Chapter Text
Second son of Baelon and his sister-wife Alyssa Targaryen, grandson of the king, brother of the king, husband of the queen, and father of the entire dynasty. This conjugation of story and narrative follows the life of Daemon Targaryen, who is more than the blood of the dragon.
Year 86 AC
Baelon is worried; Daemon is atrociously brutish and energetic. He pronounces every word perfectly and strings together sentences in an almost superb tone that doesn't go unnoticed by his mother, the queen. She knows well that the boy, ever since he put his two tiny feet on the ground and began to walk, has been nothing but an earthquake, a constant call in the palace. He has given life after so many tragedies, oblivious to everyone, his poor little boy, he doesn't understand the long faces and the bitterness in the eyes of the adults who watch him scream and laugh effusively, as if a great life awaited him and he were absolutely worthy of all the kingdoms.
Baelon hoped some of that would come to pass, that he would be as lively and happy as he is now at four years old.
While he watches his children, gently combing their hair, Daemon sits on his lap, deeply absorbed in a drawing he is painting with all the concentration he never sees during any activity, much less holding a book or going to class.
His son's hair is so clean white that it looks beautiful, and it shines. He remembers the dirty blonde of his deceased wife and sister and can't help but feel his eyes moisten. He grimaces and swallows, and Daemon renews his grip.
"Slow down, son, don't force the pen so much. It writes just the same even if you don't force it. See?"
The little boy on his lap doesn't seem to understand and quickly takes the pen away from him to return to his painting, again with the same warlike brutality. Baelon just grimaces.
He doesn't understand why Daemon has so much strength and even courage, even knowing his mother. As a child, she was a kind and gentle little girl who just wanted to do everything her older brothers did.
Viserys, at Daemon's age, barely raised his voice; his enormous violet eyes always looked down at them, and everything seemed fine to him.
"There, Father, look!"
Daemon snaps him out of his thoughts with his loud, demanding call. He tugged at the collar of the sack, as he always insists he shouldn't.
"Daemon, I can hear you! Remember not to pull the sack. Let's see... let's see."
Baelon wrinkles his eyes and nods, still gazing at the sketch, which is quite hilarious, with too much pressure on the ink. A drawing of what appears to be three figures and two beasts. From the height of the two, he recognizes it must be Viserys and Daemon himself. And then, next to them, a portrait of himself, standing with his children. Behind the two spots stretching across the sky are Vhagar and Balerion, and Daemon was thoughtful enough to make the second one even larger.
"Well, your brother hasn't claimed Balerion yet..."
"I know, but he'll do it! I'm sure of it, da-da."
Baelon notices that Daemon stumbles on the last word, as is unusual for him, and immediately understands that he's thinking about something else.
"What if I do it?!" he asks in another, more effusive cry, his small hands clenching the paper involuntarily.
"Not in the realms, Daemon! I don't even want to see you in the pits, erase that from your head. Your brother is small, imagine you're smaller."
Daemon pouts and looks away indignantly. The fact that he's small never struck him as a good idea, and he never agreed with it when he heard it, repeatedly, to boot.
Then Baelon smiles and squeezes his tiny nose.
"Look, son," it occurs to him. "See the drawing."
Daemon complies, inspects his work, and purses his lower lip.
"Mmm"
"Don't you think someone's missing from your drawing?"
Daemon denies it. "Father, I don't want to make Rhaenys annoying."
"Not your cousin, and don't call her that again. I'm talking about your missing mother, don't you think?"
Daemon looks at the paper once more and thinks, so silent that Baelon wants the earth to swallow him up. How could he draw Alyssa if he doesn't remember her?
"You... you know, I'm telling you about her. Her blond hair, her nose, her huge eyes, one green and one violet."
Baelon tries to pronounce each word calmly without losing control of his feelings, but his chest aches, and his voice is beyond his senses. The sadness is hilarious, and he knows it unsettles Daemon a little. When he told him about her when he was younger, he just watched, not understanding why she was crying, and then asked to go with a maid to be put to sleep. Now that he's older and runs more than he walks, he just fidgets or bolts off to a room.
Daemon has never said anything about her, or even mentioned her. And that hurts even more than Alyssa's absence.
Baelon can't forgive him. He doesn't understand how it happened. He had sworn to his late sister that his son would know her and everything about her. And now he has never said "my mother."
He remembers when he spoke to his mother, the queen, about this matter several moons ago. She asked that when Daemon came to see her, he should tell her about her. He needed more people to mention her, that he needed to erase the mourning to honor his wife's memory, and that his son feel free to speak of her once and for all.
His mother promised she would try, that she would talk to his father as well.
Daemon doesn't seem satisfied. And he realizes that he didn't mention that he was beautiful and liked his work.
Then he hugs him and holds him close to his chest. He sighs when Daemon lets himself be caught, because since he started walking, he rarely wants kisses and hugs. And Baelon misses him a lot. He spreads a row of kisses across his forehead and cheeks and listens to Daemon laugh as he cuddles up to him.
"Okay, son, it's beautiful. I'll put it in my notebooks."
Daemon nods happily and then looks at his hands. They're stained with ink, and before he can try to erase them with his clothes, his father throws a sharp rebuke: "Daeeeemon, not on clothes!"