Chapter Text
Daeron’s head was pounding drums when he woke up in the morning screaming in a cold sweat. The dragon was being torn to shreds, a knife to its back.
Daeron tried to stop panting and took a deeper breath.
The room smelled pungent, and as he tried to get up, his head felt dizzy. He braced himself and slowly got up.
Where was he? He tried to place himself in his surroundings. It was a cramped room, and it was dirty. His bed—he realized he was sleeping on a bed of straw. He shivered, a vague recollection of a dream from a couple days ago, when he was sober and the dream did not do Daeron the favor of fading: a woman made of straw, and a dragon lighting her on fire. The woman was flesh, then straw, then flesh, then the sea rose and swept her away. He felt nauseous. But she returned.
He tried to focus, but then his thoughts drifted back to his dreams that woke him up. They were so real, so vivid, but they felt more distant. Wine often had that effect. But he couldn’t shake away the one image.
A dragon, wearing the crown of his grandfather, facing a blue bird, a gray wolf, a blue fish and a yellow stag. They kept moving towards the dragon and the dragon bared its teeth and claws at them and spewed fire at them, always missing them. The dragon finally burned a wolf, but a new one appeared. A flower grew in front of the dragon, and the thorns pricked the approaching animals, but not enough to stop them. The sun rose and burned and blinded the animals, but they got up every time. Here and there, something would stop the approaching beasts, but they would win every time. He could see the flashes. A white foal leapt at the stag, but the stag tossed it away. A red fish wrested against the blue fish but the blue fish fought hard and the red fish flopped away. A burning tower in yellow captured the blue bird, but the blue bird escaped. More and more beasts joined to advance against the dragon. Daeron had looked at the wolf hard in the eye, shivering. He was scared; it was almost at the dragon’s neck. Suddenly, the dragon was torn to shreds from the back, a knife to its back. Daeron had tried to turn around but he couldn’t.
Thank the gods the memories of the dream weren’t as sharp as they would be were he sober, but he shivered thinking about how it was bloody and terrible. He knew what a dragon dying meant, and worse than that, he was always the dragon dying in his dreams.
He rubbed his eyes and slowly recollected the memories from the past day. He had ridden out of Summerhall to Blackhaven and found himself at an inn, and another, and another. How or when he had found himself at this inn, he did not know.
The floors seemed to be sticky as Daeron tried to get up from the wet bed. There was a small window on the top of the wall, but it was so high even Daeron couldn’t see through it. Not that he particularly tried to.
He winced thinking of the events of last night, as he staggered out of the room. He could barely grasp his surroundings. The hallway was old and worn, he though. He dragged himself down the stairs, and almost tripped and fell down the stairs. He got hold of himself in the last possible moment.
As he entered the common room, he knew was reeking of wine, and he could feel the couple guards in the room stare in his direction. His red and black doublet was almost brown with dirt, and his pants were torn in the knees. It was kind of a blur; he asked for a large flagon of wine, and he pulled out two coins and placed them on the table. His head was pounding and he couldn’t tell what coins. But the innkeeper, a woman of maybe forty, took the coin, and said “Thank you, my lord”, so Daeron thought it must have been the correct one and just shrugged. He pulled himself out of the inn, wincing at the bright sunlight. It had been a good summer, nearly two and a half years, and it did not seem to be getting any colder.
The stables were at the back of the inn.
As he headed there, he saw Ser Parmen Dondarrion, Lord Dondarrion’s son and heir, entering the inn. Parmen was a knight of two-and-twenty who served as his father’s steward at Blackhaven. He was a cousin to Daeron’s cousins, Valarr and Matarys, and had served Daeron’s father Maekar for a decade in Summerhall, first as a page, then as a squire. Growing up he had been one of the few close to Aerion and Daeron’s age in the palace. But Aerion had little patience for those without the blood of the dragon from a small age, and they had never interacted too much. Daeron remembered Parmen being sweet but he was constantly mischievous and often teased Daeron and Aerion.
Daeron tried to look away, hoping he would not be recognized. He wasn’t.
At the stables, his horse, Mudhead, was tied to the inn’s stables.
Mudhead was a grey horse, not too big, but strong enough, and had patchy brown skin on her head, like mud. Daeron’s aunt the Lady Jeyne Dayne had given her to him for his twentieth nameday. He slowly tried to ride the horse and failed. Daeron was not very good at riding. If Mudhead had been a whore not a horse, he would have no trouble riding it, he thought dryly. Daeron remembered little of the whore from last night, other than his eyes, soft green eyes. He shook the memories off and finally made it on top of the horse and managed to fasten himself to the saddle.
Summerhall was half a day’s ride. Hopefully, his father or brothers had not noticed his absence. The thought of them noticing his absence made him shudder a little bit. Daeron should never have left Summerhall to drink, but there only so few inns around the castle. Of late, he had been travelling to some larger towns nearby.
He slowly rode Mudhead down the road. Mudhead was clumsy and slow, and she kept veering in some wrong direction or the other. At least being clumsy was something he and his horse had in common, he thought. They slowly advanced to Summerhall, Daeron drinking his flagon of wine slowly.
It was almost sundown when Daeron reached Summerhall. It was not a very well-fortified castle, but it needn’t be.
As he entered the gates, the two guards bowed their heads and simply said “My prince” and let him go through. He rode discreetly into the stables and managed to get off of his horse. He was drunk in some way now, but at least he was home. He tied Mudhead to the stable.
Bedwyck, the old stable master peeked into the stables from his adjoined quarters. Daeron gave him a brief shrug and he just bowed quietly and said nothing.
Daeron walked up the castle back doors into the white marbled stairs.
He passed through the stairs, going to the western wing of the castle. The western tower held guest rooms, and at the base of the tower his brothers Aemon and Aerion’s rooms; Daeron’s room was all the way on top of the highest floor of that tower, far away from his other younger siblings and parent’s quarters, which were in the eastern tower. Daeron staggered past Aemon’s room, but Aemon was in the Citadel now. Then he stopped in front of Aerion’s room. Part of Daeron wanted to go into Aerion’s room. Maybe he was mad in some measure after all. He walked the stairs slowly, making it to the highest floor.
He gently pushed his own room’s doors open and found that the room was warm. Odd, he thought.
His room was plain but overwhelming. There were flagons and bottles of wine. So many books he had once started reading, then given up on. His bed was made perfectly, although Daeron definitely hadn’t left it that way.
As he took off his coat, he realized that the chair was in front of the fireplace, and there was a figure sitting on it. A man of twenty-and-one, with short silver-gold hair, deep violet eyes, and pale skin. He was wearing bright orange clothes with a large red dragon sigil. He was wearing a circlet with a three-headed dragon made up of rubies—not an actual crown, Daeron thought, but barely not crown enough to be treason. Daeron’s younger brother, Aerion. Aerion was younger than Daeron by less than a year and was everything Daeron was not.
“Brother, where have you been?” Aerion sneered, turning around with a smile on his face and standing up.
Daeron realized Aerion was twirling a Valyrian Steel knife in his hand.
Daeron was good with a knife, perhaps better than even his more martial brother. And he also carried a smaller gold knife of his own. But Daeron never had the nerve to touch a Valyrian Steel blade. Their grandfather Daeron II had sent Aerion a Valyrian steel knife for his sixteenth nameday and Aerion never seemed to part from it, no more than Daeron parted from his. Aerion just twirled the knife around, but one cut would probably wound so deep it would never heal.
Mad little cunt, Daeron thought. Taking a deep breath, he lied, “I lost my way when I was riding my horse around the palace grounds, Aerion.”
“For over an entire day?” Aerion asked, standing up closer to him.
“It seems Mudhead and I have one thing in common: our heads are filled with mud. If I had a mind as sharp as yours, perhaps I could have found my way sooner.” Daeron said dryly.
Aerion circled around him, smiling. He gently pushed Daeron on the chair, and brought his mouth so close to Daeron’s ear, Daeron could feel the warmth of his breath.
Aerion said, very softly, “Father wouldn’t be very happy if he found out that you disappeared for a day. But he does not know, thanks to me.”
So, Aerion had not told their father? At least Daeron’s foot would be saved from one night of whipping.
“My foot thanks you for that, dear brother. How can the soles of my feet ever repay this debt to you, I wonder?”, Daeron said, looking towards the fire.
Aerion smiled, “Perhaps they could jump into a well and take the rest of your body with them and make me the heir to Summerhall. Although, I do not wish for such a measly little prize. I would rather sit on the Iron Throne. King Aerion Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. It sounds right does it not?”
The thought of it made Daeron nauseous. Or maybe it was the wine. Daeron wanted to tell him that he would never sit on the Iron Throne, but he did not know that for sure. Aerion’s death would be wrought in fire and blood. Ironic for a house whose motto was “fire and blood”, but Daeron feared nothing more than fire and blood. He hoped Aerion would die, or maybe he feared Aerion would die. Aerion’s death would come, in a field of green meadows, a dragon of flesh then of fire. Aerion had claws and fangs and wings, but they do not make a dragon. Fire makes a dragon, and fire Aerion could not breathe. And finally, when he could breathe fire, he could only breathe the fire inward, not ouward. A painful but quick death.
“What did you say, dear brother?” Aerion said, moving a little farther, rotating his knife.
Daeron realized he had thought some of that out loud. How much he had said out loud, he did not know.
Aerion extended the knife and brought close it he knife in front of Daeron’s throat. Valyrian Steel cut deep. Daeron shuddered, but to show weakness to this insane whelp was to invite further torture. Maybe he should fear Aerion’s knife: one slit and Daeron would lie dead. But he didn’t think Aerion would end his suffering so easily.
“My dreams, little brother”, Daeron said dryly, “of late, I see your demise. And it is not pleasant.”
Aerion brought the knife even closer to Daeron’s throat. It was almost touching it now.
Aerion laughed, “You are a mad drunken whore, brother. Your nightmares mean nothing. You cling to it like it makes you special, a worthy Targaryen. You are not. Your dreams are just proof that you are a craven coward. A dream doesn’t scare the blood of the dragon.”
Daeron wished what Aerion said was true, that the nightmares meant nothing. But he was not that naïve. He thought of the Vultures drinking the bloods of crying peasants and the war that had started soon after. He thought of the bloody rocks and worms corroding his father’s old steward before the steward of the castle, Ser Brus Fowler had died. Worst of all, he shuddered thinking of the months when he saw a purple woman with a dragon and a white sword and falling star running towards the sea, starting a couple weeks after Rhae was born until his mother had disappeared.
Daeron moved his head a little back to the back of the chair and stifled a wince. He felt uneasy, his balance was a little off with the wine.
Daeron never saw his own death. He saw the doom and pain and suffering of those around him, but never his own. But he knew that his death would not come today, and not from this mad monster. He would live to suffer and see the pain in his family for a long time yet.
Daeron muttered, “I am drunk and I feel nothing, little brother. Go kill another dog or beat up some peasant or terrorize one of our siblings, for all I care. You will get no satisfaction from me.”
Guilt and shame washed through Daeron. Not that Daeron wanted the others to suffer, but he did not have much else to say. Daeron never claimed to be a good, unselfish or honorable man. Some days, he willingly tolerated the tantrums of this mad twat, hoping to bring reprieve to their brothers and sisters. Those days he enjoyed feeling noble for protecting his little siblings, and maybe some part of enjoyed it because Aerion was the only person he had to call a friend, and he liked having Aerion close.
But today, like many days, Daeron wanted nothing else than to have this monster leave him alone.
Aerion would find someone to terrorize whether it be their siblings or servants or animals or peasants. Every time Daeron denied him satisfaction of being terrorized, Aerion would go find someone else. The guilt and shame were thankfully numbed down by the wine.
Aerion backed away, snarling. “Do not call me little brother again, you useless lunatic. Every day I pity our realm that I was not born first. And I pity our father more, for being stuck with a plain-featured coward of an heir who deserves neither our pure Valyrian blood or Targaryen name. A stain in our family.”
Daeron thought quietly that they had threefold as much Dornish blood than Valyrian blood; their mother was Dornish and their father was only half the blood of the dragon with his other half also being Dornish. And Aerion or Daeron’s Targaryen name meant little and less, as they were princelings of a fourth son, so far apart from the ruling line. But Daeron knew better than to remind Aerion of this truth. Although all their family would suffer, painful early deaths and, more than not, wrought in fire and blood. Daeron wondered if that would mean Aerion would sit the Iron Throne, but he prayed to whatever gods existed that it would never be the case.
Daeron sighed, “You waste your breath, brother. I know all of what you say is true. If you desire to act truly, then slit my throat and be done with this bother. Our father may thank you for it. He seems to think of you as his perfect son, not some cruel whelp of a princeling. Maybe one day you will sit the Iron Throne as King Aerion Targaryen, the first Kinslayer to sit the throne since Maegor the Cruel.”
Not that Daeron wanted to die. Daeron didn’t know why, but he really didn’t want to die.
Aerion leaned closer to Daeron to again. His mouth was close to Daeron’s ears, again, and Daeron shivered.
Aerion gently smiled and said “I would gladly do so, brother. But however useless you are, you are the blood of the dragon. We shouldn’t spill the blood of the dragon so easily. Although doubtless I would be doing father, the family, the realm and the world a favor by doing so.”
Daeron thought that whoever killed Aerion would do the realm a greater favor. Maybe if Daeron wasn’t always so drunk, he could do the deed himself. Well, without wine, his hands would shake so much, Daeron doubted he could lift a knife.
No. Aerion’s death would come from himself. “Aerion would be a dragon burning itself with its own fire.”, he thought. He then immediately realized he had muttered the last part out loud.
Aerion laughed, moving himself to fully face his brother, “You are right that I am a dragon, dear brother. But a dragon doesn’t burn himself, a dragon never dies, a dragon never loses. And I am a dragon, a god among men.”
Aerion brought the knife and touched it against Daeron’s shoulder.
Daeron sneered, “Do you recite that every morning, Aerion?”, and immediately wished he had said nothing.
Aerion applied the gentlest pressure from the knife but Valyrian Steel needs little to cut. Suddenly, blood started to flow from his shoulder, and Daeron winced and looked away.
Aerion smiled, “Dae, do not be afraid of blood and fire, we are the blood of the dragon. The dragon is not afraid of fire or blood.”
Aerion lifted up the knife and backhanded Daeron with his other hand. Daeron could feel the blood filling up in his mouth from his own teeth, he tried to stifle a groan or give Aerion any kind of reaction, but a small sound escaped his mouth.
Aerion giggled and brought the knife close to Daeron’s chin. Aerion very gently kissed Daeron on the forehead.
Daeron winced and kept his eyes closed. When they were children, Aerion would often comfort Daeron after his nightmares by kissing him on the forehead. Even as a child, Daeron had always had nightmares and had little interest in learning how to fight. Daeron could still remember a six-year-old Aerion kissing his forehead, and saying “Don’t be scared, Dae. One day you can be King, like our grandfather, and I can be a Kingsguard knight and protect you forever.” Now the only thing Aerion had in common with child Aerion was his treasonous statements, although as a six-year-old he had not known any better, and now he did.
Daeron hated himself for it, but he reached out to grab Aerion’s other hand, and Aerion held it tenderly. It reminded him of simpler times. Daeron hated his madman brother, yes, but some part of him didn’t want Aerion to leave him alone now. Daeron tried to move his face to bring his lips closer to Aerion’s, but Aerion gently pushed him away.
Aerion laughed and tussled Daeron’s hair and then moved towards the fire. Aerion put his own hand above the fire, and then on the fire.
Aerion looked at his hand, and giggled, “We are fire and blood, brother, never forget that. I just want you to be worthy of our blood, and everything I do is for you.”
Daeron watched his brother start pouring something into a pot by the fire to boil and collapsed fully into the chair. He grabbed the nearest cup he could find and poured himself more wine and more. And more. And more.
Aerion was humming something out loud. It sounded pleasant really.
Daeron could hear something boiling violently, oil maybe, and Aerion’s hums, and suddenly started to doze off. He melted into his dreams, and he had drunk enough so they felt fragmented and faded.
A single star shined bright in the sky. Then it moved east and disappeared. But it was not really gone. A large dragon, larger than any ever before, had simply covered it. Suddenly, the dragon and the star both came back and the star was brighter and the dragon…