
He knew his cousin, his uncle Baelor, and his grandsire King Daeron II, his namesake, privately grieved the two stillborn sons, but they were confident more babes would follow. He was not even sure if they were given names and he knew better than to ask.
A few days before news of the stillbirths reached Summerhall, Daeron dreamed of a pink wyvern mourning its unhatched eggs. The eggs were surrounded by black shadows. The twinkling stars whispered among themselves, The sun will rise, the shadows will retreat, they agreed, all good things come with time.
Not even the wine cellars in Summerhall could make him forget the wyverns pitiful cries against the stars. What good was waiting for a hypothetical happy future when the here and now was overcome with despair? That was what the wyvern seemed to cry out to the night sky.
He realized a few painful moments of awkward silence had passed. His good cousin stared at her cup, as if willing for more drink to appear. She looked like she was trying not to cry.
Gods, he didn’t know what to do if she started crying. Offer her his drink? A dozen drinks?
“How did you find this place? You are the last person I would have expected to find in this hellhole, let alone one that can move seamlessly among the crows. As a fellow stranger that likes to move incognito, I am impressed with your skill,” he rambled, quick to change the subject. She smiled at that, a small victory at least.
“You forget, m’lord, that all walks o’ life come to King’s Landing,” she teased, attempting to mimic the accent of the smallfolk. “The Red Keep is a small world inside a larger world.” Kiera thanked the wench who poured another cup, her sorrow quickly buried. Daeron knew the feeling all too well.
“Did you know that the western part of this city is known as Little Tyrosh?”
He did. He knew from the common whores that lived in the Street of Silk. He also knew that since her arrival in King’s Landing nearly three years ago, the demand for dark-skinned Tyroshi bed slaves had increased to rival the price for a pale-haired Lyseni courtesan.
“I see little pieces of home wherever I go — I mean my old home,” she corrected. “Sometimes I like to gaze at different scenery.” That was the closest she would ever come to admit she needed an escape from court, from her duties, from her prince.
Daeron knew he probably shouldn’t ask her – but he would do it anyway and blame it on his drunkenness if it backfired.
“And your good friend…erm, Vaella?” he asked softly, too afraid to say Valarr’s name, “Won’t she feel left out that you are drinking without her?”
“H—she is too proud for this sort of crowd, I think, but she is polite and courteous to everyone. Always good company and an even better listener when I need to let my thoughts loose. She is so kind,” she admitted, the wine making her tongue loose, “But I never know how she truly feels in her mind or her heart.” The last part was said so softly he scarcely heard it.
He loves you the only way he knows how, Daeron thought, thinking back to all the moments Valarr personally ordered the servants of the Red Keep to make her favorite Tyroshi desserts, commission delicate pieces of jewelry, and import silk tapestries from Yi Ti because they were famous for their jade-colored dyes, dyes so rare it would cost a fortune to a minor lord.
Kiera loved pears. Daeron only knew that because his father Maekar offhandedly commented that during the small council meetings ahead of the King’s fiftieth name day, Valarr always talked about the status of the importation of pear trees before beginning on official business.
From the moment she arrived at King's Landing with the Tyroshi delegation, his cousin had been drawn to his foreign bride. Daeron suspected Valarr’s politeness and courteousness was a thinly veiled mask for his obsessive personality. He was surprised no one else had caught on, except maybe Matarys.
Aerion would have taunted Valarr mercilessly, Daella would have crooned, Rhae would have babbled, and Egg would have teased.
Valarr had been groomed to be the perfect prince since he could walk and talk. He was the perfect cousin everyone else was compared to in the family.
It was not a position Daeron envied. It was unusual for a husband to be faithful to his wife, much less actually care for her. For the highborn, wives are fucked for duty, whores for pleasure. For the lowborn, whores are fucked to imitate the highborn, while wives are locked in their homes, jealously guarded and fucked for pleasure.
How ironic, Daeron mused, the perfect prince exhibits peasant-like behavior.
A black crow flew by one of the window taverns. Daeron suppressed a shudder.
How many eyes does Bloodraven have? The smallfolk would ask. A thousand and one, the smallfolk would answer.
The last thing he would do is make Kiera believe he was a madman, she was one of the few people in the family that did not treat him as such.
“Trust your heart and your mind in equal measure,” he said. Gently, he raised his head to the shell of her ear. “He loves you, not many men in court do their wives. Even if he did not, you are family, bound to the blood of the dragon, and we always defend our own,” Daeron withdrew, but not before catching her cheeks flushed, matching the color of her hair.
A soft, new and fresh feeling of warmth spread to his chest, one that he would decidedly ignore.
She suddenly seized his free hand and gave it a hard squeeze. Her eyes were filled with unshed tears again but this time she was beaming with happiness. Her aura was the bright sun.
“Thank you, good cousin,” she whispered. Daeron smiled softly, proud that he did something good and right for once in his miserable sad life.
“Now,” she continued to whisper conspiratorially, “could you help me get home? I honestly did not think I would make it this far.”
At that he laughed heartily and nodded, offering his arm, the drinks at the table forgotten.
That night, Daeron dreamed one of the pink eggs hatched, and a beautiful she-dragon rose from the black shadows.