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Horses whinnying…the sound of sword fight…a familiar mace…a prince’s bloodied teeth…a golden dragon collapsing on the hedge knight…
Summerhall on fire…the screams of a woman with silver hair…rubies scattering in a river…a bloodied mess presented to a loud boor with a crown…a boy with pale grey eyes in biting cold
Dragons…
A golden dragon collapsing on the hedge knight slowly transforming into a face with mismatched eyes…whispers of kinslayer following a stern man with silver hair…a bald child bloodying another who repeated the whispers…
“My brother’s mace, most like. He’s strong.”
Daeron startled awake with a pounding heart and for once, clarity.
His dreams were always whispers, suggestions sent to torment him and turn him useless. They were never clear enough for him to help, the gods didn’t favor him like they did the other dreamers in their family. They only told him enough to know, enough to let him struggle with the inevitability of what was to happen.
But this time he knew that if the trial were to happen, his uncle, Heir to the Iron Throne, Hand of the King, would die by his father’s hand.
He shoved off the blanket placed over him and took a second to gather his bearings. He was in the chamber given to him, at Ashford Castle. Daeron didn’t remember coming here himself so his father must have had him fetched from the Westerlings’ tent. He was still dressed in his traveling tunic and breeches, so no one had dared undress him.
He grabbed a flagon and gulped down some water before drying his face of sweat and hastily combing his hair with his fingers. He was horribly sober, but if he wanted the two most important men in the realm to listen to him, he had to be presentable and free of drink.
Unsurprisingly, one of his father’s guards was stationed outside his door.
“My Prince, your lord father has commanded me to keep you in your chambers.”
“Take me to him, Wate. He is with my uncle, is he not? Or have they both retired to bed already?”
Wate hesitated.
“They are in Lord Ashford’s solar, my prince. We will go to them.”
When they arrived, the door was flanked by two kingsguard. Ser Roland and one man whose name Daeron always forgot.
“My prince.”
Daeron inclined his head.
“Are my father and uncle inside?”
“They have asked not to bothered, my prince.”
He gave the nameless guard a dry look.
“This is something they will want to hear. Announce me.”
The kingsguard did as he was told and Daeron took a moment to dismiss Wate.
“Go watch over Aegon,” he said. “Something tells me you’ll be escorting another prince here later tonight.”
Daeron took a deep breath and stepped inside.
**
There was silence after he told them about his dream.
His father had come up to him and clutched his chin, making eye-contact and trying to sniff out wine on his breath. And then, he had turned to his uncle.
“You would choose a hedge knight over your own nephew?”
“Maekar.” Baelor started towards him and then stopped at his brother’s raised hand. “It is not justice that Aerion has demanded, but petty vengeance. You know this.”
“I do know this. I also know the perception of the Heir to the Iron Throne standing against his brother and nephews! Have you lost leave of your senses? What are you doing apart from painting a target on their backs?”
Baelor rubbed a hand over his face.
“I was thinking that the people will see that their future king stands for justice. I was under the impression that I would not be mortally wounded by those who are sworn to protect me.”
Maekar flinched at that and Baelor closed the distance between them in three steps.
“Brother,” he crooned, cupping Maekar’s face with both hands. “Nothing untoward will happen. It will be a fair battle and I will stay away from your mace for the entirety of it. The kingsguard will avoid me, as will you, Aerion and Daeron. I do not fear anyone else that Aerion might have summoned. The trial will go as planned and there will be no dead dragons at the end of it.”
Maekar nodded at him, briefly squeezing the hands on his face before drawing them away entirely. He looked like he had aged a decade as he crossed the room to collapse on a chair near Daeron.
“Daeron,” he said, stiffly. “While we…appreciate you bringing your concerns to us, your dreams have not always come true. Perhaps this is a warning and not the truth.”
“All dreams are warnings and should be heeded as such.”
“And so we shall.”
Daeron closed his eyes, frustrated at how cavalier they were being.
“That was not all I saw,” he said quietly. “If Prince Baelor Targaryen were to die, we would set off a chain of events that would lead to the destruction of our house. Summerhall will burn. A Targaryen prince will be slain in war. Another will be smashed against a wall and presented to a Baratheon as a gift. There will be only two Targaryens in the world left after a hundred years, one lost princess and one grey-eyed prince who they call a bastard.”
“Surely it will not come to that. We have always endured, nephew. And even if I’m not around, I trust you and Valarr and all the other young ones to carry forward our legacy with honor and grace.”
Maekar scoffed.
“What do you mean, not around? Do you believe that you will die anyway?”
“Brother, please. Let us not distress him further. The dreams are a concern but not too much for now.”
They kept going back and forth, talking about logistics and the trial and how to make sure to stay out of each other’s way.
Daeron had had enough.
“I WILL NOT SEE YOU DEAD.”
They fell silent.
“Please,” he whispered, tears clogging his throat. “Please, I do not want my uncle dead nor my father labelled a kinslayer.”
He had broken down properly then, falling to his knees and crying in great hiccuping sobs that refused to stop. He crawled towards where Maekar was sitting and buried his face into his father’s stomach, as he had often done as a child.
Both Baelor and Maekar froze, lost in the face of a weeping man. Unable to offer even the slightest bit of comfort in wake of his immense sorrow.
“You must not fight,” Daeron muttered. “You must not swing your mace. Uncle’s skull will shatter and he will fall in front of the hedge knight. You will not even be allowed the dignity of a farewell. Father will know of your death only too late. There is no honor in dying for a fool. Your grace, please.”
Daeron had been reduced to begging them, pleading through his endless tears.
Baelor could take no more.
He walked towards them and knelt beside Daeron, embracing him from the side in a way that didn’t displace him from Maekar’s lap.
“You fool,” Maekar hissed. “Get up before some servant catches you and causes a scandal.”
“I am simply comforting my distraught nephew, brother.” He squeezed Daeron’s shoulders. “Your dream will not come true. We will ensure that it does not happen.”
Baelor grasped Daeron’s neck and turned it forcefully, making eye contact with him.
“Listen to me. Listen.”
For one moment, Daeron’s hazy blue eyes cleared and Baelor knew his nephew was in his senses.
“You have done your duty and told us. There will be no deaths in Ashford by our hand. We will leash Aerion if we must, but I will not die nephew. Nor will I allow anyone else to be killed at this trial.”
Daeron nodded. He turned back to his father and let out a broken whimper.
“Papa.”
And he was lost to them again.
Baelor got up, grimacing at the dust on his knees as well as the sound they made when he got off the stone floors.
“That went well, wouldn’t you say, brother?”
“It would be better if I didn’t have a crying child draped over me.”
There was a squeak, a minuscule sound by the door and both their heads snapped to glare at the interloper.
Aegon stood there in his too large sleep shirt, eyes wet and lip quivering.
“What’s wrong with Daeron?”
Daeron’s state had made two grown men deeply uncomfortable and afraid. But Aegon?
Aegon was just a boy.
So when he saw his oldest, most beloved brother weeping into their lord father’s stomach, he assumed the worst and began bawling himself.
“Come here, lad,” said Baelor, walking towards him with his arms outstretched.
To their surprise, Aegon slapped his hands away and rushed to where Maekar was sitting. He climbed on top of his father, using Daeron’s shoulder as a ladder and tucked himself under Maekar’s chin. Maekar only froze for a moment before wrapping his other arm around Aegon to hold him close.
“Is Daeron dying?” he asked, sobbing. “Is someone else already dead?”
“Calm yourself, child. No one is dead or dying. Your brother…has had a particularly difficult dream. He only came to us for some comfort.”
“That means someone is going to die,” Aegon whispered.
Maekar and Baelor exchanged a look over his head. What went on in Summerhall when no one was paying attention?
Baelor joined them and placed a rough palm on Aegon’s head, comforting and solid.
“No one is going to die. Not today, not tomorrow, not for a while yet if the gods see fit.”
“You swear it?”
It struck them all too quickly how young Aegon was. He had grown in a time of peace, he was the fourth son of a fourth son, with no need to learn how to rule or wage war. He was a child trying to find his way in life and had the misfortune of setting an innocent on Aerion’s warpath.
“I swear it,” Baelor promised. “For as long as your father’s hair shines silver, I will keep my promises to you, dear one.”
Aegon let out a watery giggle and then turned to Maekar.
“You swear it too, papa? I do not want anyone to be hurt tomorrow.” His voice grew small. “Maybe only Aerion, a little bit.”
Maekar ignored the bit on Aerion. He could handle only two difficult children at a time.
“If I swear it to you, will you go back to your chambers and get some rest? The hour has grown late, Aegon, you should not have been out of your bed to begin with.”
“No! I will leave once Daeron does. Please don’t leave me alone.”
Maekar sighed.
“Try to sleep now, then. Seeing as how you’ve already made me your bed roll.”
Aegon nodded against his chest and obediently closed his eyes, his tears having exhausted him.
It was quiet then, apart from Daeron’s muttering. Maekar ran a hand through his son’s sandy locks, a beautiful mix of his and Dyanna’s hair. What had become of their sweet boy?
“I must admit, brother,” said Baelor, quietly. “That your children are certainly more entertaining than mine own.”
Maekar snorted.
“They’re a herd of stampeding aurochs on a good day and untamed fire-breathing dragons on bad ones. I was so busy doing my duty and creating the perception of good heirs that I had no time left for being a father. Dyanna was a gift, and I’ve left the blessings she gave me to fend for themselves for too long.”
“To your credit, at least none of them have started a war.”
“Yet.”
He sighed and continued petting Daeron’s head.
“One son dreams of your death, the other two are inadvertently the cause of it. The third is a good boy, I’ll admit. Though it was unfair of father to send him to the citadel so young. The girls…need someone more than a war-hardened man to cherish them properly. When Dyanna was with child, I promised her that I would not be distant like our father. That I would be present with all of the children we would have and love and protect them fiercely. I do not know how I am going to answer her for my sins in the afterlife.”
“There is still time,” Baelor said. His tone offered more comfort than his words. “They are with you now, go back to Summerhall after this blasted tourney is finished and do as you desire. It is not too late to be a good father.”
“That remains to be seen.”
They shared another quiet moment, and Baelor brought a goblet of wine for Maekar to wet his throat.
“Enough with all this. We must deal with Aerion, and swiftly. Let us decide what needs to be done and then have him summoned.”
“Ah, well. I may have thought about it a little when your hands were full.”
**
Aerion sees Daeron on his knees in front of their lord father, weeping, weeping as he mutters inconsolably into his stomach. Aegon, the bald wretch has somehow curled into a tiny ball on Maekar’s lap and is asleep, but Aerion can still see the dried tear tracks on his face.
And his father. His father looks wretched as he attempts to show his sons comfort that he never has before. One hand awkwardly petting Daeron’s head, and the other cradling Aegon’s bald one to his chest. It is not enough that Maekar Targaryen is plagued by the physical affections of his oldest and youngest son, but there is a sheen to his eyes, one Aerion has not seen since they buried his mother.
For a brief moment, a hot stab of jealousy pierces Aerion so intently that he felt like he was ablaze. Out of all the four sons of his father, Daeron the drunk, Aegon the insolent and Aemon the bookish waif, only he displayed any of the blood of the dragon. He was knighted, he fought with skill and yet it was those useless, weak children that his father chose to coddle.
But only for a brief moment.
Despite how much this show of love cut at him, someone had hurt his brothers. Enough for them to shed tears and seek comfort in one that they would usually avoid. It was always Daeron who nursed Aegon’s many hurts and indulged his every mischief, even when drunk and insensate. It was Daeron’s bed the younger ones would climb into after a nightmare, and his laughter that followed them when they shrieked at him for being sick on the bed the next morning. It was Daeron that held his hand once and praised him for the meager fish he pulled out of the stormy seas of Dragonstone.
He would not stand for it. They were his to cherish and his to hurt.
“Father, what has happened? Who hurt them?”
“Your brothers will be fine, nephew. Come sit, we must talk.”
His Uncle Baelor was still in his leathers and there was a pinch in his brow, aging his face beyond his years. For all his arrogance, Aerion knew he could not disobey the Hand of the King, not when his own family sat falling apart in front of him.
“If it is not about my brothers’ tears Uncle, I hope you will be quick. We have a trial to fight tomorrow.”
“There will be no trial.”
What?
“What? It is my right, as someone who has been wronged. As a prince of the blood —“
“As a prince of the blood, all you’ve done is shame us these past few days,” Baelor interrupted. “Hurting a puppeteer for nought but a bit of laughter, fighting a hedge knight and then refusing to do the honorable thing and meet him in combat.”
“He attacked me,” said Aerion, hotly. “He protected someone committing treason and stole Aegon!”
“Silence. You will not speak until I am finished, boy.”
Aerion bit his tongue. His father’s temper was fiery. Quick to burn, quicker to put out. A few scathing words, a back hand for an egregious offense and he was done. Uncle Baelor’s was a cold flame that ate everything in its presence, swift and cutting. He had not been subject to his uncle’s wrath for many years, but even he could recognize he was treading a fine line.
“You will withdraw your accusations on the morrow. The hedge knight will lose a tooth and receive ten lashes for attacking you, but that is it. He will be sworn into my service and Aegon will squire for him. You will do this, if not for yourself, then for your family. I am not asking, Aerion.”
“Oh? For my family? Is it for my family that I must bow and scrape to the dullards of Flea Bottom? Tell me, Uncle, if Valarr had been humiliated so, would you ask him to throw away his pride for a no-name hedge knight? Or is this a special treat for the children of the fourth son?”
“Aerion.”
“Now you want to speak, father? When I simply asked your beloved brother a question? Is my honor not worth fighting for or am I simply to be deprived of that right because I am not like you?”
“Aerion.” His father sounded defeated. “Daeron had a dream that you died during the tourney. Our family…we have only survived because of Daenys’ warning about the Doom. He came to us to save your life.”
Aerion scoffed.
“It is convenient that you choose to believe him now and not before. Earlier it used to be so easy to give him sweet wine or milk of the poppy to shut him up. Am I to believe that you would listen to him now about my death? When you did not lend much credence when he spoke of mother’s?”
His father let out a loud sigh then, forcing Aerion to turn and meet his eye. Daeron had finally succumbed to sleep, and Aegon was drooling on Maekar’s collar.
“I believed him about Dyanna,” Maekar said, quietly. “It was simply too late.”
He took a breath to steady himself, and Aerion could see him build up the armor that made Maekar Targaryen who he was.
“I will not bury a son in this miserable place over his own foolishness. You will do as your uncle says. You will do it with the grace and dignity of a prince. After that, you will go north and learn from Rickon Stark for no less than six moons. And if I find that you have conducted yourself dishonorably or done something foolish again, mark my words Aerion, I will disinherit you.”
Aerion stilled. He would not dare.
“Hoping the snow will bury your sins, father?”
“I’m hoping it puts out some of your flames,” his father said, dryly. “The Seven know you burn too bright for it to be healthy. Perhaps a change of scenery will finally soothe whatever ache you are punishing the rest of us for, brat.”
Aerion said nothing. The fact that his father had spoken so plainly, had threatened to disinherit him over something like this. Daeron’s dream must have been monstrous.
“I will do as you say. I will be unhappy about it and you will answer all my ravens. I demand the right to choose a companion for the punishment.”
“You shall have them,” said Baelor. “Provided that they are not coming along for your cruel amusement.”
“Spare me the sanctimony, uncle. One does not get the moniker ‘Breakspear’ by being kind.”
“That was war, you insolent little…”
Aerion cut his father off with a wave.
“Yes, yes. I am insolent, dishonorable and cruel, we are all aware. If I’m to go quietly, I want another boon, within reason, when I’m back from this exile.”
Baelor’s eyes narrowed at him. For all his overprotectiveness, Maekar never truly did see what his sons had become. He was not the most affectionate father, but he was a father — loud and proud on most days. Baelor, though. His uncle knew exactly who he was and it deeply upset him. But his uncle was also a sentimental fool, so Aerion knew that there was still love in his judgmental gaze.
“I will consider it. Go, now. We must make the announcement when dawn breaks.”
Aerion inclined his head and walked towards his father.
“Do you want me to put the little rat to bed? You can take the drunk.”
He didn’t wait for permission before gently pulling Aegon from Maekar’s arms and securing him on his hip.
“He’s gotten thinner.”
“Lying and squiring doesn’t leave much time for healthful meals.”
He stood there until Maekar had maneuvered Daeron on to his back and lifted him with ease.
“We will see you on the morrow, brother. Remember to speak to the hedge knight before the announcement. Come, Aerion.”
They walked the empty halls of Ashford Castle, followed by two Kingsguard who had quietly slipped into place and offered to carry their burden. They both refused.
They dropped Aegon off first, and Maekar fussed over his blanket for a minute and ran a large hand over his bald head once before leaving. Daeron, was a little more difficult.
As soon as he was deposited on the bed, he shot up, awake and clutched at Maekar’s wrist.
“Is it done?” he rasped out.
“It is. Go to sleep, child. There will be no trial tomorrow.”
Aerion could see the tension leave his body and he slumped back into bed, muttering about a fallen golden dragon who would fly another day yet.
They walked in silence until they reached the door of his chambers.
“Aerion,” said Maekar. “I have failed you and you have done much in your effort to be seen. But you are still my boy. Come back from Winterfell changed for the better. Summerhall will wait for you.”
And with that, he walked away, leaving Aerion to his thoughts.
The dragon ought never lose, and yet, there he stood. He wondered what the snow would taste like and got ready for bed. He wondered if Lord Stark could be convinced to let him have a direwolf to bring back to Summerhall.
He closed his eyes and dreamed of a world bathed in ice and piercing blue eyes.