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It started when he was a boy, the dreams. They came so few and far between but as he aged they became more frequent. Hauntings of days yet to come, of people yet to die. Aerion would always tease him about it, saying he belonged in a cell with all the other mad smallfolk. Ironic. Daeron paid little mind to his younger brother these days, save for when his cruelty directly affected the prince, though the drinking aided in such torment. A habit he had picked up too soon.
He was a dreamer, and no matter how many glasses he sank himself into Daeron would always remember the night he first dreamed of you. For the first time at least. A woman of high birth that would bring honour to his name, not that he cared much for it, she was ethereal in beauty. Her laugh rang hymns into his mind as it wandered to the future, believing it as a fantasy at first, an escape from this castle. But these dreams lingered ever still, plaguing him.
Daeron began to draw you on spare parchment, littering the walls of his chambers, stuffed into the drawers whenever Aerion draws near. The last thing he needed was proof that he was dimented, regardless of the abilities' status as a ‘gift’.
It wasn’t until his latest nameday this prophetic dream materialised outside the castle gates. A distant king meeting with his father as a sign of good will and friendship amongst their kingdoms, accompanied by his daughter. Someone who was quite literally, the woman of his dreams. He’d choked at first sight of you, beer running from his nose, as he hacked up the liquid into his sleeve. Much to the disgust of all around, namely Egg.
All the while you watched on in mild amusement at his dishevelled state, surely this prince had at least one servant to bathe and comb his hair? How come he looked like you could find him at any tavern in Fleabottom? Regardless he was staring and it was making you nervous, he had such sad eyes for someone you’d never met. Fiddling with the lining in your skirt you listen absently to the idle conversation between your father and the other men at the table. Attempting to ignore Daeron.
After the festivities, he finds you in the courtyard, seeking refuge from the crowded party inside the great hall. He did not mean to frighten you, not at all, but it was amusing to see you jump at the sound of his voice.
“I dreamed of you.” Given your fright, it took you a moment to really dwell on his words, let alone the implications it would have towards a recently negotiated betrothal. “My apologies my prince, I hadn't realised I was in your company.” Daeron's knees weakened at the sound of your voice, exactly the same as the woman stuck in his mind for all these years.
“It is I who should be apologising my lady, I just wished to speak with you.” At least this prince seemed softer than the brother, cut and sharp features, glairing as if he wishes to burn you. Daeron felt runny and sweet in your hands, but you made sure to keep your fingers close together as to not spill such a kind stranger, one that seemed in need of kindness himself.
You circled slowly, subtly. Leading him around the grounds absently, fully aware of how he trailed after you like the moon chasing the sun across the sky. “How is it that you have dreamed of me if we have never met?” He grins, chuckling under his breath as if he’s explained this over and over again to a multitude of people, yet he still answers you. “My dreams are different, they come true.”
The familiar breath of disbelief is audible in your tone, uttering out a small, “Really?”
“No need to hide your disbelief, I am aware of how it sounds.” Another thing you noticed is that he rarely looked up to properly meet your gaze, choosing the ground or his own hands when feeling especially bashful. So you teased, his cheeks flushed from both beer and the smell of your hair being carried to him in the breeze. “What have you dreamed of aside from strangers like me?”
The prince drew closer, offering an arm which you took gratefully, shoes not fit for uneven ground. He took to gazing at you in short bursts, not fully walking straight at times, making you feel like this offer was more for his benefit than your own. “You’re no stranger, We’re met before many times.” Daeron sounded so confident you could almost believe him. “And where would that be?” He smiles widely, alcohol dulling his anxiety for just a moment. “In a garden; under silk cheeks; then standing over a dragon's cradle.”
Trying to hold in your surprise, biting the smooth flesh of your cheek, you steer him back towards the festivities. “I would assume so since father is in there negotiating our betrothal.”
The prince stops walking.
“What?”
It was so very rare that Daeron received anything he desperately desired, such as lifting the weight of his title off of his shoulders and leaving it to a poor random lowborn man, unlucky enough to cross his path. But these last few months have been bliss, the world seemed so much more bearable with you by his side. He grew addicted to your cushioned demeanour, ready to catch him, never more than a room away unless it was demanded otherwise.
“Your father is asking for you” Daeron digs his nose deeper between the squishy pillows framing his face, body draped bare over your own. “Let him, I’m perfectly comfortable where I am” He was smiling, you would feel it against your chest. You’d spoiled him, surely your husband had never always been so needy, not when you met him. Or perhaps he simply hid his desperation well, until you coaxed it out with honeyed words and soft kisses. “Yes, but my lungs are not.”
His rougher hands trail up from its resting place on your thighs, stroking up towards a plush stomach and warm breast. Eventually landing them either side of you to push himself up slightly. “Have I taken your breath away, my lady?” Even though the sun was yet to rise you’re certain he had that lopsided grin that threatened to lead your sanity astray. “Idiotic.” You hoped he would not sense your own smile in return. “And yet you are amused.” The man above you purred, dropping down into your neck and breathing in his wife’s perfumes and oils, numbing his mind beautifully.
Leaning your head back against the pillows, allowing more space for him to retrace the marks he had left on you the night before, rubbing a thumb over the bruises gently. “I really think you should dress and meet him, his patience wears thin.” His chest rumbles, a weary hum escaping his dry throat. “Must duty steal away my pleasure? that’s no way for a prince to live.” Your husband was looking up at you like a kicked pup now, eyes all damp and desperate, just for you. Smiling, you offered a searing kiss, one he is quick to reciprocate. Sitting up to cradle your face, ringer running over your burning cheek. “It is for a prince who wishes to keep his head.”
“I haven’t dreamt of that, what false prophet has deceived you?” Sinking back down into the heat between your bodies he continues to litter your body in kisses, worshiping you better than the Andals would their holy land. “My husband when he promised he would last longer than–” His jaw tenses shut, hand flying up to cover your mischievous mouth, one that threatens him with another emotion entirely. You frown, continuing your teasing regardless of his apparent humiliation. “Suddenly I believe my fathers call is quite urgent.”
Stumbling out of bed, trousers getting caught round his ankles, the man turns back to you, “Unless…”
“Daeron. Go. I’ll be here when you return.”
“Such a cruel wife.”