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Small eyes, almost invisible between the bloated flesh but no less sharp for it, stared at him, eager to drink his ugly surprise, his mortification, his shame. Daeron had none of this to give. It was not that he hid these feelings – he simply experienced none of them. He had long gotten used to expecting only the worst from his father – and then, some worse yet.
In the sudden silence and stunted surprise falling over the throng, Maekar almost made a sharp gesture but Baelor stayed him in time. Now, the pain and mortification came – not because Daemon had gotten the sword but because Daeron's six-year-old son knew what it meant. Daeron had had no choice but leave Maekar at a court where he was hated and instilled with derision for Daeron and his values – and things that no boy of six should know. Even the ever so smart Aerys looked merely surprised, not knowing this about life and politics, and insults. Maekar should not have known it either.
But even this, Daeron did not let show.
The huge residence at Rhaenys' Hill was silent, ghostly, dark. Servants padded around on soft feet, all curtains and draperies hung low, dimming the light. A house whose heartbeat was fading away, much like its mistress'.
Daeron spotted Elaena as she was leaving her sister's chambers and stopped her despite her obvious desire to avoid the meeting. "How is she?"
"Still the same," she replied and a tear made her way down her pale cheek.
Daeron sighed. "I'm sorry to hear this," he said and it was not a mere platitude, because for all that he and Daena had never had much in common, he had never hated her and always had great sympathy for her. But he was surprised that he was summoned here and he said so. "Do you know why she has called for me?"
Elaena shook her head. "She didn't tell me," she said but with her, Daeron had always had much in common. Enough to notice the evasiveness. For which there could be only one explanation.
"You told her?" he asked, disbelieving. "Are you mad?"
Elaena looked at him defiantly, her gown a bright yellow flower in the dimmed hallway where they exchanged these niceties. "She had the right to know."
"She has the right to…" No, he could not say it. "Right now, she can't do anything. You couldn't just let her rest?"
"You didn't sing the same tune when it was you who was unwell and Maekar, the one to be informed about," she shot back.
"It was…. Different." Daeron had not been dying. But he could not say it and Elaena knew it, so he let her have this round and entered the solar where the breath of the Stranger could be felt stirring Daena's lusterless hair, sucking the strength out of her dissolving muscles and the colour of her once glorious eyes.
"You have called for me, Daena."
She tried to smile but the weakness did not let the movement reach the corners of her lips. "I have."
"How are you?"
She huffed. "Never been better," she said defiantly and he smiled, glad to see that she had not lost her spirit. "How are Mariah and the children?" she asked. Five years ago, she would not have. Five more years under Aegon had melted even her.
"They're all well," Daeron replied and took the seat that she indicated.
The silence descended, dragged, wrapped them as around them, dusk came even faster because of the covered windows. Daeron had just started to wonder if Daena would not go to sleep when she looked at him, fully alert. "I heard what happened today," she said. "I… I'll talk to Daemon, explain that it doesn't mean anything."
To a boy not quite on the brink of manhood, it meant all but Daeron did not say it. Daena closed her eyes. "I know, I know it isn't likely to work," she admitted and her face fell even further. "He's going to announce that Daemon is his son," she breathed. "When I won't be around to reject this anymore."
"Yes, most likely," Daeron agreed. There was no use to lie to her.
"But this isn't true," she murmured. "He isn't Aegon's son."
She spoke as if truth mattered, as if anyone would care to admit the truth once the King said that the black was white. "I know," he said.
Daena's eyes were now wild, insistent, yet surprisingly focused. On him. "Daemon is of noble heart," she said. "But if he… if he can't resist… will you promise me that you won't hold your father's malice against him? Daemon. Will you promise me that you won't treat him like people will expect you to?"
Like people would expect him to. Strip Daemon of everything that Aegon would bestow upon him. Send him away to live and die in obscurity. Which was the reasonable thing to do. Daeron did not say anything.
Daena grew even more restless, stirred, was even able to rise a little before falling back but when he tried to help her, she tensed against his hands to make him step back. "Promise me."
"Daena, I will not be unfair to him."
"Promise me!"
A little lie, a benevolent lie to ease one's mind on their way to the Stranger… What was this bad about it? The fact that Daeron's word was his seal, that was what.
"Promise me!"
Damn Elaena, she had gotten him into this situation in the first place!
"Promise me!"
The trouble was that Daeron was not a cruel man. Yes, the reasonable thing would be to strip Daemon of whatever provisions the King would make for him, for they would be undoubtedly calculated as to be in Daeron and his own family's harm. He could see how things would go: Aegon would favour Daemon openly over Daeron, over the Dornish-looking Baelor, over everyone, just as openly as to saw doubt… Threatening the very fabric of the realm. On purpose.
"Promise me!"
Daena had been reduced to a shadow of her vivid, wild self. Daeron did his best not to look at her because pity had already gripped him by the throat but she reached for his hand and he had to lean over to let her have it. It was dry, and hot, and as feeble as a child, although she was trying to grasp his fingers hard.
"I promise," he said and wondered how he would explain this to Mariah. Because his word was his seal.
The End