Chapter Text
Kingslanding, 126 AC
“Three beacons stained in red, two at sunset and one in bile. Thorns that pick your skin and suckle sweet nectar. In twos they shall come and twice they will die.” Helaena mumbled between short breaths, barely audible.
“Do you think it will get as cold in Oldtown?” Daeron did not pay much attention to his sister’s proclamations, “I thought to pack my mink coat, but the trunk won’t close.”
“Mild the sea flows of honey and wine and wheat shall be lit in the quiet of winter.”
“So no furs then, I suppose?”
Daeron’s ship was leaving in less than a week; he was meant to serve as Lord Hightower’s cupbearer for the upcoming years and was unsure how many of his belongings he needed to pack. Helaena sat in one corner of his chambers, the twins playing at her feet. Daeron wanted them to be there, for he would see little of them in the future.
Below the window, the city stank in the summer heat and Daeron closed the heavy curtains. He would have liked another quiet evening on his own up here in his chambers, but his father, the king, had called for a feast that night. There had been a quarrel on Driftmark; he did not fully understand all of it, but it made a Velaryon delegation travel to the capital for an audience with the king.
Feasts were usually amusing at least, food was plentiful, and jesters made even the sour queen smile. Now it only made Daeron aware of how he would miss all of this: the castle and its halls, the servants he had known for many years, the familiar scents and tastes and mostly his family. As a youth of fourteen, he did not want to accept it, but homesickness was slowly creeping up his spine.
Sitting between both of his brothers, Daeron involuntarily had to eavesdrop on their indecencies. Aegon once more told of his adventures in Flea Bottom last night, and Daeron could see Aemond smirking at the other side. He felt his ears turn red at the vulgar descriptions.
“There’s no better pillow than those soft thighs of dear Bessie. And what lay between them-” Aegon made a wanton noise that made Aemond spill his wine from laughing.
“Watch your tongue, brother. Our little maiden here might go and cry to our mother later.” Both sniggered to his sides.
“When I was your age-” Aegon began, “I already had my fair share of women. Aemond was even younger when I brought him to a woman for the first time. You still have a bit before you go; leave it to your older brother to help you out while he still can. There is nothing old, pious Oldtown will give you but dried-up Septas and stinking harbour whores.”
“Didn’t you visit dear Bessie near the port yesterday?” Aemond teased.
Before his mood turned too sour, Daeron rushed out of the great hall to have a breath of fresh air and be far, far away from his older brothers. The night was still too warm and too wet, and the stale air gave little refreshment. But the heaviness did not bother all of his kind. Above the red roofs of King’s Landing, the prince saw a dragon slowly circling. It was one of the smaller dragons, probably belonging to one of his nephews, which had to trot along, unfortunately.
Daeron still remembers how his nephew, who is older than himself by two moons, was given a dragon egg to be laid into his crib while Daeron was not. Although he ended up with the bigger dragon in the end, he still felt like that was some kind of favouritism from his own father. He did not wish to see it any longer.
Stairs connected the balcony to the gardens beneath. Daeron liked the plants and often visited them alongside his mother and sister; another thing his older brothers teased him for. In the dark, the garden looked almost like a haunted forest. The black leaves looked magical and eerie at the same time. It felt wrong being here, but comforting as well.
A noise made the hairs on his neck stand up. Had his brothers followed him to continue their mocking? Maybe a drunken Velaryon hid here who was not very fond of the king’s children? Even if it was just a knight, Daeron did not want to get into trouble.
As he turned, the air was punched out of his lungs. There in the quiet light of the moon, in the middle of this darkened forest of foreign plants and gravel, stood he. A boy his age with soft silver-gold curls and skin so pale it gleams among the twilight. A mirror of himself so clear as the one hanging on his wall. Daeron feared that as soon as he raised his arm, the boy across would raise his other in the same gesture.
“My apologies, I did not mean to disturb.” He said, not calming Daeron the slightest.
“Who are you?” Too harsh were the words that came too quickly from his mouth.
“Addam, your grace.” He said the latter part so quietly as if he had been unsure Daeron was one to call grace at all. “My name is Addam of Hull.”
“Are you belonging to the Velaryons?”
“Nay, I just sailed with them.” He answered as if he had heard this question often, “My grandfather is just a shipwright, my mother a trader. I was only called to join them aboard and to King’s Landing.”
Daeron was unable to take his eyes off him. Some of his earliest memories belonged to the times he and his nephews played together while they still lived in the Red Keep. From that time, he remembered their father, Ser Laenor. The similarities between the late son of Lord Velaryon and the strange boy in front of him were peculiar and uncanny. And he claimed to be a smallfolk boy!
It took him some effort to keep his cool, so his voice sounded meaner than he had intended. “What are you doing here? These are the royal gardens, and I doubt those are meant for servants to get lost in.”
“Beg my pardon, your grace. I am unused to feasts like these; the wine they have in Hull is so watered down that one would have to drink a bay-filled amount to get drunk off it. Moreso,” the boy said a little less boldly, “did I eavesdrop on some ladies talking about a beautiful flower here in the garden and in my drowsiness, it must have taken me here.”
The young prince kept weary. After the strife that took place amongst the Velaryons, he did not easily trust a fisher’s boy from Driftmark who lost his way in a castle’s garden. Even less if what he sought out was some pretty flower.
Sensing his uneasiness, the boy tried to laugh it off. But his voice sounded rather sincere to Daeron, “My grandfather has often told tales of the faraway places he had seen in his young sailor’s days. He went along with Lord Corlys through the summer sea. My mother liked the story of the beautiful forests the most. I thought that perhaps if I was lucky and quick about it, I could also tell my mother about the beautiful gardens and exotic flowers here in the capital.”
He drew circles into the dirt with his boot, unsure if a small act of kindness would be wasted on a baseborn boy. But he remembered how his mother had always urged him to be polite. Shipwright Addam might not be one of the Velaryon’s court, but Daeron would still make sure they would get a good impression of his part of the family. “There might be something you ought to see. Would you follow me?”
Reluctantly at first, the other boy trotted along with his eyes sturdy set onto the ground. “Yes, your grace.”
“Daeron. It is Prince Daeron.”
“Have you heard of the queen of the night, Addam?” The prince asked as both walked through the dim paths, “It is a flower that blooms but one night a year and only when the moon is at its brightest.”
“It is a full moon! Do you think we can see it?”
“I believe that was what the ladies have been talking about. It is a small celebration for some of them from the Reach, but I fear that we might be a little too early.”
They came to a halt, led by a delightful scent. Both looked at the other, and in silent agreement, they knew that they must have found what they were seeking. And indeed there it was. It was a rather unspectacular plant, he thought. Long, flat leaves grew like vines along another plant and a wooden gate that led into a separate part of the garden. It looked so painfully ordinary that Daeron knew he must have passed it many times before, were it not for those spectacular bright flecks. Almost from every one of the thorny red stems hung a single heavy blossom. They were big and round and of such a glistening white colour like the moon in the sky. Oval petals were surrounded by long and skinny petals on the outside and another row of even longer ones in a burned orange colour in their outer ring.
Those blossoms were so beautiful that Daeron no longer mocked the Tyrells for choosing a flower as their sigil. If he were to form his own house with his very own sigil, he might consider using this one. Although Tessarion was a likelier choice.
Addam and Daeron stood there for a while in silence. After some time, his gaze shifted from the pretty petals to the boy on his side. Addam studied the plant in earnest as if he were already preparing the exact description he would give his mother upon his return. Daeron wondered what his own mother would think if he told her about this night. Probably little, since this would have been nothing new to Queen Alicent. She probably would ask for a bouquet for her own chambers.
“If you are a prince,” broke Addam the quiet, “do you have a dragon then?”
The lack of noise, but for the mumbles in the background, was making him more uncomfortable, and Daeron was very glad to be talking about a favourite topic of his. “I did, rode her for the first time after my eighth name day.”
“What is it like to fly a dragon?”
He had to think. It was awesome, of course, liberating and powerful. Exotic and ancient, and a little dangerous too. “Windy,” he only replied with a smile.
“Sometimes we see Meleys flying above Hull, but it is a rare sight now. Still, whenever I hear the beating of her wings, I run outside trying to catch a glimpse of her.”
“I did not know a sailor boy would show such an interest in dragons. Usually, the smallfolk are afraid of them.” But Daeron knew that he could not have been ordinary smallfolk. There was valyrian blood in the boy, and it made him love those beasts as much as his own family did. Dragonseeds must have been spread all over Driftmark.
A thought came through his mind, hasty and a little reckless. “If you are still here in the marrow, are you willing to accompany me to the Dragonpit?”
.
A little before noon, Daeron waited at the bronze gates. Last night, Addam had been more than delighted at his invitation. He did not fully know what came over him, but something made him trust this boy who was so much like himself.
The pit was unusually full these days; together with his nephew’s dragons came Meleys as well as Caraxes and Syrax. All of them kept the dragonkeepers on high alert, and none paid much attention to Daeron and the friend he smuggled inside. Members of the family were often seen even if they did not have a dragon on their own, but relative strangers and smallfolk were a rather strange sight.
Addam did not show any nervousness at the beginning, his excitement, however, quickly changed to something else further they walked down the ramp. Numb rumblings came from the caves around them, and as alone as they were, Daeron too grew worried, especially with the older dragons now around. Dreamfyre and Vhagar knew him well enough; Sunfyre was less frightening than his own dragon. But a beast like Caraxes would probably not shy from devouring even valyrian blood.
Maybe it was to encourage Addam, maybe it was to aid his own upcoming fear, but Daeron’s arm had found its way around the other’s shoulders, his hand softly messaging the other’s flesh. Together, they walked steadier.
Sure was his voice now in support for both of them, “Tessarion is a good dragon. Less aggressive than most of the others and more agreeable. The dragonkeepers like her the most, they once told me.”
Addam answered with nervous laughter, “Are you sure she won’t burn me on the spot?”
“No, not when I am here.” They reached the cave where his blue dragon lay curled together in one corner. Sensing her rider, her head slowly moved to the two boys who stood there in silent admiration. She knew that Addam meant no harm, and the fire in her eyes did not anticipate that she was close to spewing her fire onto them.
Daeron dared even more, dragging Addam on his sleeve, he walked up to her, feeling the warm scales beneath his palm. “Come on, do not be shy.” Carefully, he guided Addam’s hand to the same place his own hand had lain just seconds ago. Never did he break the eye contract with his dragon. But she already could tell friend from foe.
Next to him, Addam’s breathing was shallow, his heart beat so loud he could almost hear it through the boy’s chest. Daeron remembered the first time he felt this ecstasy, the pride to be allowed to touch a magnificent beast like this. It was different for him because he was bound to Tessarion by an invisible bond, but he knew just how Adam must feel next to him.
“Will you tell your mother of this tale also?” He asked as both walked out of the bronze gates.
“Not just my mother but my brother and grandfather also, and all of Hull!” Addam beamed, “They might not believe me, but I remember it well.”
“Riding a dragon high in the sky is much more impressive even. Tessarion will soon be big enough to carry two riders. Maybe I shall visit you on Driftmark in a few years.”
A flash of fear went over Addam’s face.
“Don’t tell me you are afraid of this now?” Daeron laughed.
“I am more afraid of my grandfather’s frail heart.” Both boys smiled, walking back to the Red Keep. A knight of the King’s Guard accompanied them, and Daeron thought of how regal the two of them looked. For a baseborn boy working in a shipyard, Addam was wearing too well-made clothes that would fit a rich trader's son better. He wondered if the smallfolk around them saw them as two dragon princes instead of one.
Daeron left the capital a fortnight after he had met Addam for the first time. The Velaryon fleet sailed off some days earlier. Within the first week in the Hightower, a maester had handed him a letter sent from Driftmark, and the prince kept it dear to him. He did not tell anyone of his friendly encounter at night in the castle’s gardens. The day after, he had only heard how some of the ladies were sad that they missed the bloom of that rare flower. Daeron smiled at the memory.