Chapter Text
That evening, like so many before it, Daeron drinks more than he should and not nearly as much as he’d like. When he does not pass out right there where he sits, he takes to wandering the familiar halls of the Keep. Without entirely knowing how he got there, he winds up in a small sitting room. Years ago his mother hosted visiting noble ladies here to sip sweet Dornish red and discuss the news of the realm while their youngest children played at their feet. Since her death it has remained unused and untouched, frozen in time.
It is here that he finally collapses onto a window bench. Thankfully it is a cushioned one. He flinches in anticipation of hitting hard wood, but instead his head is caught by a pillow, and Daeron lets out a huff of relief. Every now and then the Gods are kind.
Though worn and a bit musty, the pillow’s fine green silk is cool to his face, and the texture of the embroidery pleasant against his cheek. Instantly soothed, he soon falls asleep.
That evening, Daeron dreams.
-
Sometimes Daeron’s dreams are bright, full of fire and blood, smoke and ash. Sometimes they are dark and cold and drenched in sorrow. Some dreams are clear as day, solid and real, until he finds that everything he touches slips through his fingers like mist.
They all frighten him, but none more than the ones that are maddeningly just out of focus, as if viewed through a thin veil. They may as well be through a castle wall, impenetrable against Daeron’s desperate attempts to push through and prevent the horrors that unfold. Try as he may, he can’t even avert his eyes; the dreams won’t allow it. His mind is not his own.
Tonight’s dream begins similarly. Shadowy human figures linger just out of reach. The ground is on fire and it slowly engulfs them all while Daeron screams and screams.
Then, in an instant, the scorching flames give way to darkness.
A light appears. With it comes warmth and the smell of grass, lye soap and rosemary.
Daeron is weightless, drawn towards the light as if carried on a breeze. As he gets closer it grows and takes shape, until before him is a young woman. She is dressed in green and gold, with long waves of unmistakable silver-blonde hair spilling over her shoulders and deep blue eyes. He does not recognize her, he feels as though he has known her his whole life, and he cannot fathom how those things can both be true at once.
She peers back at him, similarly perplexed.
Daeron realizes he can move and speak of his own will. He lifts a hand but stops short of reaching out when he sees how her eyes dart nervously towards the movement.
“Are you real?” he asks instead, lowering his hand.
The woman considers Daeron. He can’t help but wonder how he appears to her. Does she see the red-faced, disheveled man in a wine stained shirt whose body is currently half sprawled across a bench? It should not matter in a dream, but he knows that this is no ordinary dream, and this woman is more than a vision. She is a dreamer, like him. Strangely, Daeron finds himself hoping his dream-self offers a more flattering first impression.
He watches her fingers fuss with the hem of her sleeve. After a moment, she reaches a hand out to tug at one of Daeron’s sleeves - that of a clean tunic, he is relieved to note. He remains stock still until she draws her hand back.
“As real as you are,” she decides.
“And…you are blood of the dragon?” he asks, glancing again at her hair.
“I am.” Her brow furrows. “So are you,” she adds. It isn’t a question, but she sounds uncertain.
Daeron breathes a soft laugh. “I am, though you’d hardly know it looking at me.” He reaches up self-consciously to fix his own hair, the sandy color more akin to watered down ale than the fairer shade his father and brothers all possess. It is a distinction he is grateful for, one which makes it easier to disappear into the dark corners of taverns, just another patron to anyone not paying close attention.
She is paying close attention, her wide-eyed gaze unwavering as she takes in his appearance. Unnerving as it is to be examined, Daeron feels calmer than he has in months. The woman’s eyes hold none of the pity or disgust he has become accustomed to. He can no longer remember a time when anyone looked upon him so kindly, without judgment. It’s something he did not realize he still wanted until now.
To his surprise, a tear slips down his cheek. Daeron swipes it away and looks at the dampness on his finger with wonder. What a strange dream this is indeed.
The woman slowly raises her hand, palm out, a silent invitation in the gesture. Somehow Daeron knows without asking what it is she wants. He mirrors her and lets his trembling hand drift towards hers. When their fingertips touch they both gasp.
Words can’t describe it. Daeron wouldn’t even bother to try. All he knows is that here, finally, is another soul who shares his gift, his curse. Someone who could truly understand him. And perhaps she is thinking the same, because her eyes gleam with unshed tears.
“What is your name?” she asks in a whisper.
“Daeron.”
She frowns. “You’re not - “ She pauses. Her expression softens and she begins again. “I see. A different Daeron. It’s my brother’s name, too.”
“And you?” he asks, wondering if this is an apparition of his grandfather’s sister, or maybe that of the Young Dragon before him.
“Helaena.”
“Helaena,” he repeats, at a loss. The name rings a bell, but years of drinking and dreaming have pushed the studies of his youth from his mind. Or could she be from a future generation? It amuses him to think of his family using the name Daeron again after he so thoroughly soaked it in shame, but then, his is not the only one.
Their fingers are still touching and neither is inclined to pull away. Then Helaena turns her head slightly as if listening to something behind her that Daeron cannot hear.
“I think I’m waking.”
“Will I see you again?” Daeron asks before he can think better of it.
Helaena’s attention returns to him, as surprised by the question as he is. “I don’t know,” she admits. “But…I hope so.”
She fades away and all goes dark.
-
Daeron wakes with a violent gasp. He nearly falls from the bench but manages to catch himself with one hand flat on the ground. His other arm has gone numb. He sits up, rubbing his head and groaning at the headache that has made its home in his skull for the foreseeable future.
His cheek tingles. When he touches it, Daeron feels an imprint left in the skin by whatever he was sleeping on. The culprit is a small pillow, prettily embroidered with gold vines and flowers. He picks it up and traces the intricate pattern. His fingers wander down to one corner, where a little silver H is stitched, hidden amongst the leaves.
Suddenly he remembers where his mind traveled that night and who he met there. The memory is not warped or hazy like a dream. It is as real as this pillow. Daeron curls his fingers into the plush fabric, running his thumb over the H. Just one letter, but it’s all he needs.
“Helaena.”