Chapter Text
The wheelhouse was small and stuffy even with the windows open, and every rut they ran over sent a jolt up Daenys’ spine and into her throbbing skull.
They had been nearly five days on the road, and Daenys had been nearly five days without wine. Father had dumped out everything she’d had in her chambers before they’d set off from Summerhall, and since her uncle’s party had joined them from King’s Landing she has been all but tailed by guardsmen watching her every move. Not that she was able to do much moving. She had been confined to the wheelhouse every day with Egg, who howled like a tomcat when told he could not ride his pony all the way to Ashford.
Daenys shivered and retched her way through the first two days and stared wide-awake at the ceiling of the wheelhouse for the first three nights, sweating through her shift, and even when all that subsided she was left with the damn headache. Her misery made her mean, and Egg’s boredom made him cranky, so they spat and hissed and scratched at each other all the way from Harvest Hall to the Cockleswent. They tried playing dice, but when Dany won Egg sulked, so they stopped. It was a wonder they managed to make it to Ashford Meadow without throttling one another.
Egg would have been sulky no matter what. Father allowed that he could begin to train as a squire that year, but instead of their cousin Valarr, as Egg had hoped, Father settled him on Aerion. He had knighted their brother himself the year before, and thus considered Aerion fit to train Egg to knighthood as well. Egg strenuously disagreed. Daenys strongly concurred.
She had as much cause to dread this wretched tourney as Egg did. Her father had cornered her the day they left Summerhall, to tell her that when Aerion won – when, not if – he would crown her his Queen of Love and Beauty, and their betrothal would thence be formally announced. Daenys would sooner have wished it was her execution instead.
Father had been bandying that betrothal nonsense around for years now, and Daenys had not yet been forced down the aisle of a sept, saved only by the fact that Grandfather and Uncle Baelor were strongly against the match. They wanted her to wed outside the family. No-one seemed to care what Dany wanted, which was to stay in her room forever and drink until she died, but such is life.
The first time she had tasted wine, she thought she would have been about five or six. Her grandfather King Daeron had hosted a great feast to celebrate the royalist victory on the Redgrass Field and the death and defeat of the Pretender, Daemon Blackfyre. Dany remembered only impressions of the night – a hundred thousand candles burning, the rustle of silk on silk, the clamour of shouting and singing hammering her ears. Her mother dressed in lilac satin and silver and amethysts, giggling as Father whirled her around by her waist. Everyone had been drunk on glory and laughter.
Uncle Rhaegel had lifted Daenys up so she could see the whole length of the throne room, all the ladies in their jewels and their lords boasting of their valour and toasting the King. She remembered that every column was twined with red roses. Uncle Rhaegel had held her in his lap and let her sip from his goblet, a sweet Arbor gold – or a bitter Dornish red or a rich hippocras from Tyrosh. She had no idea what it was – only that it made her head spin and the light from the braziers glow brighter.
It would have been simple to think that was the moment it all went wrong, but the truth was thornier and more complicated, as it always was. Truth be told, she was contented with her single cup of watered wine at feasts for many years after that, and it was only later, when she was perhaps one or two-and-ten that she had begun to drink in earnest. She could not say when she discovered that the wine dampened her dreams if she drank enough of it, but once she had, nothing could stop her. She liked the way it had made her feel waking too – light and bright and invincible.
The only thing she hadn’t liked about wine was not drinking it, and as the wheelhouse rumbled over the threshold of Ashford Castle, driving a spike of pain through her right eye, Daenys resolved to find Lord Ashford’s kitchen as soon as she could, and get her hands on some of Lord Ashford’s fine wine cellar.
Jacks, one of her father’s guardsmen, opened the wheelhouse door. Egg squirmed out in front of her, nearly elbowing her in his haste to be out in the sunshine. Dany squinted, blinded by the bright light, and let Jacks hand her down.
By the entrance to the main keep she could see her father and Uncle Baelor speaking with Lord Ashford, surrounded by his children. A short way off, Valarr had dismounted and was talking with some of his companions, household knights of the Red Keep. Aerion, who had ridden off about a mile from the castle to hunt rabbit, was further down the column and hadn’t reached the castle yet. No-one was looking at Dany, which was how she liked it.
Daenys watched a maid in the orange and white livery of House Ashford disappear through a broad set of oak and iron doors through which the smell of baking bread wafted. Daenys slipped after her, catching the door before it closed. The stone corridor was mercifully cool and dark, even if the scent of cooking food turned her unsettled stomach. She followed her nose to the kitchens, where she ignored the baleful looks from Lord Ashford’s milling servants and snatched a flagon off a tray borne by a chunky-faced girl. No doubt it was meant for her father and uncle, refreshment after their long journey, but Daenys needed refreshment far more urgently than they did.
She found her way upstairs herself, determined to find her borrowed chamber, lock herself in, and drink the flagon dry, but halfway down an upstairs corridor she walked head first into the chest of an enormous hedge knight.
Daenys was no delicate little flower herself – she had inherited Lady Dyanna’s sandy blonde hair and deep violet eyes, but she was tall for a woman, with her father Prince Maekar’s nose and chin. Still, she barely came up to this lout’s chest. She swore as the flagon slopped half its contents onto the flagged floor.
“Beg pardon, milady, I did not see you,” the culprit said hastily, steadying her with a hand on each shoulder. She was about to tell him she was no lady, but a Princess of House Targaryen, but then thought better of it. It wasn’t exactly a fact she was proud of. She was often grateful for her lack of platinum locks and porcelain skin – even her eyes could be taken for blue, not purple.
“I imagine you don’t see much from all the way up there,” she huffed, but there wasn’t much fury behind her words. “Tell me, ser, is the weather pleasant up there, or is it raining?”
He only blinked at her in confusion. Daenys took the opportunity to get a better look at him. He was quite handsome, in that way some peasant boys were, strapping and chiselled and broad, but there was something somehow...maidenly about him too. He had enormous blue eyes with lashes as long as a girl’s, and hair as sandy blond as Daenys’ own. She took him for a knight, from the sword sheathed at his side and the shield slung over his back, but his clothes were roughspun and plain.
“Might I have the name of my attacker?” she asked him.
“Dunk – that is, Ser Duncan. Milady. Ser Duncan the Tall.”
“Well met, Ser Duncan the Aptly Named. You are here for the tourney, I take it?”
“Yes milady. I mean to be champion – that is, I don’t wish ill on your brothers, milady, but -,”
He thinks me the fair maid. Daenys had caught a glimpse of the girl in the yard, a little slip of a thing in a yellow gown, curtseying to her uncle. The thought made her smile.
From behind a lattice framework, she caught the sound of voices, and recognised them as her father and uncle. She shrank back, as did Ser Duncan, who looked as frightened suddenly as she probably did.
“- Waited long enough. ‘Tis high time she was wed, well past time. She’ll be nine-and-ten this year -,”
“On that you and I agree, but your choice of bridegroom leaves much to be desired.”
Dany pressed an ear to the lattice, trying to keep most of herself hidden behind the stone wall. Ser Duncan moved behind her, pressed against the wall. She cocked an eye at him.
“Eavesdropping, ser? I won’t tell if you won’t,” she whispered. The lad went red, but said naught.
“Aerion is as fine a knight as any in the realm.” Dany could hear the pride in her father’s voice.
“For a certainty.” Her uncle was using that tone he always used when he was humouring someone. Daenys heard him use it a great deal with Prince Maekar. “Yet there are many fine knights in the realm, and many who would be glad of the chance to wed a princess.”
Prince Maekar scoffed. “I know you and Father mean to use her as coin to buy loyalty from traitors. I tell you, it will not do. Abelar Hightower is a little -,”
“- Lyonel Baratheon, then. You cannot object to the heir to Storm’s End. Daenys will be a great lady -,”
“She was born a princess,” Maekar said hotly, “and I’ll not see her lower herself for any man.”
“Brother,” said Prince Baelor, and Dany could hear the warning in his voice. “Have a care how you speak. Our gracious host will think you insult his pride.”
Prince Maekar made a noise that told Daenys exactly where he felt his gracious host could stick his pride, and carried on speaking as if he had not heard his brother. “Aerion will have Summerhall after me. Daenys will be his Princess.”
“Storm’s End is no minor lordship.” Daenys could hear her uncle’s patience running thin.
“She could have been a queen, need I remind you,” Maekar snapped back, and Daenys felt her stomach lurch.
Prince Baelor’s voice was softer in his reply. “I wish you were able to set that aside and…” His voice trailed off.
Belatedly, Daenys realised she had been so absorbed in the conversation that she had been leaning forward, and was now clearly visible through the lattice of the screen. She looked up, and locked eyes with her uncle.
“Daenys,” he said with a weary smile. “Come here, please.”
“Seven fucking hells,” Daenys muttered.
With no other choice available, she peeked her head around the doorway, and then slid inside the room, trying to keep the flagon behind her back.
“Seven fucking hells, girl,” her father cursed.
Inside the room, gathered around a long table, was her father, her uncle Baelor, Lord Ashford, and his steward. Behind the table, another maid in orange and white was loitering, looking surprised.
Her father’s face was like thunder, but Prince Baelor was smiling ruefully at her. Daenys decided to take the opportunity to throw her new acquaintance unmercifully into the lions’ den. “You have a visitor without, Uncle. A Ser Duncan the Tall wishes to speak with you.”
The hedge knight was so tall he drew the eye of everyone in the room, so Daenys took advantage of the distraction to curl in an empty seat at the table and kick the half-empty flagon of wine under it with one slippered foot. She watched in faint amusement as the half-giant stumbled ineptly through a conversation with her uncle, only half-listening. She could feel her father’s gaze boring a hole through her cheek. A tongue-lashing was no doubt waiting in the wings.
When Ser Duncan finally left, Daenys made to slip out after him, but her uncle caught her by the elbow. “Daenys. The wine.”
She scowled, but handed over the flagon. Her father cursed again. “Gods be good, girl. Is there nothing that will stop you? Sneaking around listening at keyholes is one thing, but -,”
“Go to your chambers, Dany,” Prince Baelor said, with another sad smile. Daenys gave one last look at the flagon, regretful, and fled.
When she rounded the corner she saw the broad back and the winged chalice shield, retreating down the turn-pike stair.
“Ser. Wait a moment.” The retreating back stilled. When he turned he was bashful, shame-faced.
“I should have realised who you were, milady – my princess,” he corrected himself, reddening. “I’m such a bloody fool…”
“All men are fools, and all men are knights, where women are concerned,” Daenys quoted, unsure why the words had floated to the forefront of her mind. They were from some play, she thought, one of those silly romances Egg loved so much.
Clearly Ser Duncan was not familiar with it, because he frowned. “My princess?”
“Never mind.” The afternoon light fell in shafts through the windows. Daenys’ head throbbed mercilessly. “I bid you good-bye, Ser Duncan.” If she got down to the kitchens quick enough, she might be able to swipe another flagon.
The kitchens did not prove fruitful, but sneaking into the wine cellar was easy enough. Daenys sat in the window seat of her borrowed chambers, surrounded by orange and white, and drank until the room span as the sun sank lower and lower. The relief was immediate and overwhelming. Her headache disappeared, and the queasy sensation that she carried perpetually in her stomach did too. She forgot about Father and Uncle Baelor and the sodding betrothal. She forgot about everything. The world became soaked in gold.
The knock on her door found her insensate on her bed, watching the canopy spin. When she did not answer, her father barged in anyway.
“For the love of – Daenys! Get up!”
Prince Maekar yanked her up roughly by the arm. Daenys groaned. The world spun like a top around her, everything too bright despite the fact that the sun had set hours ago.
“What is it?” she managed to slur.
“Aegon!” Her father drove the name out between his teeth. Daenys could not comprehend him – everything seemed too slow and too fast all at the same time.
“What about him?”
“Where is he?”
“How should I know?” Daenys asked, which was the wrong thing to say. Maekar shook her like a rag-doll. Her teeth clacked together, catching her tongue. The iron taste of blood filled her mouth.
Prince Maekar seemed to realise he’d been too rough, because he released his daughter’s arm and stepped back. “You were the last to see him, you witless child! Your brother is missing. Gods know where he is -,” There was almost a sob in his voice, then he swallowed, and his tone hardened again. “You were in charge of him! You should have been watching him, and instead you were sneaking around up to the gods know what, drinking yourself into a stupor!”
Daenys retched miserably. The blood in her mouth was making her sick again. When she looked up, spitting blood onto the rushes, Prince Maekar was looking at her with disgust and pity and something – something else.
“Clean yourself up,” he said, and left her alone.