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The very first memory she might recall—that is, a full tale, not merely a flash of sunlight or a faraway lullaby—took place under a cloudless sky and a blazing sun, within a luscious courtyard of Summerhall. Although Daella could not recall it, she imagined herself glad to hear her uncle’s family would be visiting; her cousins were very good company.
Some distance away, Valarr and Matarys swung about their wooden blades. They awaited Aerion and, even moreso, Daeron—the latter of which had hardly taken a grip on his blade when he began to complain.
“If Aemon can keep his nose in his book, then why must I fight?” he groaned. Aerion took his shoulder, meaning to drag him away, but he squirmed out of his grasp.
“Because you are the eldest. You lead your brothers by example,” was the curt reply. Daella had always known her father to be a man of few words.
“I agree with Daeron!” called Valarr, approaching them all again. “I mean, if Daeron should fight, then Aemon should, as well. In fact, I might say it’s fairer that way, since the two of them make up one man, anyhow.”
The whole family laughed; including Aemon, tolerant as he was, but excepting Daeron. Aerion all but keeled over. Daella couldn’t recall finding it very funny, just giggling when everyone else did.
“Take my brother’s old shield, it will bring you good fortune,” said Daella’s mother, whom Daella sat beside like a loyal cat, not unlike little Vhagar to Aegon. Aegon himself sat on the ground beside his mother, observing everything before him. “Then show us just a round or two. That may be all time allows us before supper, anyhow.”
Daeron let out a great sigh, but he yielded. “Alright.”
Then Aerion succeeded in dragging Daeron by the shoulder through the courtyard, where Matarys grinned, innocent and uncaring of the humiliation he would bring his cousins. Daeron picked out his uncle’s old shield, but the falling star would not aid him, for Valarr rejoined them, ready to pounce. With the word from Baelor, the match—or so it was dubbed—began.
But it was not much of a match, as Daella could glean even as a young girl. Both she and Aegon watched it closely.
The group paired off, the elder sons and the younger sons facing one another. While Matarys and Aerion seemed evenly matched—for they were only a year apart in age, after all—the precise opposite could be said of Valarr and Daeron. Any young man of even middling skill could unhand Daeron easily, but Valarr was renowned for his skill and very proud, even when playing at a game. He was ruthless and spared not a minute in unhanding Daeron, and demanded he yield before all his family.
Daeron, for his part, shoulders sunken and ashamed, simply put up his hands in surrender. With a victorious grin, Valarr helped his cousin stand up.
Close by, Daella heard her father scoff. “Fireball would have made a man of him.”
Baelor did the same, though it was more of a laugh coming from him. “Indeed he would have.”
“Don’t say such things, Maekar,” said Daella’s mother. “Must you add to his shame?”
“If it will see to his improvement,” replied her husband. Daella only sat in confusion, for she had no inkling who her father and uncle spoke of.
Little more could be exchanged, for Matarys cried out, and every gaze fell upon him. His blade lied still and he had sunk to the ground, his hand covering much of his face. Quickly Aunt Jena ran to him, asking him what was wrong.
“His elbow!” he answered, through tears and twisting his face in pain; onto his chin flowed blood. He didn’t have to give the name.
“What did you do?” said Valarr, approaching Aerion with a furious step and a white-knuckled grip.
Aerion awaited him. “Enemies won’t be fair on the battlefield.”
“This is no battlefield!” argued Valarr. “And you’re no soldier, waiting for the moment I’m distracted with your wimpish brother to strike because you know you never could otherwise!”
Then those two started in a duel of their own. This one was initially quite fair, but in his anger Valarr tired far earlier than he typically might have. Aerion was quick and kept a steady pace; when Daella caught a glimpse of his expression for just a moment at a time, he donned something like disgust.
Soon enough Valarr slowed, and Aerion seized a moment to kick his opponent in the shin with no small amount of viciousness. When he crumpled, Aerion shoved him flat onto his back. The sparring session was over.
Daella’s mother stood. To Daella’s surprise, she was whom the next words were addressed to. “We’ve seen quite enough, Daella. Come now, Rhae must need us.”
Without another word Daella’s hand was scooped up—as well as Aegon’s, the only person who not only acknowledged Daella’s face of disquiet but even returned it—and the scene fell away from her.
She craned her neck to glean a final look at everyone: Valarr and Matarys upon the ground, all but shielded from the world by their mother, and their father stood above them, bemused. Aerion stood beside Daeron; each received the same reprimand, but only the former had been struck for the whole incident.
Yet, as if their punishments were inverted—as if Aerion had only been scolded and Daeron had been struck—Aerion stood boldly before their father while Daeron shrunk beneath him. Aemon, his hands clasped together tightly, lingered for only a moment before he followed his mother inside.
Even after the whole scene was gone from her eyes, Daella did not feel quite alright. She couldn’t vanquish the sound of her cousin crying out in pain, nor the coldness her brother regarded him with. Seeing little Rhae did bring a smile to her face, but it felt like mere habit. Like but a single layer of linen that you could see right through.
“Why would he do that?” asked Daella.
She had meant to ask Aegon, but her mother replied instead. “It’s a whim that men are beholden to. We teach them arms so they may one day protect their wives and daughters—but before they marry, who are they closest to? Tell me, who is your father’s truest friend in the whole world?”
“Uncle Baelor,” answered Daella, without question.
“Indeed,” said their mother. “What you’ve seen, my little stars, is not unique to your brother. He cares for Daeron deeply, which is why he got so embarrassed when Daeron lost. He just took it too far, that's all.”
Daella had sighed, not knowing what else to say. She had no more questions. She just kept on recalling that look of disgust Aerion wore; and Valarr was his kin. How could he lack any and all remorse?
On another blazing hot day—or, one that would soon come to be blazing hot—a year later, Daella could recall waking not to the kind presence of her maids, but to heavy, careless knocking. When the door opened Daeron was behind it, with Aegon at his side.
“What are you doing?” asked Daella. The sun hadn’t yet risen.
“Mother’s began her labors,” answered Aegon, because Daeron had hesitated too long. He seemed as if he were woken up just as abruptly. “Daeron says that Father told him to fetch all of us, so we could be presented with the babe at once.”
Daeron rubbed at his eyes, and after a moment, nodded. “Yes, sure. Precisely. Now will you join us?”
Unhappily, Daella rose from her bed and followed them. She hated to be awake so early, and for what? To be among her brothers when she could instead be sleeping? There was little point in refusing them, after all. Maybe she might gather up some pillows and fall right back asleep.
So she joined them. The guards posted scarcely around the halls alerted at the shuffle of footsteps; but upon seeing only their eldest Prince, each hand upon a shoulder of his little brother and sister, they calmed. Their hands left the hilt of their swords as they passed.
Aemon had already been curled up with a book when his brothers and sister returned. He acknowledged them, then returned to it, undisturbed.
“What about Aerion?” asked Daella, for she realized before the door had closed that her last brother wasn’t present. “Didn’t Father mean for you to get him, too?”
“I will,” said Daeron—but Daella suspected, even when she was small, that he had no such intention. He only shrugged, crossed to a windowside table, and grabbed himself a cup, which he sipped at.
“I think it’s better without him,” said Aegon. “The moon is still out, and he would cause a ruckus, wouldn’t he?”
“That he would,” agreed Aemon, indifferently. He hadn’t even looked up from his book.
“But won’t he be upset when he wakes and sees that we’ve all met the babe, and he hasn’t?” said Daella. “I would be.”
“Well, you’re a girl,” said Aegon, crossing his arms. “Of course you’d want to see the babe.”
“That has nothing to do with it!” Daella groaned, feeling some rope within herself be pulled taut with aggravation. “I hope the babe is a girl! I hate having so many brothers!”
She pivoted, meaning to leave, but Daeron moved to stop her—a bit unsteady on his feet, but quickly nonetheless. He blocked her from the door and said, “Daella, enough of that. Just stay.”
“Not if Aegon is just going to make fun!”
“Good point,” said Daeron, who turned to their youngest brother and concurred, “That was unkind, Aegon. We all await our new brother or sister. Admit to Daella that you didn’t mean what you said.”
Aegon hesitated a moment, but soon enough under Daeron’s gaze—which was hardly even half as sharp or weighty as their father’s—he yielded. He said, “Sorry, Daella.”
“...Thank you,” said Daella. It was a neat thing, the feeling that bloomed in her chest. She could still have victory over her brothers without her mother by her side.
“Now there’s naught but time to spend,” said Daeron, shifting from foot to foot. “Aemon, what are you reading?”
Aemon looked up. “History.”
Daeron sighed. “Is it a happy history?”
“Clearly you don’t know much history, otherwise you wouldn’t ask,” smiled Aemon.
“All I mean is, might you read it? Just to pass the hours.”
Aemon seemed surprised at the very notion, but then his grin grew wider and he assumed a position less like he were using the book as a shield from the outside world. He opened up in a way Daella scarcely saw.
Daella and Aegon climbed onto the bed and sat beside one another, legs crossed. Daeron crossed to the table and refilled his cup when Aemon began.
“All the Seven Kingdoms wept for Brave Baelon, and none more so than King Jaehaerys,” read Aemon, slowly, and with a good voice, like their mother or father. Daella closed her eyes and listened, content. “This time, when he lit his son's funeral pyre, he did not even have the comfort of—”
“Wait!” Daella cried out, suddenly panicked. “I’ve lost my ribbon!”
“Your ribbon?” asked Aegon.
“Mother braided my hair last night before bed,” explained Daella. Her hands moved to the small braided strand near the front of her hair; without the ribbon tying it, the braid had very much come undone. “Where did it go? Help me look!”
Frantically she hopped from the bed and looked about the room, even in places where it certainly wouldn’t have been, like curled up on the windowside table or draped upon a lousy bookshelf.
The thought that the ribbon had been lost was deeply troubling—why it was so, in this moment, she could not say.
Daella had her mother’s deep brown hair, which she held no small amount of pride for. On the occasions their family would visit Starfall, Daella found she fit in with all the rest of House Dayne better than she did among her brothers and sister. All of them boasted the silvery hair of House Targaryen, save for Daeron and his sandy hair.
Even in her eldest brother’s case, however, their father or their uncle Baelor—the latter of which sported dark, Dornish hair himself, for he was alike to Daella in that small way of feeling more at home at Sunspear than King’s Landing—could go on about the numerous members of House Targaryen who lacked their house’s pertinent silvery locks.
Yet Daella often thought, besides her uncle Baelor, whom among them was notable? Her only answer might have been Good Queen Alysanne, but how long had it been since she donned those curls of honey? Near one-hundred fifty years?
Not that Daella was situated to be anyone of note, anyhow. Her father was the fourth son of the King; and though the Anvil was fearsome on the battlefield, and he still held out hope for all of his sons to follow in his footsteps, where might that possibly leave his daughters?
Be that as it may, Daella favored her own dark hair as well as that lilac ribbon she now searched for. Her mother had given it to her a few seasons ago, along with some others of the same shade. She had never once lost track of it—til now.
“There,” said Aemon, pointing to the floor. In the low light it was hardly noticeable, lying lame some paces from the door, where Daella had earlier turned abruptly on her heel.
She scrambled to pick it up, swiping some loose dirt off of its silky surface with her thumb. Then she breathed a sigh of relief.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling with a shyness since she had, after all, completely disrupted their session of peaceful reading. “...Sorry.”
“It’s not a problem,” said Aemon. “Now might I resume?”
“Um, alright,” answered Daella, for although she now held the ribbon again, she still did not feel complete again.
Aegon must have noticed. “Is something else the matter?”
Daella sighed; then she found no point in lying, so she admitted, “I don’t know how to redo the braid myself.”
“Finally, an occasion I can rise to,” chimed Daeron, for the first time in a while. “I’m no lady, so you’ll get nothing fanciful, but I’ve seen Mother do this plenty of times. Sit.”
With a grin across her face, Daella sat cross-legged on the bed again, with Aegon resuming his place at one side and Daeron taking a new place at the other. Between every few loops of the braid, he took in a deep breath and let out a great sigh, sometimes with a shudder, but he never said anything. He just took another sip.
“...This time, when he lit his son's funeral pyre, he did not even have the comfort of his beloved wife beside him. The Old King had never been so alone,” read Aemon, starting again where he had been cut off. “And now again His Grace faced a nettlesome dilemma, for once more the succession was in doubt. With both of the heirs apparent dead and burned, there was no longer a clear successor to the Iron Throne...”
Indeed, her braid turned out far from fanciful, but Daella cared little for that. Beneath a rising sun she sat among her brothers, listening to tales of the Iron Throne as if it were a distant, make-believe thing.
It was enough to make her nearly fall back asleep, as she had meant to all along. It was one of the moments she had wished could last forever, and later in her life, would reflect upon with a fondness.
Of course, the moment could not last forever.
“...There were more dragons than ever before as well, and several of the she-dragons were regularly producing clutches of eggs,” read Aemon, with the same energy as he had begun with. The sun had risen by then. “Not all of these eggs hatched, but many did, and it became customary for the fathers and mothers of newborn princelings to place a dragon's egg in their cradles, following a tradition that Princess Rhaena had begun many years before; the children so blessed invariably bonded with the hatchlings to become dragonriders...”
Then a rap came at the door; and in a moment the door opened, and inward stepped Aerion, with their father trailing behind him. Everyone stilled, save for Aegon, who poked Daeron to wake him up.
“Here I find you all,” said their father, stepping into the room. “What is the meaning of this?”
“I knew it! They were all here without me!” cried Aerion.
“So we can all meet the babe,” said Aegon. “Daeron fetched all of us like you told him to, Father.”
“Well, Daeron’s a liar!” insisted Aerion, nearly shouting.
“Enough,” said their father, with a sternness that silenced them all.
Each of them glanced at one another: Daeron, to gain his bearings as his eyes accustomed to wakefulness once more; Aerion, with a furrowed brow and clenched fists; Aemon, with the indifference of one who never got in trouble, only watched it; Daella, who was frightened to no small degree, and figured that her brothers surely felt the same and only hid it better; and Aegon, near as furious as Aerion but holding it in a much smaller body.
“Daeron,” their father addressed, quite predictably, “What does he mean?”
“As Aegon said,” said Daeron, who hunched over in a rather ugly way beside his sister. His breath reeked. “I brought everyone together. Perhaps at my own volition, but that’s rather besides the point.”
“Get up, boy,” ordered their father, which Daeron obeyed but entirely at his own pace. For a moment, at least—soon enough their father stepped forth and took him by the collar, the quickness and force of which startled Daella and Aegon.
Then, when Daeron stood before him, albeit leaning upon the footboard, their father said, “So it was by your own volition, as you say, that Aerion was left alone? As if he is less of a brother to you than Aemon and Aegon? As if Daella is in fact your third brother?”
For a long moment, Daeron had no reply. Then, he just said, “It seems I forgot.”
“Yes, the thought got lost in your ten thousand cups,” scoffed their father. Then he turned on his heel and buried his face in his hands, which surprised Daella, for she thought that Daeron would have gotten a smack upside the head. “And to think, it would have been a sweet gesture—at this hour, of all wretched hours.”
“What does that mean?” asked Aerion, softly. He was merely the first to voice their collective confusion. Their father did not answer at once, so Aerion stepped closer and pulled at his sleeve. “Father, what does that mean, this wretched hour?”
“Is Mother alright?” asked Daeron, as he let go of the footboard and straightened—or rather, stiffened, for he also seemed to draw in a sharp breath and keep it there.
For another moment, a gravely tense moment, their father did not speak. Aemon raised a shocked hand to his mouth; Aegon clung to Daella’s arm, and she welcomed him.
“Your mother is quite alright. Just resting,” said their father, and it was as if the whole world sighed with the children. Still, he could not look at any of them as he spoke any of this. “I’m afraid the same could not be said of the babe. She was born still.”
Daella began to weep. Only she did so, but she felt how Aegon only clung to her tighter. In her own numbness, she noticed not what the rest of her brothers did, but certainly none of them spoke a word.
She was a girl, and Daella had thrown around that existence while she quarreled with Aegon. Still, quarrel or not, Daella had meant it—being so outnumbered by brothers was a dreadful thing sometimes, a thing no girl deserves. She would have liked another ally besides her mother, for Rhae was still too small. But there would never be such an ally, so Daella wept.
Upon a winter’s night, all the world was sleeping—as was Daella, until a dreadful scream pierced the quiet halls. Then shuffles and clinkings of the guards passed Daella’s door, so she thought to rise from her bed and knock to be let out.
The door opened for her, but the girl was stopped by one of the guards—Ser Sam, a kindly man and a sixth son from a lowly Riverlands house which Daella did not recall—who told her, “You should remain in your bedchamber, Princess.”
“What’s happened?” asked Daella. She had half a mind to push past the guard and investigate for herself.
“I couldn’t yet say, Princess,” he answered.
“But it sounded so close!” she insisted, stepping forward yet being stopped by a firm, armored hand on her shoulder.
Although she wasn’t permitted to step any closer, Daella peered from afar like a bird above a battlefield. For the briefest of moments her family was naught but a group of players.
The guards entered the stage first, besieging the doors to Aegon’s bedchambers and storming in. Next to enter was Daeron, who flew past Daella quicker than she could manage to grab his sleeve and his attention; with a far greater urgency than she had practically ever seen him move with.
From the other side of the stage entered Daella’s mother and father. Each of them joined the guards inside without so much as a glance elsewhere. Aemon trailed a few paces behind them; he hesitated outside the doors, then after a moment chose to wait outside.
Finally, with a guard at her shoulder, little Rhae appeared, her brow taut with confusion and distress. This freed Daella from her trance.
“What is it?” asked the little girl.
“I do not know,” answered Daella, disregarding the distant shouting like swiping dust off her dress, “but we will find out soon enough. Come, now.”
Daella beckoned Rhae back into her own bedchamber and offered her a place on her bed, which the little girl accepted. Ser Sam observed both the Princesses from his loyal place in the doorway; Daella appreciated it, though she figured it did not calm Rhae.
“I’ll read a story,” said Daella, stepping over to her bookshelf and considering which to read. She picked up a small book of poems written a century ago by a lady who only called herself Jeyne Flowers. Then she returned and said, “Did you know these poems are part of a mystery?”
Rhae turned her head. “A mystery?”
“Yes. The lady who wrote this only called herself Jeyne Flowers—she was highborn, but nobody knows who she is. And she wrote tales of love and lies and magic, do you want to hear one?”
Rhae nodded, so Daella opened the book and let her choose a title.
“The Two Lovers,” smiled Daella; for she knew their fate but said nothing. “A very fine choice.”
So the elder sister read aloud to the little one, if for no other reason than to think of more pleasant, fantastical things than the happenings down the hall. Daella wanted to know, of course, what everyone’s business was with Aegon; but her mother had always said that a lady must be patient if she means to get what she desires.
Besides—she did quite like these poems.
“...He proclaimed throughout the kingdom that she could marry no man,” read Daella, who was not half as skilled as Aemon, “unless he was able to carry her in his arms up the mountain and beyond the farms that loomed up into the sky.”
She cared little for the rhyming couplets and instead read it like a typical tale, for she knew her audience was a kind one. It was so peaceful and carefree, under soft, warm covers beside her sister, that she kept reading even when the ruckus outside calmed.
“...She then put into her mixer all the ingredients for an elixir for strength as well as endurance. He tried it and it worked. So she put some into a vessel he could take back with him,” read Daella, a short while later.
This bit piqued Rhae’s interest, who then commented, as she was wont to do, “Sort of like Aunt Shiera?”
“Yes, very much like her,” replied Daella.
Aunt Shiera had always seemed the common thread in all the whispers around the Red Keep, though the most vicious never reached Daella’s ears when she was just a girl. Only that Shiera Seastar practiced some of the dark arts.
She continued with the poem which was not very lengthy at all. At the end Rhae wept a little and cursed the courageous knight who caught his death by refusing to drink the strength potion.
After that Rhae wanted no more tales; she just wanted to go to sleep. So Daella obliged, and soon enough the sisters had sunken into a serene sleep.
Daella awoke in the same spot, but Rhae was gone. Though this disappointed her, there was little else to do but rise and prepare for the day.
Breakfast was a tense occasion that day. Most pertinently, neither Aegon nor Aerion were in attendance—and perhaps more eerily, nobody so much as mentioned them. In fact, all gathered seemed greatly nervous about something, but Daella and Rhae were ignorant of it. This arrangement stayed for the whole meal, even while their mother attempted to draw cursory conversation out of her children. She was only successful with her daughters, especially sweet Rhae.
Breakfast, eerie as it was, came and went. When it ceased, Daella waited for all to disperse—Summerhall always seemed a great deal grander and emptier in the frosty season—to speak to her eldest brother. He was unsteady on his feet, like he oft was these days.
“Daeron,” she began, “I’m fortunate to have caught you.”
“You are?”
Daella scoffed, then ignored that. Leaning inward and hushing herself, she asked, “What happened last night? I was worried half to death!”
“Oh,” Daeron blinked, somehow taken aback by the most predictable question in all of history. “It was nothing to worry over, take my word.”
As if his word meant anything. “But all the guards had rushed to Aegon’s room! Then he wasn’t at breakfast, and all of you evaded his name like it were something dreadful!”
“So—alright, tell me. What do you think happened?”
“I couldn’t say! I figured maybe... someone had broken into the halls? But then, why would you and Aemon and Mother all go rushing in?”
“Well, I can assure you, there was no such intruder. Everyone was just fine.” He put a hand on Daella’s shoulder, but the consoling effort was futile.
Daella smacked his hand away, because he was not giving her answers. She grew more aggravated by the minute. “Then why did I hear a scream?”
At that, Daeron sighed. “I’m afraid that’s not for me to say.”
Daella groaned aloud, then shoved past her brother; she loathed how much taller he was, because it diminished the whole gesture. All she wanted was answers! So if one brother refused to provide them, she would simply move on to the next.
While she passed her mother and father’s bedchambers, Daella heard speaking—as such, she totally halted and hid behind a corner.
“...a different matter entirely.”
“Upon that, we agree,” said her father.
“The basest of admissions,” replied her mother, in a tone far colder than anything Daella had ever known. “But how will you act, Maekar?”
“What do you propose? I send a boy of ten-and-five across the Narrow Sea? He won’t ever come back to us.”
“Or let the boy of six live in terror?”
A moment passed.
“Dyanna.”
Then a sigh. “It’s a nightmarish decision, I know. But if he would do this to his brother, what might he do to his sisters?”
The silence stretched for just another moment, then he said, “I should go see him.”
Then the doors opened, and Daella startled. Quickly she crouched down and balled herself up; she could only hope to be passed by unnoticed, for if she tried to scamper away then they would certainly hear her footsteps.
Her parents went the opposite direction, so Daella scrambled away. Her mind raced all the while. She now knew for certain that Aerion had some part in this, for he was ten-and-five; Daeron was ten-and-six. But the question remained, what truly happened? Why would nobody admit it? And how treacherous might it have been for their father to consider sending Aerion across the sea?
These thoughts carried Daella up the staircase and into the solar, where, sure enough, Aemon was sitting upon some cushions beside the fireplace and reading about different herbs and their uses. His bookishness seemingly had no end.
Aemon’s head perked up at Daella’s footsteps. Then he said, quite indifferently, “Oh, hello.”
“Hello,” said Daella. She resolved to keep a fairer temper this time, for Aemon was sometimes a bit like a walnut one had to crack open, but he would be forthright if she was agreeable. “I had noticed Aerion and Aegon were not at breakfast this morning.”
He paused for half a moment. “No, they were not.”
“Isn’t that a funny thing?” said Daella, sitting beside her brother and trying to remain lighthearted, “That they were not to be found, but Daeron was, his head all but falling onto his plate?”
She chuckled, but Aemon did not. In fact, his gaze hardened a bit, and he said, “I’m afraid I don’t see the humor in that.”
Daella halted. “I... No, it isn’t funny, not in that way. Just... that Daeron isn’t...”
“I know what you meant,” said Aemon, with a sigh. “Truly. Did you come to me to ask about last night?”
“I was trying not to be too forward, but it seems I’ve failed.”
“Not all girls can be great at it,” said Aemon. Then, with a new smile, “I quite like your forwardness. We need not both speak in riddles all the time.”
Daella smiled; how often had someone told her that? It seemed as though her mother was always saying that men do not like a girl without inhibitions; nor was that a wise way to move about the world in her own right.
“Well,” chuckled Daella, not flattered but not ashamed as she might usually be, “might I please know what happened? Everyone does, save for Rhae and I, but I’m older than just three!”
“If you really must know...” Aemon drew in a breath. “Aerion hurt Aegon. Quite badly.”
Daella knew this, but her heart still sank like a stone. “How so? What did he do?”
Aemon hesitated just a moment; then he shook his head. “I can’t say. I won’t. But... there was a blade.”
Daella stood, suddenly angry.
“You as well? I thought surely you would understand!”
“Daella, you don’t want to know.”
“But I do!” She only grew angrier when she thought of what her mother had said; what might he do to his sisters? “If Aegon was hurt—if Aerion hurt him—then I must know! Speak to me like I’m not a girl but just your sister, who must live with Aerion just as Aegon does!”
“It won’t help,” said Aemon. “It will only serve to make you more frightened.”
“More than I already am,” Daella hissed.
Then she turned on her heel and stormed off, only enraging herself further by feeling like an impetuous little girl. Tears gathered at her eyes—a blade? Her mother was right; if a brother would pull a blade at his brother, then his sisters were not safe.
She could not focus on her lessons that day. She thought absolutely nothing of poetry or history or etiquette, and everything of how angry and frightened she felt.
Aegon was such an innocent thing. His greatest crime was sneaking into the kitchens with Aemon and Daella to snatch more lemon cake after supper. There was nothing he could have done to Aerion—his elder by so many years—that warranted a blade.
So, what? Was Daella meant to wait until Aerion decided, sometime or other, that she was suddenly deserving of a blade? Surely that would not go unnoticed by the court—if a boy had a blade pulled upon him, the whispers might call it a tragedy. If a girl had a blade pulled upon her, they might ask how she had tried to seduce him.
All the rest of the day, Daella hoped she might not hear Aerion’s footsteps. She wished not to see him, for she was so frightened of what he could do—what he did do, and she did not know of.
She was not lucky enough to be granted this for the rest of the day. For Aegon and Aerion were both present at supper, yet just like at breakfast earlier, everyone acted as if speaking to them would place a curse upon their house.
At the very least, a smidge of happy news had arrived by raven: apparently cousin Valarr’s wife was with child. Daella was quite happy for them, for Lady Kiera was a very beautiful lady, and very kind when they had met at the wedding last summer.
Daella could not possibly forget that moment, for she had made a humiliating first impression by stumbling over her own name. Even as a girl she had just found the bride so striking, with her strings of pearls draped across deep skin and blazing pink hair. Daella might always think back to that day, that perfect bride, and wish she’ll someday look half as beautiful.
“Um, if everyone could please listen here,” said Aemon, his voice raised a bit yet nervous. “I have something I would like to say to you all.”
Indeed, all present were at least a little curious; or they attempted to appear so.
“I’ve discussed this with Father already,” he said, drawing in a breath. “I think I will train as a maester.”
All were taken aback—to some degree.
“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” said their mother. Then she looked around the table and asked, “Why should we be surprised? You’ve always been a bookworm, my star.”
“With hope for reform,” snickered Daeron; Aerion also giggled.
“Be nice,” scolded their mother.
Daella, for one, was not happy. “When will you leave for Oldtown?”
“Very soon,” answered Aemon. “I’ll be on my way by the next moon.”
Daella faked a smile and said nothing more. Aegon gave Aemon a rather enthusiastic congratulations; then their mother asked about traveling, and that was the new conversation.
Daella grew bored with talks of the season, and perhaps stopping nearby Highgarden, and the detail of guards which would accompany Aemon. Not many, but still some, seeing as he was indeed still a Prince of the realm.
After supper was over, Daella sought out Aemon, and she found him approaching his library-like bedchamber.
“Aemon,” she said, and he turned around. “Everyone seems to think it’s very noble of you to become a maester.”
“Why, thank you.”
“But I don’t,” said Daella. “You said you liked my candidness. So I need you to know that I do not find you noble. I think you’re a coward.”
Aemon practically shrunk back. “What?”
“You’re doing it to get away from him, I can tell,” Daella hissed; she need not say who she meant. “But you’re leaving all of us, and that’s just selfish.”
Daella, for better or for worse, once more turned and took her leave. She never apologized, for her feelings never changed.
In the next weeks, the servants mentioned the Prince choosing to become a humble maester, and Daella could not stand it. All the while, her own footsteps were haunted by the fear that her brother may decide her worthy of some midnight visit. And Aemon was all but turning a blind eye! He was leaving her at the most important time!
The day the carriage arrived, Daella was still angry. Too angry to apologize for what she had said, but not angry enough to keep herself from giving her brother an embrace. Coward or not, selfish or not, she would still miss him.
The next time their mother began her labors, upon a chilly autumn night, Daella opened her door to find Aegon alone.
“Oh,” said Daella.
For, against all reason, she had hoped to see Daeron standing beside him; unsteadily, he surely would be, but standing there nevertheless. Such wishes weren’t to be granted tonight.
Instead of their eldest brother, Aegon—appearing worse for wear, and a bit jumpy, for he often looked over his shoulders—was accompanied by their littlest sister. Her hair was unkempt from sleep, and she rubbed at her eyes.
“Might he have seen you?” asked Daella.
“Certainly not,” answered Aegon. “I was thinking, you should fetch Daeron, and I’ll wait here with Rhae—”
“Hopefully for not much longer,” said Rhae, pouting.
“It will likely be a fair bit longer,” Daella told her; Rhae’s pout stayed. Then she turned to Aegon. “Do you think Daeron is worth fetching, anyway? I’d wager he’s fast asleep, be it from cups or not.”
“I don’t know. I passed his room, and I think,” Aegon leaned forward and stood on his tip-toes to whisper to Daella’s ears, “that he was weeping.”
Daella furrowed her brow. “Hm. Do you recall how much wine he drank at supper?”
Aegon shrugged. Daella closed her eyes for a moment in frustration; was this the order of things now? Was she the eldest? If so, then her future appeared rather bleak.
“Well, come in,” she said, ushering them both in.
Rhae all but ran to the bed, certainly eager to tuck herself in and sleep again, while Aegon just sat atop it. He looked more peaceful once the doors were shut, and though Daella was glad he might feel safe somewhere in these halls, she cursed Aerion that he had to hide away to do it.
During the day—and often into the night, as well—he would go about slamming doors, as if he were furious at some faraway, unnameable thing. He would snap at the servants if he perceived any slight, and sometimes strike them if it were apparently too terrible to allow.
Although their mother and father would scold him endlessly, or send him to his chambers without supper—a handful of times their father had struck him if he were close enough—none of it yielded any change. Discipline did not delight him like a mad man, but it did not deter him, either.
When Aerion chose not to roam about like a great storm taken human form, or recruited some unlucky guards to sharpen his skills at arms, he holed up in his own chambers for hours. Sometimes he skipped a meal to do it. If he emerged that day it was with mumblings of the dragons of their ancestors past. He knew all of their names, and the colour of their scales and wings and fire, and how they had all died.
Once, he had insulted cousin Valarr’s wife, Lady Kiera, when he heard her twin boys had been still-born, citing with a shrug that she was not the blood of the dragon. Indeed he was struck for that comment. All the other children nearly smiled, for he so perfectly deserved it.
Daella, presently, could not dwell upon how angry it all made her. Instead, she took a moment and considered whether or not to fetch their eldest brother.
Indeed he could be sleeping, or in fact weeping; he also could very well have fallen asleep since Aegon had come and gone. Daella saw less and less of Daeron with every passing day; many days had passed since he last spoke of his dreams, in fact.
The last time he had confided anything in Daella—as well as Aegon, for he had also been present then—was upon the bank of a small, shallow stream near the palace, on the same summer day Aerion had insulted cousin Valarr’s wife and her stillborn sons.
“A lavender dragon, unlike any House Targaryen has known, encircled a great tower,” Daeron had said of the dream, some months old by that point. “When it reached the top it only perched upon it, content to look out at a sunset over the sea.”
“Might it have been the Hightower at Oldtown?”
“Likely not,” he replied. “For no beacon was alight, and water stains ran down red stone like blood. I had thought it meant Lady Kiera would bear cousin Valarr a daughter. I suppose I was wrong.”
Daella thought about the last time their mother had endured her terrible labors. By now, two years and another six moons, nearly, had passed. Yet Daella could recall in perfect clarity the absolute peacefulness she felt while Aemon read to them all of their ancestors, even if every character was selfish, half-mad, and half-imaginary, raining fire upon one another with their beasts.
They had all gathered in Daeron’s room, so it was only fair he be given the choice to join them now, wasn’t it?
For a brief moment Daella recalled the look upon Aerion’s face when he found himself cast out. But it was merely recollection. Once upon a time she might have extended him sympathy, but now she wouldn’t dare; and he had no one to blame but himself.
Indeed, she confirmed to herself, just before she bid Aegon and Rhae a momentary farewell and set a path to Daeron’s chambers. She kept her footsteps airy, for she had learned to make them so. Even if Aerion were out, training with the master at arms or fishing or hunting something or other, the habit would remain. It was never unwise to err on the side of caution.
Her shoulders tensed when she found Daeron’s doors—in fact, she waited a moment to see if she might hear confirmation of what Aegon said, although she did not think he would lie about such a thing—and she held her breath as she rapped at the door.
The brother she saw before her looked so terribly worn. His hair was so unkempt, and eyes so swollen-red and his cheeks so tear-stained, that Daella could hardly believe he was only ten-and-seven. A man grown, but not for long.
“Aegon and Rhae have joined me in my bedchamber,” said Daella, hardly able to look her brother in the eyes. She was surprised he received her at all. “We thought to invite you, as well.”
“Absolutely not,” Daeron shook his head. “Come find me once she’s died.”
Daella’s heart sank. “Once—you mean Mother?”
“Who else?”
“No,” Daella hissed. “Must you say that? And add to the melancholy?”
“If there’s melancholy, I didn’t create it,” replied Daeron, uncaringly. “I’ve dreamed of it, sure, but you know it just as well as I do—if last time did not deal the blow, then this time surely will.”
In the blink of an eye Daella was overcome with a blinding anger, and before she could think of anything else to do, she shoved her brother back—who merely stumbled and fell to the ground like the drunken fool he was these days.
“You’re mistaken,” she said, pointing a finger at him like it were a loaded crossbow. “You’ve been wrong before. You were wrong about Lady Kiera, and you’re wrong now.”
Unable to stomach whatever else he had to say, Daella left him on the floor and all but scrambled to her room, tears dancing in her eyes. Soon she had returned to her own bedchamber, and she remembered little more than rushing her to little brother and sister and pulling them close.
“We were reading!” said Rhae, pointing to Daella’s book of poems with the hand she hadn’t wrapped around Aegon’s arm.
“And Daeron?” asked Aegon.
Daella only smiled and said, “The cups must have caught up with him. He’d fallen fast asleep by the time I got there.”
“Keep reading,” demanded Rhae, imperious little girl as she was.
“Well, what do we say, Rhae?”
“...Please,” Rhae huffed.
Aegon grinned. “With pleasure.”
So he kept reading, like Aemon once did. His favorite tale was that of a great and honorable knight, who remained loyal to his beautiful but secretive love even under the advances of a selfish queen. Every once in a while he would sigh with a wish to be a great knight in his own right.
At the end of Rhae’s long, silver-gold hair was a silky pink ribbon, which Daella ran her thumb over, again and again. She brushed her sister’s fine hair, like Daeron once did for her. And she tried very, very hard to stay calm, and thought frequently that if Daeron was often put up to this task—keeping the peace—then maybe it made sense that he turned to his cups.
And although Daella would one day look upon this memory with great fondness—much like its matching memory two years earlier—within the living, breathing moment, her heart ached. She was a girl who, in all things, hated being helpless. Now that was all she was. A helpless girl.
By the twenty-seventh morn of the eleventh moon of the two-hundred and seventh year after the Conqueror forced the realm to yield to him, Daella’s mother yielded. She seemed to disappear with the stars under the morning sky.
Daella could not recall much of that day except near constant weeping, from her own eyes and others; nor could she recall many of the weeks after. One day she was in Summerhall, the next at Starfall—among faces that looked like her mother’s—the next at the Red Keep, with no recollection of traveling.
Her fortnight spent at the Red Keep was perhaps the most vivid, despite all the dozens of figures donning similar mourning black.
Indeed, Daella had always found her cousins to be good company.
All except Daenora, perhaps, for she seemed concerned only with slinking towards the sons of the lords at court and twirling her silvery hair around her finger. She made no problems with Daella, if only because they hardly spoke to one another—but Daella simply could not understand what was so enthralling about those boys. They bored her to death.
Aelor and Aelora were a mysterious pair, even to Daella, always whispering to one another and holding entire conversations through facial expressions as if they spoke their own entirely unique language. Nevertheless they were kind enough; Aelor would sketch courtiers while Aelora wrote poems in the Godswood, and they both were gracious enough to show Daella. In fact, they rather gravitated towards Daella and Aegon—the closest in age to them besides their own sister—because they were a breath of fresh air from the stiffness of the Eyrie and the insincerity of King’s Landing.
Daella primarily found herself amused with Valarr and Matarys, who paid better mind than anyone to keep her jolly. When Daella’s family had arrived in their carriages, Valarr and Matarys had ridden to the gates on horses and offered Daella and Rhae personal joyrides to wherever they liked—be it to the Godswood, or to the old Dragonpit which they and Daeron used to claim was haunted and frighten Daella too much to sleep. Rhae was terribly offended, but the boys were graceful to the grieving girl, only a child of four; Daella accepted, though not without a fair amount of hesitation; and Aegon, who the offer was not even extended to, begged for a joyride as well. Daella, as the elder, got to ride with Matarys, whose horse was speedier.
Sweet as the gesture was, the moment was still rather bitter. For Daella had spared a passing glance toward her father’s carriage, and then she caught him scarcely take two steps in the open before he fell into his brother’s embrace.
She was awestruck. She had never once witnessed her father weep before then; he did not even permit his sons to do so openly.
The only brother of Daella’s who seemed to truly change in their mother’s wake was Aerion. Before, he often used to make a jape at some servant at supper; after, he spoke less, and only ever with venom.
At the very first supper without their mother, Rhae had burst into tears at the very sight of her empty place. Aerion had muttered something beneath his breath.
Their father had focused on Aerion, then. “If you feel inclined to speak, boy, then say it for all to hear.”
Aerion debated this for a moment. Then, pursing his lips, he repeated, “What does that little girl possibly have to cry about? All she’s doing is spoiling supper for the rest of us.”
“That little girl is your sister,” said their father, very low and stern, “who has just as much reason to grieve as you do.”
“But is that true? I’m twelve years her elder, and Daeron thirteen! That sounds like twelve and thirteen more reasons to have to start randomly weeping, but you don’t see us unravel.”
“What is your purpose, insulting a girl so small?”
Two spots over from Daella, Rhae’s sole consolation was Aegon beside her, who took her hand and held it. With her free hand she wiped away tears and sniffled.
“Does she even know Mother’s name?” Aerion scoffed. “Do any of them?”
“How could you say that?” cried Daella.
“Enough!” demanded their father, his chair screeching upon the floor as he stood, his gaze totally fixed upon Aerion. Approaching his son, he said, “You know good and well that this is fucking nonsense. You’ll spend supper in your chambers, and by morn I’m certain you will have learned to respect all your brothers and sisters, even the youngest among them. Especially the youngest. Now go.”
The table was a very silent audience. Aerion returned the glare, and Daella thought he was a fool for it. Slowly he stood—his focus never once breaking—and slowly he left the room, glancing back only once until he was gone.
“If only he had died,” muttered Daella, entirely without thinking.
“I will have no more of this,” scolded their father, who now had chosen Daella to burn under his gaze.
She obeyed him, but her thoughts did not change. He had spoken unkindly to the littlest of them, the weakest among them by all accounts, and for that, Daella wanted him dead. She cared not how it happened; if he fell asleep and never awoke, or choked on a pie, or drowned in the rapids of the Torrentine, or if the Stranger himself appeared and admitted his terrible mistake in taking the wrong person. Daella would accept anything.
She wanted him dead, grief be damned. It was all they needed to find peace—couldn’t he tell? Didn’t he care?
Aegon’s carriage had hardly stopped when Daella and Rhae burst from the gates of Summerhall, eager to see a brother besides Daeron. For Aegon had gone away to fight alongside their father against Aegor Rivers and the pretender’s army; and although the army had been crushed, the man himself sent to the Wall, and their father returned to Summerhall, Aegon had remained in the Riverlands.
Ever since they received his raven confessing that it was a lady who he stayed back for, his sisters had been desperate to meet this lady. Their father would not say; and though sometimes he might shake his head as if he disapproved of the choice, he never spoke any disapproval aloud.
Now the day had arrived, and all sense of decorum had been thrown out the window, because Aegon had been so cruel as to keep the identity of this lady all to himself. Both Daella and Rhae yanked him into an embrace, but just as quickly as they came together did they pull apart, awaiting their mysterious guest.
“Daella, Rhae, it is my great pleasure to present to you both,” said Aegon, grinning as he spoke with a mocking formality, “the Lady Betha Blackwood of Raventree Hall.”
“It’s a lucky thing neither of you had been betrothed to Aegon,” said she, her black hair shining beneath the sun as she emerged, “because I’m afraid you’re both far prettier than I.”
“Oh, nonsense,” replied Rhae, a smile across her face. She was by no means a vain girl, but very few girls were immune to flattery. “It’s our pleasure to have you.”
“Thank you,” said Betha. “Now—might we go inside? We’ve been traveling all night, and the only thing I want more than a quality feast is to get off these furs. The season isn’t yet suitable for them.”
“Absolutely,” said Daella, smiling a little from surprise at this woman’s forwardness. “Rhae, would you please show them inside?”
“With pleasure!” cheered Rhae, reaching to link Betha’s arm on her own and promptly leave Aegon in the dust. Daella gestured that he should follow—they could speak later, once she got a better impression of this Betha—and he merely obeyed, finding his will overpowered entirely by these women.
Daella turned on her heel and approached the front of the carriage, where Ser Duncan was bidding the driver thanks and farewell.
“I think Egg has made a grave mistake introducing her to Rhae,” said Daella, as the driver made away.
Daella used to be so smitten over him that it could make her dizzy. That fantasy had since vanished, and in its place grew something else, but still his presence warmed her heart. If in the beginning he sensed her affections, she could not say, for he certainly said nothing of it. In that case, Daella was grateful. None of the same could be said for Rhae, who would make even a blind man aware of her desires; still, Ser Duncan took it all in stride.
“I thought much the same thing, m’lady,” said Ser Duncan. “Lady Betha says all the things even Lady Rhae would never think to, if that were even possible.”
Daella giggled at that. “So she’s forward. Alright. Is she... kind?”
“I’ve known no peace since Egg met her. But he speaks so highly of her, how could I complain?”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Daella.
Then she sighed.
These past months, she and Rhae had been left alone with Daeron, for all the other men had been preoccupied putting down the Blackfyres. Suffice to say, he was not well. Kiera endeavored to help—perhaps far more than most other wives would, waking at small hours to receive his drunken premonitions, on the nights when he was in their bed at all—but she did not understand him.
It was the unfortunate curse of many widows to leave a piece of their souls with their first husbands, but Daella could not help but believe kind Kiera was dealt a particularly cruel hand.
“Is something the matter, Lady Daella?” asked Ser Duncan, for Daella had not taken any measure to conceal her sigh, nor the look on her face.
“No, no,” she replied, but the dishonesty stung instantly. “It’s only that... these halls have been rather gloomy as of late, given the company. I hope Egg gets dealt a better hand, that’s all.”
“I understand,” said Ser Duncan, solemnly. “For what it’s worth, m’lady, they seem very well-suited from what I’ve seen.”
“We can only hope,” said Daella.
She did not intend to say any more, but then she thought of how lonely these past months have been, and felt compelled to add, “I’m very glad to see you, Ser Duncan.”
With a friendly smile and a nod, he said, “Likewise.”
Then the knight gestured to the palace and held out an arm, which Daella received graciously. Truly, she hadn’t understood the depth of her loneliness until she reunited with a friend.
At supper, Ser Duncan spoke more than he was wont to do, for he had plenty of tales to tell of Aegon’s valour on the battlefield. Typically he would keep much to himself, though he was never dispolite; once, he had told Daella that sitting among a table of highborn lords and ladies—oft Princes and Princesses, no less—was a thing he may never grow familiar with. She understood that well enough.
Anyhow, the table was never silent, as Lady Betha made sure of. She was always sharing some opinion or other, even in the company of several Princes.
When Rhae had asked her what she might possibly see in Aegon, such in the way of sisters, Lady Betha only replied, “Well, all the handsomest men were already married, killed, or sent to the Wall.”
Rhae could not contain her snicker; all the rest were silent, then, and Aegon looked mortified.
“She jests,” supplied Aegon, rather quickly.
In a moment of transparency, Lady Betha’s eyes betrayed shock at the terrible reception of her joke. “Of course! Surely, I thought it was obvious that I’d never spare a glance in the direction of that hideous bastard born of a Bracken whore!”
“Vagueness is very much not your flaw,” said Daeron, smiling from behind his cup. Beside him, Kiera shook her head and sighed.
“In fact, I rather think His Grace was too merciful upon Bittersteel, sending him to the Wall,” she continued, shrugging as though she were commenting on the shapes of clouds. “Lord Bloodraven—who was born of my grandsire’s sister, as you know—and Prince Aerion had it correct.”
Daella and Rhae met one another’s eyes when their brother’s name was spoken. It had been a very long while since the last they heard it—for their father had spoken highly of his exploits on the battlefield, but he merely called him “your elder brother.”
“So you suppose you’re wiser than the King?” asked their father, who had been terribly, frighteningly stern.
Lady Betha’s lips parted, but she hesitated. “No. Of course not.”
“Was she so wrong, Father?” said Aegon. “I would be the last to point out Aerion’s virtues, but you must admit that taking the Black was far too merciful a punishment for Bittersteel.”
“Then you should sit upon the throne instead,” said their father, “with a Queen who does not understand her place nor decent conduct.”
Nobody stood from the table, but after that, the supper was very much over. Lady Betha knew better than to continue her shenanigans, funny as they might have been; in fact, scarcely another sentence was spoken.
After supper, the ladies split apart and moved to the gardens, for the night was decent enough. Together they four sat—Daella, Rhae, Kiera, and Lady Betha—under a sunset which gave way to a very starry sky.
“Surely my bluntness hasn’t ruined our betrothal,” said Lady Betha. “Your lord father seemed quite angry.”
“That is just his disposition, more and more these days,” replied Rhae. “Say the word and I’ll vouch for you. I very much like your company, and I will not see you cast aside for misspeaking once.”
“It was a misstep, indeed, but who in the realm has never misstep?” agreed Daella. “I think Aegon will stand up for you before our father; that’s likely what he’s doing right this moment. And, if I may say, Ser Duncan spoke very highly of you, as well.”
“That’s a very good man to have at your side,” said Kiera.
“Or closer!” Rhae giggled.
“Enough from you,” scoffed Daella, albeit through a smile of her own. Then she turned to Lady Betha and said, “My poor sister has this girlish fantasy that she might someday wed Ser Duncan.”
“As if you weren’t as smitten as I when we met him!” cried Rhae, “Or perhaps more!”
“Maybe so, but it never reduced me to a fool who tripped over my own gowns. And those days are gone, anyhow. Ser Duncan is but a friend to me, like with Egg.”
“Well, I had meant to ask,” said Lady Betha, “has any lucky man caught your eye? Either of you?”
“Our father means to trap us away forever,” answered Rhae, leaning back in her seat. “It’s cruel.”
For her answer, Daella shrugged. “He’s just a fair bit lonelier than he will ever confess, I think.”
“You speak like we’ll never see him again once we’re married,” said Rhae. “And Father acts like it.”
“Well, we certainly won’t see him often,” said Daella.
“Alright, put aside what your father thinks,” said Lady Betha. “What do you want? Or who?”
“I merely want a man who is kind,” said Daella.
Behind her eyes she remembered how her father wept in his brother’s arms after his wife perished, then how ghostly cousin Aelora was at her brother’s funeral, then how Lady Kiera’s pretty brown eyes had glossed over in the candlelight of her second wedding. There was something cruel about loving who you wed—even crueler when the marriage itself was built upon love.
“And that is where we differ,” said Rhae. “If my husband does not make me trip over my gowns, then I’ll very well throw myself from Maegor’s Holdfast.”
Daella scoffed. “Well, Lady Betha, if you must know, I think my father is quite in favor of giving Lord Florent’s eldest son my hand.”
“Daella, no!” cried Rhae. “Tell me you’re not marrying him!”
“What’s so wrong about him?” asked Betha.
“They’re so pious! They’re like if the Hightowers were less wealthy!” explained Rhae. “Daella, you’re going to live in a sept. I will not stand for it.”
“I would rather have a pious husband than an unfaithful one,” argued Daella.
Kiera drew in a breath; it was moments like these when Daella thought she ought to strangle her brother. As if Kiera’s time on this side of the Narrow Sea was not already a test of her endurance against humiliation, must he make it worse?
So Daella offered her hand. Kiera accepted it, and Daella’s heart fluttered a little.
“Well, I would rather have Ser Duncan than some lord’s son,” said Rhae, who crossed her arms, “but according to your vast well of wisdom, we shouldn’t always get what we want.”
“Alright, stop bickering over Ser Duncan!” said Lady Betha. Then, quieter: “...But save me a spot in line, will you?”
This earned a laugh from everyone—in fact, it rather improved the mood of the entire room. Perhaps Daella would never feel so akin to Lady Betha as Rhae did, but surely they would get along.
Daella was very pleased to hear that their father had yielded and approved the betrothal once and for all. Though her heart ached that they would soon be separated once more, by distance and by house, at her core she was glad. For Aegon was in very good hands.
Upon one of the first true days of spring at Brightwater Keep, Daella received a letter—one which she had been dreading, but only at the back of her mind. She had hoped to lock it away, as if banishing it would keep it from becoming real.
Such a thought was futile and girlish, but she was no longer a girl. Daella said as much aloud—plus countless other statements of the sort—as she wept into her husband’s arms. He was a good man, who let his wife leave for Summerhall before two days had passed.
By the time she had arrived at Summerhall, there was naught left of Daeron but ashes. The very thought made Daella’s chest ache.
“How dare you?” cried Rhae, after Kiera had confessed that she had waited until her husband was certainly gone before she sent any ravens to Aemon, Daella, Aegon, or Rhae. Their father, however, had been sent a raven the very night Daeron fell ill.
“You shouldn’t have seen him,” replied a tearful Kiera. “I thought to give him dignity in death.”
“Agh, talking about dignity,” Rhae sniffled. “Our brother lived with none. So whomever you burned with it, that was a different man.”
Kiera had little reply, except to say, “...I’m sorry.”
Rhae groaned, another bout of tears crashing upon her like a wave, and she fled the room. Betha followed her instantly; and so did Aegon, but only once Daella had nodded her permission. Aemon had pried himself away from his studies to return to Summerhall, but it made little difference, for he kept to himself anyway. Daella believed he was currently in some courtyard or other, but she didn’t know for certain.
Wasn’t that such a cruel thing? This was the first time they had all been gathered in one place since their father was crowned King two years ago—and this was the occasion?
“I’m sorry to you, too,” said Kiera, approaching Daella and grasping her hands, nearly desperate. “To all of you. I shouldn’t have waited.”
“I wish you hadn’t,” conceded Daella. She could not think to lie. “But don’t fret. I’ll forgive you for it, in time. So will Rhae, though it may not seem like it.”
“That’s all I ask.” A moment of silence passed between them, and then Kiera added, “I wasn’t deserving of either of my husbands, clearly.”
“Maybe they weren’t deserving of you. I’ve met many ladies who are beautiful, and many who are kind, but few who are both in such equal measure,” said Daella. “You were given a daughter for it. So do right by her.”
“Oh, Vaella,” sniffled Kiera. Then she tightened her hold on Daella’s hands, as if invigorated by the girl’s name, and said, “Come see her. I’d like her to know her father’s family as she grows.”
Daella obliged, and the pleasure was all hers. Together she and Kiera ventured to the Princess of Summerhall’s apartments—no doubt Kiera had kept Vaella there as a solace in these past days—where a nurse tended to the babe.
It was a funny thing, yet not funny at all: once her gaze settled upon the babe, Daella recalled a memory from a summer’s day fifteen years ago, where Daeron had sat beside Daella and Aegon by a stream and told them that he foresaw Kiera having a daughter. Daella had thought him incorrect because Kiera and Valarr only had sons. But he was right all along, and now suddenly too dead to be given any acknowledgement for it.
Daella held the babe in her arms, bouncing and swaying back and forth in the way she’d seen her own mother do long ago, and her heart ached.
She had held Vaella when she was just a newborn, and tears had gathered up in her eyes. Daeron was pitifully drunk, then, but he was there, and Daella could recall thinking—there was little more you could expect of him these days. Yet she also thought, or perhaps desperately hoped: maybe the babe would change him. Maybe he would learn to properly use his fingers again, if for no other purpose than to braid his daughter’s hair.
Now tears welled up in Daella’s eyes once more. Holding this babe when she was born was a glad thing, a moment of faraway hope come to say hello to Daella. Now, only nine moons later, there was only pain. For the tiny girl had now sprouted a few little curls, sandy in hue.
“Her hair,” began Daella, who found the words outside of her reach. “Will you... dye it?”
Kiera was taken aback by this question. “If she chooses, I suppose.”
It was all so cruel. Years ago, when Daella was so terribly young and so terribly angry, she had wished her brother would die. Not Daeron; the brother she figured deserved to die, no matter how it happened.
Now, the Stranger had come. Not for Aerion; for the brother she hoped would live, no matter the reason why.
Daella was a woman of four-and-twenty today. If only she could stand before the girl of nine who wished her brother dead, and ask her, grief be damned? How could you possibly say that? But she wouldn’t be so lucky.
She was a fickle thing, and she knew it. She loathed it. Right now she was reduced to tears at the thought of Aerion truly dying—for she wanted little more than to see Daeron just once more, to hear a joke or hold his hand in her own. Surely she would feel the same for Aerion; she was his blood.
But she could not say for certain. The men she has known these past few years—men who called themselves Daeron and Aerion—were but hollow replicas of the brothers she once knew. But where Daeron inspired pity, Aerion inspired fury. Were he to die tomorrow, Daella would weep for him, but what after that? She was relieved to see him off all those years ago, relieved to walk freely in her own home. Were he to die tomorrow, past the shock, would there lie relief? A more permanent version?
Only time would tell.
For now, Daella returned Vaella to her mother, sniffling all the while. She wondered if the sight of the girl would always bring her such pain; surely, that couldn’t be sustained. Hopefully not.
“I think I’ll take my leave. But please visit Brightwater Keep soon. Bring your daughter and stay a fortnight,” said Daella. Truly, she had found a friend in Kiera that she would rather like to keep.
“Perhaps I’ll take you up on that,” answered Kiera. “But before you go, I think I should tell you something.”
“What is it?”
“He was very feverish, at the end, but one thing stood out from the rest,” said Kiera, stumbling through the words. “He said that he felt like he could weave stars, or perhaps the trails they leave when they fall, because he called them ribbons. He kept saying that. I could never decipher whatever Daeron told me, but I suppose he meant your family.”
Daella knew not how to answer her. Whatever reply came to mind instantly seemed more foolish than the last.
After a long, drawn-out moment, she settled upon, “Thank you.”
Then she took her leave.
Daella’s original intent was to speak to Rhae again. She oft used to think, when they were girls, that Rhae had such great feelings within her that she might one day burst. Perhaps today was that day. If it was, then Daella ought to temper her.
Of course this task fell to Daella. Rhae was twenty now, a woman grown, but of course Daella must temper her as if she were not bereaved and furious in her own right. Aegon would try his best—so, too, would wonderful Betha, though she was heavy with child and her temperament rather volatile as well—but only Daella would succeed. Often it felt as though she became the eldest the day Aemon left for Oldtown.
That was her intent, indeed, to meet with Rhae once more; but she was halted once she stepped into the hall. For although nothing spurred her—no muffled noises, no glimpses of movement in her periphery—she felt as if the air itself were pushing her toward the Prince of Summerhall’s chambers.
She was quite unprepared for the sight she found: her father, hunched beside the empty, haunted bed, his face buried beneath his hands like a ghost of himself.
Ever since she were a girl, all the tales of her father could only be described as glorious. The Hammer and the Anvil were proof that House Targaryen was capable of creating honorable, heroic men; and Maekar was always the picture of infallibility. Whomever Daella saw before her—not the King, and certainly not her own father—was somebody else entirely.
Because she knew not what else to say, Daella merely said, hardly above a murmur, “Father?”
Then he looked up, and upon seeing his face Daella understood this as the second time she would ever witness her father weep. It was enough to steal her breath away.
“Daella?” he breathed, sitting up straighter. He met her eyes, but he could not bear to keep her gaze. “I’ve been a fool all these years.”
“A fool?” Daella stepped closer. “No! How?”
“Perhaps not a fool. Perhaps I’ve been a coward,” he corrected. “A fool would never have turned his cheek, for he could never foresee this. But a coward—a coward would foresee this perfectly yet still turn his head, just as I have.”
Daella was utterly lost for words, and tears had welled up in her own eyes. “But what could you do?”
“That matters not. Nigh on thirty-five years I watched him suffer, under dream and drink, and what had I to say? That he ought to put down the cup and pick up a sword?”
“The blame isn’t yours alone,” said Daella. Then she approached her father, truly this time, until she was close enough to leave her hand upon his shoulder. “If you watched him, so did we all.”
This could not be denied. For years Daeron withered away, until Daella no longer recognized him. She knew not what to call the feeling that overcame her when she looked at him. How could she have called it grief when he still walked, be it unsteadily? Yet how could she call it anything otherwise when the eyes who met her own were altogether more terrified, more empty?
“But he was my son,” said her father, utterly defeated. “My first son.”
To that, Daella had naught to say, except, “I miss him, too.”
She imagined, with some degree of certainty, that her father could only picture how he would yank his son by the collar and scold him, and how he would mock his son’s ineptness with a blade, be it to his face or from afar, and all the times he practically begged, speak some sense, boy.
Yet Daella could recall how he certainly laughed at Daeron’s unfailing jokes more than anyone else’s, by no small margin; and how he oft urged a servant to dilute the wine before Daeron emerged, who was none the wiser.
Daella didn’t think she felt even half her father’s pain. For losing a son was a cruel thing, but losing the very child which made you a father in the first place? It was a suffering beyond words.
Occasionally, upon a sleepless night, Daella would wonder what their mother might do. A mother loves her first son greater than anybody in the world; might Dyanna have had the answers? Her son was drowning for all to see—might she have had the rope to save him?
Within her own mind, she might recall how Daeron had once braided her hair upon a very frightful night, or how he’d shown her different constellations from the book he’d been given as a boy himself, or even how he’d told her—separated by time’s march and marriage and distance and state of mind, even while delirious on his deathbed—that he wished her well. All of them. Even when not a single other thing was clear, that much was.
He left a daughter, too, if no other proof sufficed that there were at least some good traits scattered about his character. She might very well someday dye her hair away from its sandy-colour, or speak a tongue closer to Valyrian than anybody from her father’s family; or she may one day dream, too, and suffer for it like her father.
In any case, she would always be Daella’s niece, who would always have a place of refuge even if nobody else in the realm wanted to see her. Very soon she would have cousins who would visit her and play under the sun with swords and dolls, and hopefully she would count the days til their next visit because she found them to be good company.