Chapter Text
Daeron Targaryen was three years old when his little brother was born.
His mother had sat him down a few months ago, all smiles and warmth as she explained to her little son that he was to have a sibling. He had asked her why her tummy was getting bigger, and she just beamed at him.
“There’s a baby in here,” Dyanna said softly, a hand on her stomach. “In a few months, he or she will come out, and you’ll have a little brother or a sister.”
Daeron was confused at the time. His little mind couldn’t comprehend it at all. How could there be a whole person in his mother’s belly? It didn’t make any sense.
He poked at her stomach. “Where is the baby? Can I see it?”
His mother laughed. “Not yet, little one. The baby has to stay inside for a little while. He or she will come out when they’re ready, in a few months.”
“I don’t get it,” he said and his mother smiled. She gently placed his small palm flat against her swelling abdomen and told him to wait. The baby will kick, she promised. And Daeron would be able to feel his new sibling.
So he waited and waited, unsure. His mother’s belly was still as ever. He didn’t feel anything out of the ordinary. He was beginning to feel discouraged when suddenly, he felt it—a little flutter against his palm.
He gasped. It was real. His mother was right: there really was a baby in there.
Then began the waiting game. Every few days, scarcely able to contain himself, he would hurry to her side, eyes wide with hope, and ask in earnest anticipation, “Baby here?”
Every time, his mother would smile and shake her head. “Not yet,” she would say. “But soon.”
Soon, however, became one of his least favorite words to hear. The days stretched thin and endless. It was a horrible, long wait and Daeron could not understand why it was taking so long.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, it was time.
A few maesters and servants held him in another room as his mother labored. They kept him calm, told him excitedly that his new sibling would be arriving very soon. Daeron could hardly contain his delight, babbling on and on about all the toys he was going to share with his new brother or sister.
It was another long wait, but then, a servant came by and announced it was over, and that both mother and baby were healthy.
Daeron toddled into the room, making a beeline for his mother, who was curled up on the bed with a small bundle in her arms. Sweat dripped from her forehead and her eyes were half closed, but she smiled brightly at the sight of her eldest.
His father was right beside his mother, looking proud. “It’s a boy, Daeron. You have a brother and his name is Aerion. Aerion Targaryen.”
“Ae-ri-on?” He slowly tested the name on his lips.
His father nodded, ruffling Daeron’s golden curls. “That’s right. Aerion. You’re a big brother now. Isn’t that exciting?”
Daeron nodded.
He looked at the bundle—Aerion—cradled in his mother’s arms. He was very small, with smooth skin and little fingers. His curious, round eyes were a beautiful shade of violet. A tuft of silver hair crowned his head.
His mother’s eyes shone with pride as she looked at them both. “Like your father said, you’re a big brother now, Daeron. Aerion is your little brother, and he’ll be your best friend. You’ll grow up together and go on many adventures side by side. Would you like to hold him?”
Daeron nodded, feeling a burst of excitement. His mother gently transferred little Aerion into his waiting arms. “Mind his head,” she instructed. “He’s still very fragile.”
The baby felt impossibly small and warm against him, lighter than he expected. He held his breath at first, afraid to move, afraid to do anything wrong. The baby stirred, letting out a quiet sound, and he froze.
“It’s okay,” his mother said. “Relax.”
Slowly, he did. He adjusted his grip the way his mother showed him, supporting the soft, delicate head. The tiny bundle wriggled and fussed, before looking up at Daeron wondrously with his vibrant, violet eyes. Aerion let out a little giggle and wrapped his small hand around Daeron’s finger with surprising strength.
Daeron felt a spread of warmth through him, a bright smile appearing on his face.
His little brother Aerion. Now and forever.
Later, he won’t remember any of this. Feeling the kicks, the months of waiting, and then finally holding his baby brother in his arms. The absolute joy of watching baby Aerion squirm and giggle and fall asleep on his big brother’s chest.
It’ll all become a blur in his mind, buried and forgotten as all young memories are.
But for now, at this moment, Daeron was the happiest he’d ever been. He had a new baby brother that he would cherish and smolder with love, and there was nothing in this world that could ever separate the two of them.
That night, the night after his little brother was born, Daeron had a dream unlike any he’d had before.
He dreamed of a dragon egg in the middle of a clearing, a gorgeous thing covered in distinct, dark scales. Daeron marveled at its beauty. It was so luminous, unlike the petrified, stone-like eggs he’d seen in the Red Keep. The egg twitched, then cracked, slowly revealing a small red dragon. The dragon looked around, uncurling its little wings and sneezing out a puff of smoke.
It was a wondrous sight.
Daeron reached a hand out, and the little dragon curiously approached, eventually climbing into his lap and settling in the crook of his arm. Daeron stared down in awe and the dragon stared back. For a moment, everything was peaceful. Everything felt right.
Then, the world tilted, and Daeron was no longer in that clearing but in the middle of a city. Smoke curled in the air. The sky was a haze of crimson and shadows as fire burned all around.
In the middle stood a magnificent dragon, the same dragon that Daeron was just holding, but it had grown into a colossal beast. Its scales were the color of blood. It towered over the city, bright flames coiling around its scaled body. Each beat of its wings sent shockwaves that shattered windows and toppled spires.
Fire rained down, the thick smoke burning Daeron’s lungs as he took in the horrible scene. Screams echoed in all directions, cries of terrors filling the air. Everywhere he turned, there was flames and chaos. Panic filled his chest. His little legs tried to run, but he was stuck, an invisible force keeping him grounded in place.
The dragon turned to Daeron and he stared terrifyingly into the beast’s cold, beady eyes. Flames cascaded from his jaws. It opened its mouth and roared, sending a wave of inferno towards him. Daeron screamed as the searing fire engulfed him.
He woke with a screech, tears already welling in his eyes. He gasped for air, shaking off the cover of his blankets. He could still feel the burns all around him, could still taste the lingering smell of burnt ash.
“Are you alright?” His mother’s sleepy voice came from his side.
Daeron sniffled softly, his small hands curling into his mother's nightgown. She gathered him closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and drawing him against her chest. He felt her warmth and his body slowly began to relax. The tightness in his chest loosened and his breathing began to even. The awful images from the dream began to recede, fading like mist.
Everything was okay. It wasn’t real.
He hoped to never dream of such horrible things again.
Little Aerion grew, slowly but surely. Soon enough, he was no longer a wailing infant but a rowdy child that loved following his brother around.
Daeron adored him.
He loved playing with his brother. He loved to chase little Aerion down the halls and in the courtyard. He loved tickling his little brother and watching him squeal and giggle. He loved giving him rides on his back, loved watching him sleep, loved everything to do with Aerion Targaryen.
They spent most of their time in Summerhall, wandering its stone hallways, scuffling in the fields, and pranking the maesters. Occasionally though, they made their way to Crownlands to visit the King and the rest of the Targaryen family. Daeron was quite fond of his cousin Valarr, who was the son of his father’s oldest brother, Baelor.
Daeron also gravitated towards Baelor, who was always kind to him. Baelor was easily his favorite uncle. Uncle Aerys always had a book on hand and never paid attention to anything Daeron said, shushing Daeron and shooing him away whenever he got close, his eyes never leaving the pages of whatever great story he was reading about. Uncle Rhagel, while gentle, always had his head in the clouds and an obsession with lamprey pie, which in Daeron’s opinion, tasted absolutely disgusting.
They usually traveled to Kings Landing a few times a year, but then, there came a time where Daeron didn’t leave Summerhall for months. Some bad people have started a fight with the king, his mother had explained. A dangerous uprising was happening and it wasn’t safe to leave Summerhall right now.
His father, Maekar, was more often gone than not these days. In the rare times Father was home, he was agitated, grumbling about the “bastard black dragon” and “blackfyre bastards” and what not.
So usually, it was just Daeron, Aerion, their mother, and a few servants here and there. One evening, their mother sat both of them down under the stars and told them the history of their House.
“Did you know that dragons used to roam the realm?” She said, looking up at the sky.
Daeron already did. He was approaching seven years of age, and had already begun his mandatory history lessons with maesters. Father had also taken him down to the crept where he showed him the petrified, unhatched dragon eggs that still remained in King’s Landing.
But Aerion’s eyes widened. “Really?”
Their mother smiled. “Yes. Dragons are real, or at least they used to be. Our family were dragon masters once. We controlled them, bonded with them, rode them. That’s why they call Targaryens the blood of the dragon.”
Aerion frowned. “What happened to them?”
“The dragons died. Every single one of them. There was a war a few decades ago, after King Viserys Targaryen’s rule. The dragons were killed, and the eggs that remain will not hatch.”
“Will they come back? The dragons?” Aerion looked troubled.
“Perhaps.” Their mother’s eyes were still towards the night sky, as if looking at something far away. “Perhaps not.”
Aerion was silent for a while. Then, he let out a whimper, making a pout with his face before burrowing his head in his arms. “It’s not fair. I want a dragon!” He stomped his little feet in distress.
Daeron agreed. How cruel was it, for their house to be known as the Dragon House, for his ancestors to have rode on real dragons, only for them to have all died by the time he and Aerion were born. It simply wasn’t fair.
”Do you think we’ll be able to bring the dragons back? You and me?” Aerion asked, turning to Daeron.
Daeron frowned. He wasn’t sure. But they were House Targaryen, right? They were the Dragon House. Surely the dragons wouldn’t stay dead forever. He said as much to Aerion, and his little brother eased up a little, relieved by his answer.
From that evening onwards, little Aerion grew more and more obsessed with dragons. He demanded to see the unhatched eggs in the Red Keep. He wanted to learn everything about the dragons that once ruled over the Seven Kingdoms.
Soon, Aerion had every single dragon and its dragon rider since the beginning of the Targaryen Dynasty memorized. He was barely four and he could list them out better than Daeron ever could.
“The Conqueror rode Balerion, the Black Dread! Queen Visenya rode Vhagar, Queen Rhaenys rode Meraxes. Oh and did you know that Balerion was the largest dragon ever! It could overshadow a whole town when it flew! Then there was Syrax, and Silverwing, and Dreamfyre and…”
He could go on and on and on. Daeron was impressed with the amount of dragon knowledge Aerion obtained in such a short amount of time. His brother could ramble forever about dragons, and once he started, he wouldn’t stop for hours on end. But there was always a glint in Aerion’s eyes when he talked about dragon riders, a sad and unsettling look and Daeron knew it was because Aerion himself could not claim one for his own.
When Aerion wasn’t spewing random dragon facts, he could be found running around Summerhall pretending he had wings.
“I’m a dragon! Rawrr!” He would proclaim, flinging his arms out and flapping them as he dashed across the fields. He would also make Daeron pretend to be a dragon too. Other times, he would pretend to be Aegon the Conqueror or Maegor or whatever Targaryen ruler he picked that day and make Daeron carry him on his back, imagining himself a king and Daeron his trusty dragon. It was an absolute pain after a while, and Daeron’s shoulders were constantly sore, but the bright smile it brought onto Aerion’s face was worth it, so he was more than happy to indulge his brother.
One day, after the two brothers spent hours of running under the beating sun playing “Aegon the Conquerer”, Aerion turned to him, sweat dripping from his face, his shirt soaked with dirt and mud. They laid in the shade under a tall oak tree, side by side.
“Do you think I could really turn into a dragon one day?”
Daeron shrugged. “Sure,” he said and watched Aerion’s eyes light up. Daeron liked to play along in his little brother’s games, whether it be pretending to be dragons or pretending to be dragon riders. Whatever made Aerion happy. His brother was still a young child, after all, with an imagination that could fill the sky. It was temporary too, Daeron knew. Aerion would surely grow out of it in a few years. So for now, he let his brother believe.
Once the Blackfyre Rebellion ended and their father came home, he hoped to make up for the lost time fighting the war by spending time with his children. Maekar devoted himself to his sons earnestly, eager to pass on his passions.
So far, Daeron had not been a fan of anything his father tried to get him interested in. He hated hunting and weapons training, and he wasn’t very good at either. But he so desperately wanted to be like his father, so when Maekar announced they were to go fishing on the morrow, Daeron promised himself that this would finally be the thing that he would be good at.
Daeron had wanted baby Aemon to come too, but their mother shook her head. Aemon had not even reached his first nameday yet, she had told him gently. He was way too young right now.
So, Daeron settled for pressing a quick kiss onto little Aemon’s chubby cheek, who was safely nestled by his mother’s side, before dashing off to find his other brother.
“I bet I’m going to catch more fish than you!” Aerion declared, his eyes full of fire.
Daeron stuck his tongue out. “No way! I’m gonna catch more! You’re so small, the fish will probably drag you into the water.”
Aerion stuck his tongue out too.
And so the challenge was on, and Daeron was determined to win.
The next morning, Daeron woke up before the sun rose, this time not due to his horrible dreams, but instead with bright anticipation. His mind buzzed with bright images of what the day would hold: glittering water, heroic catches, the triumph of reeling in the biggest fish, and of course, the look on Aerion’s dejected face when Daeron was victorious.
The lake, when they arrived, lay stretched and serene beneath the cloudless sky. It was wider than he had imagined, its surface smooth as glass except where an early breeze stitched faint ripples across it. Daeron breathed in deeply, hardly able to contain his excitement.
Unfortunately, Daeron soon learned very quickly that he actually hated fishing. As he sat under the boiling sun, fishing rod in hand, sweat dripping from his temple, he wished for nothing more than to go home.
It was just so unbelievably boring.
Minutes passed. Then more minutes. Nothing happened at all. With a frown, he reeled in the line and cast again, this time with greater force, as though enthusiasm alone might stir the depths. The lure disappeared.
Nothing happened again.
A flare of irritation rose in his chest.
This was the worst day of his life.
The water remained calm and still. The sun beat down on them furiously. And nothing happened.
Until, Aerion, who was by his side, let out an excited squeal. “I got something!”
Both Daeron and his father turned. The small rod Aerion held was bent dramatically, trembling in his inexperienced grip. Maekar rushed forward, steadying the line as they reeled it in slowly. The water churned and Daeron watched in anticipation as they reeled it in.
The fish was enormous. It writhed around on the hook, and Aerion’s eyes lit up as he tried grabbing it with trembling fingers.
“Good catch, Aerion,” their father congratulated.
Daeron felt a stab of jealousy as he marveled at the fish’s size. This wasn’t fair. He was supposed to catch the first one, not Aerion. He’d been waiting here all afternoon, and he had no fish to show for it. He felt the urge to cry, his chest tightening.
But then, he caught sight of the pure joy on Aerion’s face and he softened. He supposed he could give his little brother the win this time.
His little brother shoved the fish into his face. “Look! It's so pretty!”
Water dripped from its trembling tail onto the sand. Aerion touched the fish gently, running his fingers along the sides. “Don’t they look like dragon scales?”
Daeron peered closer at the fish. Its scales caught the sun in fractured glints: silver giving way to faint greens and blues.
He did not particularly think so. Dragons were not delicate things that flopped helplessly. They were fierce creatures many times larger than any human, beasts that spewed fire and burned empires to the ground.
How could a fish compare to a dragon?
But Aerion stayed focused on the beautiful scales on his fish and Daeron let him be, turning back to his own hook.
The rest of the day was just as boring as the hours before Aerion’s big catch. When the sun started to go down, Maekar decided it was time to head home. His father had caught a few fish as well throughout the day.
Daeron was the only one that got zero.
Yes, he hated fishing, and he doubted that would ever change. He’d add it to the long list of things he sucked at, and he avoided his father’s displeased gaze the entire trip back to Summerhall.
But at least Aerion had fun, and Daeron was happy for his little brother.
Fire. Dragons. Screams. Death.
Over and over, they played in Daeron’s head. The years had not quelled his dreams, but worsened them.
He dreamed of many things and they were always terrifying. He dreamed of dragons screaming as they fell from the sky like crumpled leaves. He dreamed of fields of crimson, and he did not know if the grass was naturally red or had run red with the blood of dying soldiers. He dreamed of a dark dragon being crushed by a giant boulder hurled in front of a castle gate. He dreamed of a man with silver hair surrounded by green fire, screaming and burning as onlookers watched without lifting a finger to help. He dreamed of fire raging through the very halls his family slept in, waves of flames consuming Summerhall until there was nothing left but ash.
He dreamed and dreamed and dreamed, and he despised every single one. Lately, he began to fear the night, knowing he would be denied the peace he desperately sought. He barely slept these days, and he was always agitated. Both Aerion and his mother noticed, but by now they were already used to his nightmares, and they could do nothing to ease his pain than to bring in a maester, which Daeron had learned pretty quickly was absolutely useless.
But the last few days had genuinely been dreadful, and so Daeron found himself seeking a maester even though he knew it wouldn’t amount to anything.
“Please,” he begged Maester Yormwell. “I can’t stand it anymore.”
Maester Yormwell was already well familiar with the horrible dreams that plagued Daeron. He had served the Targaryen House for many years, having been around since Daeron’s father was a babe. So it should seem to Daeron that Yormwell was a competent, intelligent man who knew what he was doing. Yet the maester had not been able to solve his dream problems all these years.
The maester did everything he could, granted. He prescribed herbal teas and medicine and sedatives, but nothing seemed to work.
“I don't believe I can help you anymore, young prince,” Maester Yormwell said and Daeron frowned. He had expected this, had known his case was hopeless, but didn’t think the maester would outright say it.
“Can it truly not be cured?”
The maester sighed. “We have exhausted all our options. I have given you all the medicine I could prescribe, I have scoured books to understand your curse, I have even sent ravens to maesters at the Citadel. There is nothing we haven’t tried.”
“But surely there must be something you can do!” He was desperate for something, anything.
The maester shook his head, giving him a smile. “I have tried to heal you and now I have realized that perhaps that is not the way we should look at your visions. The Seven have given you a gift. Maybe, it is best if instead of running away, you learn to embrace it. To think of it as a blessing instead of a curse. Maybe try a septon as well, they can help you accept your dreams for what they are.”
Daeron stormed out of the room before he could hit the man.
Why was everyone so useless? All these maesters, the best of the best, and none of them could figure out what was wrong with him? None of them had any idea how to ease the constant array of images that pounded in his head?
Embrace it?
Embrace the torturous dreams that kept him awake at night?
And to suggest him to see a septon?
Daeron had already seen a septon. He’d already seen multiple septons, in fact. None of them were ever useful. He never felt the urge to strangle someone more than right now.
He saw his little brother from the corner of his eye, but he ignored him. He was still cursing everyone inside: the maesters, the world, even the Gods for making him this way.
“Hey Daeron, do you want to—”
Aerion never finished his question. Daeron roughly pushed his brother aside and brushed past without a word, jaws clenched and eyes blazing.
He was not in the mood to speak to anyone right now. The frustration and endless sleepless nights had left him sullen and irritable. It angered him to the core. Why couldn’t anyone help him? Was it really so fucking hard?
He didn’t see the smile fade from Aerion’s little face. He didn’t see the confusion and hurt settle into place, the tears that welled up in his brother’s wide eyes, or hear the faint sniffle his brother quickly stifled as he tried not to cry.
Daeron won’t remember this moment. He won’t remember this time, and the many more times later in which he’d reject his little brother, push him away while dealing with the mess inside his head.
Daeron won’t remember. But Aerion would. Aerion would remember every single time.
Once Daeron reached the age of ten, his father decided he was of age to start training to become a knight, and thus made him a squire to Ser Willem Wylde.
Ser Willem was a formidable knight. He fought in the Blackfyre Rebellion alongside Daeron’s father, and was a member of the Kingsguard as well. He was patient with Daeron, treated him with respect and care.
Still, Daeron absolutely hated every moment of it. He wasn’t excited to be a squire, and he didn’t care if he ever became a knight. Tending to Ser Willem was tedious, and training to fight was even worse.
Daeron learned very quickly that he was shit at anything to do with swords. He trained with both Ser Willem and his father’s own personal master-in-arms, but he made little progress through the year.
Many times after a horrid, embarrassing training session, Maekar would pull him aside, his disappointed eyes boring into Daeron as he firmly reminded his son of who he was. Daeron was the blood of the dragon, the firstborn son and therefore Maekar’s heir. His father never ceased to compare him to his cousin, Valarr.
“Valarr is a year younger than you, and already he is shaping up to be a formidable opponent,” Maekar would say through gritted teeth. “Have you seen his footwork and blade control? Impeccable. Unlike yours. Are you even trying, boy?”
Daeron really didn’t think Valarr was that great, to be honest. His father mentioned his cousin all the time, making it very clear that he was unhappy that his eldest son was being overshadowed by Baelor’s heir. Sure, Valarr was definitely better than Daeron, but that was a low bar anyway. In Daeron’s opinion, his cousin wasn’t actually as amazing as his father insinuated.
But, it was the unfortunate truth that while Daeron was trying, he was simply untalented in the arts of weapon training. He had no sense of balance, always swung too wide, and could never get the footwork just right. He was a horrible swordsman. Just like he was a horrible hunter and horrible fisher. In fact, Daeron had no idea if there was anything in this world he was actually good at.
After a year, his father seemed to realize that Daeron was hopeless, coming to terms that his eldest son was never going to be the brilliant knight he had envisioned. So he moved on. Instead, he poured his hopes into his second son Aerion, finding a warrior in him that was not present in Daeron.
Daeron knew his father remained disappointed in him, despite focusing more on Aerion these days. Daeron could barely even ride a horse properly, after a year of training. He simply did not have the appetite for clashing steel, for war, for fighting. A sword or a lance or any other weapon felt unwieldy in his grip.
Aerion was different though.
He seemed to thrive in the clangor of the yard. He woke early for drills without complaint. He studied footwork as though it were scripture. Blade in hand, he moved with such fluidity and sharpness for his age, striking fiercely and precisely.
He took to it like a fish in water. Aerion rapidly improved as well. Sometimes, Daeron watched Aerion train with their father’s master at arms. Their father stood nearby, arms folded, offering corrections in a tone that was never quite warm. But, there was a glint in his father’s eyes when he was around Aerion, a look of pride that he never had when he watched Daeron.
But it wasn’t enough.
One evening, as the sun bled gold across the courtyard stones, Daeron found Aerion sitting alone against the low wall, wooden practice sword discarded at his side. His shoulders, usually squared with defiance, had folded inward.
“How was training?” Daeron asked, attempting small talk.
Aerion did not look up immediately. When he did, his eyes were rimmed red.
Daeron felt a pit growing in his gut at the sight. “What happened?”
After a few moments of silence, Aerion took a shaky breath. “I will never be enough for Father,” he whispered. “He will never be satisfied with me.”
“I’m sure that’s not true—”
“It is! He never praises me. No matter how much I improve, no matter how good I do, he’s never proud. It's just more and more and more.” A tear slipped down his cheek before he could stop it. He wiped at it angrily. “I will never be good enough.”
“You’re not even nine,” Daeron said softly. “You’ll have plenty of time to improve. I’m much worse than you and we’re three years apart.”
“Well, I don’t want to be like you!”
Daeron flinched.
A wave of hurt flooded him, despite knowing that Aerion didn’t mean it. Not really. They both knew their father’s displeasure at his untalented firstborn.
Aerion averted his eyes, ashamed by the outburst. A moment later, he mumbled a soft apology. “Sorry.”
Daeron gave him a weak smile, unsure of what to say. He supposed a part of this was his fault too. Daeron was such a disappointment in his father’s eyes and thus, the pressure on Aerion was doubled. Aerion had to succeed where he couldn’t. Maekar simply could not endure the sting of another son’s failure. Inwardly, Daeron cursed himself for being such a useless failure, painfully aware of the unjust weight his shortcomings imposed upon Aerion.
He wanted nothing more than to ease the distress in his little brother’s heart. But, comfort had never been his strong suit.
So, Daeron said the first thing that came to mind at that moment.
“Would you like to go fishing with me on the morrow?”
Aerion paused. His brows furrowed. He looked up at his big brother with bloodshot and swollen eyes, and nodded.
Daeron stared at the blank wood panel in front of him.
Aerion’s nameday was coming up soon and Daeron really wanted to gift his brother something special. He knew Aerion’s biggest wish was to hatch a dragon egg, as the years had not dulled his little brother’s obsession with dragons. Yet Daeron could not fulfill that desire within Aerion. He couldn’t just procure a dragon for his brother, no matter how much he willed he could. The only thing Daeron was even remotely decent at was painting, so that was what he decided he was going to do.
Painting was something he came across by total accident, and of course it was because of his nightmares. It started with a particularly nauseating dream Daeron had a few months ago about a man burning to death amongst an inferno of green flames. He could still hear the screams now, the terrifying cries of agony that turned into ragged, choked breaths as that fire consumed his every being.
Daeron hadn’t been able to sleep for days after that nightmare. The images of that dying man were seared into his mind, and every time he closed his eyes, he could see the flesh melting off and smell the thick, acrid scent of burning hair.
Tired and desperate after his third night without a wink of rest, Daeron had wandered into the armory. It was the dead of night, and in the pitch black room surrounded by blades and shields, he tripped over a fallen sword. The candle slipped from his grasp, the small flame flickering as it hit stone. In his clumsy attempt to steady himself, he collided with a rack by the wall, and a wave of dust filled the air. Daeron coughed and when he picked up his candle, he realized he had knocked over some colored pigments used for paint.
His mother found him the next morning asleep amongst color and dyes. Around him lay several shields, once dull and ashen, now alive with bold swaths of reds and greens and yellows. Daeron had spent the rest of the night painting, setting color to whatever he could find, finding that it temporarily kept the memory of his dreams at bay.
Dyanna took in the array of colors and her son, who had finally fallen asleep after days of misery. Within the week, a well known artist was hired to Summerhall to teach Daeron how to paint.
His father was less than thrilled that his eldest son was spending more time in arts than in swords fighting, but Daeron didn’t care. If painting was going to put his mind at ease, even if just a little, Daeron would take it.
With each careful stroke of the brush, his thoughts loosened their grip on the terrors that had haunted his sleep. He focused on lines and hues and colors, upon the steady sweep of bristles across wood. When he painted his nightmares, gave their shadows shape, their flames color, their monstrous faces form, they seemed less powerful. It made it harder for them to haunt his mind.
So now, a week before his brother’s nameday, Daeron eyed the empty canvas before him, determined. He already knew exactly what to paint. His little brother was very simple in his interests, after all. He picked up a brush, dipped it in pigment, and began. Daeron spent days upon days perfecting his work, painting only in the late night when he was sure everyone was asleep. He didn't want to ruin the surprise.
On Aerion’s nameday, there was a huge feast. Colorful tapestries lit up Summerhall’s walls. The tables were laden with golden cups and lavish dishes, with a roasted wild boar in the center. They ate, danced, and celebrated, the halls filled with joy and laughter.
Finally, once the party had cooled down, it was time to give his little brother his gift. Daeron took Aerion to the chambers where the finished painting was held and wrapped, handing it to his brother nervously. Now that it was time, he felt a wave of panic. What if Aerion hated it?
“You can hang it in your room.” Daeron said as he watched his brother unwrap it, fiddling with his thumbs. He hoped his brother would appreciate the artwork. “It’s not the greatest, I know,” he hastily added.
But that did not matter to Aerion, whose eyes went wide as he took in the beautiful panel. A dark dragon loomed in front of him, its scales shimmering. Great wings arched wide from its shoulders and smoke curled from its flared nostrils. Two dragon riders sat on the dragon’s back. One held the reins tight at the dragon’s neck, while the other gazed outward as if toward some distant battlefield.
Daeron wasn’t very good with faces yet, but the hair color and clothes made it obvious who the figures were supposed to represent. Aerion ran his fingers along his painted self, whose silver hair gleamed in the light aboard the wild beast, sitting side by side with his older brother.
“It’s amazing,” Aerion breathed out, mesmerized. “How long did this take?”
Daeron shrugged, pretending it was no big deal and that he totally didn’t spend all week and night starting and restarting and messing up. “Just a few hours here and there. Do you like it?”
“Like it? Brother, this is beautiful. I love it!”
Daeron couldn’t help but relax, his nerves vanishing at the sight of Aerion’s wide smile. His little brother set the painting down before engulfing Daeron in a huge hug. Daeron threw his arms around his little brother. "Happy nameday, Aerion."
A moment later, Aerion let go and ran off, painting in hand as he dashed down the halls to show off Daeron’s handiwork to their parents and the guests, who all marveled at the wondrous art piece.
Daeron glowed with pride.
Yes, maybe there actually was something he was talented at.
But most importantly, Aerion was happy, and so Daeron was too.