Archive of Our Own

The letter arrived at dawn.

King Maekar plucked the rolled parchment from the raven’s leg, immediately recognizing Aemon’s handwriting. He unfolded the letter, expecting a mundane update on Dragonstone. But as his eyes moved from line to line, more and more color drained from his face.

Father,

I apologize for bearing such unfortunate news, but Daeron has fallen ill with the pox. It progressed fast. As his maester and brother, I am doing all I can for him, but he is not getting much better. His fever refuses to break and it is quite frustrating. I do not mean to alarm you, as I am sure Daeron will pull through, but I wanted to keep you informed on his condition.

I understand you may be busy with your duties as king, but if you are able, consider coming to Dragonstone. I believe Daeron would appreciate it if you came to visit him, and I would as well.

Your son,
Maester Aemon Targaryen

The pox.

Daeron had the pox.

A shudder ripped through Maekar as his fingers trembled against the parchment. He knew firsthand just how painful and intense the pox could be. Swollen throats, rashes, muscles spams, fevers, and all the like. It was a terrible infection that took weeks to heal. He thought of Daeron, his sensitive and fragile son, bedridden in agony, and his stomach turned to knots.

He needed to go to Dragonstone now.

Before noon, Maekar was already on a ship, swiftly making his way to his eldest son. He left his duties to his hand, Bloodraven, who was more than capable of running the kingdom while he was gone. While he had his disagreements with his uncle in the past, and wasn’t always fond of the man, Maekar had to admit Bloodraven was as effective and loyal as he could ever get.

Upon his ship, Maekar was accompanied by two of his Kingsguard and a handful of his best maesters. Not that he doubted Aemon’s abilities, as his son had grown into a brilliant and capable healer, but it was clear from his letter that Daeron was declining, and the more maesters to help, the better and faster his son would recover.

Maekar paced aboard the deck, his movements jerky and abrupt. His heart drummed loudly in his ears as he wrung his hands, unable to completely mask the storm of emotions brewing inside him.

They would not arrive for another few days, and he was afraid Daeron would get worse in that time. Not for the first time, Maekar wished he had a dragon. To be born mere decades after the last dragon died was a travesty, and he, along with many of his family, had spent their whole lives trying to bring the beautiful creatures back.

But now, Maekar wished for one, not for their beauty or strength or fire, but for their speed. It was said that one could reach Dragonstone from King’s Landing in mere hours on dragonback, whereas it would take 3-4 days by sail.

If he had a dragon, he could reach Daeron by afternoon. He could be by his son’s bedside before the sun set upon the day. As he stood by the railing, watching their boat churn through the waters, he felt his frustration build.

They were going too fucking slow.

“Faster!” He barked at the captain, worry and agitation seeping through. It was probably the dozenth time in the last hour.

“Going as fast as we can, Your Grace.” Came the reply, the same reply Maekar received every time he ordered the ship to speed up.

The only comfort he had, the one thing that kept him from completely falling apart, was the reminder that pox wasn’t deadly. While it left ugly scars and its residual effects could linger for months, it was quite common to survive the disease. Although Daeron’s condition seemed to be a serious case, Maekar knew his son would pull through. Succumbing to pox was for the weak and elderly, and Daeron, despite all his failures, was blood of the dragon. Maekar clung onto that fact, for the thought of anything else was too much to bear.

Daeron would survive this.

He had to.

After three long days at sea, they finally reached Dragonstone. Word of their arrival had already been sent ahead by raven, and Aemon was by the docks waiting to greet his father.

Maekar did not hesitate. The moment the ship was docked, he was making his way off, marching towards his third son. “How is Daeron?” He asked immediately, once Aemon was within earshot.

Aemon grimaced, lowering his eyes slightly. “I’m afraid his condition has worsened, Father. He is not doing very well and rarely leaves his bed these days.”

“Lead me to him now.”

Together, they traversed through Dragonstone, proceeding into the Sea Dragon Tower where Daeron was being treated. They climbed the steep iron steps and arrived at a large corridor of chambers. Maesters swarmed, bowing to Maekar as he passed, but Maekar paid no heed to any of them, desperate to get to Daeron.

When he finally strode into his firstborn’s chambers and laid eyes upon his ill son, his heart froze.

Daeron looked horrible. His skin was ashen and sallow, his cheeks flushed, his eyes sunken and dull. Beads of sweat adorned his bare skin. His breaths came out ragged, uneven and broken fragments of gasps as he struggled to take in air.

It filled Maekar’s chest with dread.

“Daeron?” Aemon gently called out, and Daeron looked up. His glassy eyes widened as he registered Maekar standing behind his younger brother. “Brother, our father is here to see you.”

“Father,” Daeron croaked out. “Hello.” His voice was hoarse and raspy. He tried to sit up, limbs shaking, and a surge of dizziness forced his eyes closed for a moment. A bout of coughing followed.

Maekar quickly approached the bedside and forced him back down. “Don’t do that. Save your energy. Lay back down.” Daeron obliged, head meeting the pillow once more. Maekar grabbed one of his son’s hands. It was warm. Too warm. “Daeron, my boy. How are you feeling?”

His son raised an eyebrow and let out a faint snort. “What do you think? I feel spectacular.”

Maekar could not help but scowl, but it truly was his own fault. What a stupid question he had just asked. “Do you need anything right now? Water, milk of the poppy, anything?”

Daeron shook his head. “I’m alright…” His son let out a weak smirk. “... Some wine would be nice though. My cup is right there, if you would be so kind.” He tilted his head, and Maekar followed his gaze to a large golden goblet sitting upon a stand across the room.

Maekar felt all too familiar rage bubbling in his chest, a feeling that often accompanied dealing with his eldest son. Barely a minute into seeing him, and Maekar was already mad. He glared at the bedridden man, unamused. “This is not the time for jests, Daeron!”

Daeron gave a weak smile. “Not a jest. I really would like some wine at the moment. Just a few sips. Please.”

The absolute audacity of the boy. Oh, how Maekar wanted to strangle him. How Daeron still managed to make his blood boil so easily, even while sick, was maddening. But at least his son was well enough to provoke his father. There was that, at least.

“How exactly is wine going to help you get better?” Maekar snapped.

Daeron shrugged. “It’ll help my dreams, at least. And the tremors. I’ve gone too long without a drink, my body’s gotten weak.”

“Your body is weak because you have the pox. You need to rest up some more.” Maekar turned to one of the maesters in the room. “You,” he pointed at a wiry man donned in dark robes and a silver chain that symbolized his mastery of medicine. “Go fetch some more milk of the poppy.”

“At once, Your Grace.”

The man skirted off, and returned moments later with a cup filled of the thick white liquid. Carefully, Maekar and Aemon helped sit Daeron up, and the maester gently poured the milky substance down Daeron’s throat.

Maekar addressed the maesters once more, after Daeron was lying down again. There were about half a dozen scattered in the room right now, either watching his heir or reading through thick books, trying to find new methods to heal Daeron faster. “You all should go get some rest. I’ll keep watch,” he said gruffly.

The maesters glanced at each other hesitantly. One of them, a red haired man with an ugly mustache, spoke up. “Your Grace, I’m not sure that—”

“You think I can’t watch my son for a few hours? Go, all of you. I won’t ask again.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

One by one, the maesters left, emptying the room. All but Aemon, who lingered still by Daeron’s bedside.

“You too, Aemon,” Maekar said. When Aemon opened his mouth to protest, Maekar quickly overrode him with a fierce look. “You look like you’re about to drop dead as well. Get some sleep. I’ve got him.” Although Aemon looked presentable, Maekar could see the dark circles beneath his son’s eyes, the slightly slumped posture and disheveled hair. Aemon most likely hadn’t slept in days.

With a nod, Aemon relented and departed the room as well, leaving Maekar alone with his bedridden firstborn.

He turned back to Daeron. “The milk of the poppy should kick in soon. Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake.”

Daeron nodded weakly. Within a few minutes, sleep overtook him, his dull eyes fluttering shut. His breathing slowed, though it remained shallow and uneven.

Maekar kept his hold on his son’s hand, rubbing soothing circles in his skin. His firstborn child looked more fragile than ever. Daeron had lost much weight since the last time they saw each other. His cheeks were now hollow and his wrists were much too thin. Maekar was a king, and yet there was nothing he could do to help but sit by his son’s side in quiet vigil and pray for a swift recovery.

He knew of the anguish his son was in. He too, had the pox before. Maekar had been bedridden for days, his skin hot with fever and full of sores. His throat had swelled up, and he could hardly keep anything down. He hardly moved during that week, teetering between life and death.

In the end, Maekar’s face was left permanently scarred from the illness, his cheeks forever lined with red spots that he hid with his beard.

But he survived.

Although there were many times through that agonizing experience Maekar believed his life was over, he made it out alive.

And if he could do it, so could his son.

Maekar stayed with Daeron for days, refusing to leave his side as the pox took its toll. He kept his son company through long, restless hours, offering quiet words of comfort and tending to his needs with unwavering attention. He helped Daeron up every once in a while to stretch his legs, but his son rarely made it very far from his chambers before being overtaken by fatigue.

Despite the illness that pillaged through Daeron, it did not dampen his dragon dreams. While milk of the poppy helped numb the pain and made it easier for his son to fall asleep, it did nothing to calm the rage of visions that continued to plague Daeron.

Time blurred into an endless stretch of worry and vigilance. One evening, after making sure Daeron had taken his proper medicine and sending Aemon off to bed, Maekar sank into the chair beside the bed, meaning only to rest his eyes for a moment. Without realizing it, he dozed off.

“No, no, run… please…No!”

Meaner startled awake in his chair, eyes landing on Daeron. His son’s eyes were still closed, his brows furrowed as his body writhed around on the bed. He was drenched in sweat. His hands clawed at his sheets, distress and misery lining every inch of his face as he murmured.

“No… it burns… run Vaella… no, no please, no, NO VAELLA—“

Daeron thrashed wildly and screamed. Maekar rushed to his son, shaking his arm to wake him up. Daeron’s eyes snapped open, crazed and feral. He let out a gasp and swung his limbs wildly, a fist catching Maekar’s shoulder. He winced, but his son was weakened by the pox, so the blow had little effect.

Maekar continued to comfort his son. “It’s me, Daeron! It’s me, your father. You’re safe. You’re in Dragonstone. Look at me. Look, it’s me.” He held his son steady until Daeron’s eyes adjusted and he realized where he was and who he was with.

“Father…” Daeron’s bloodshot eyes stared into him. “Summerhall,” he whispered. “Don’t let Vaella go to Summerhall.”

Maekar couldn’t do anything but nod and reassure his son. “Of course. No Summerhall for Vaella.”

His son shook, grabbing onto Maekar tightly. “No, no, no. You’re not getting it! You have to promise me. You can’t take her there. She’ll die. Summerhall will burn and Vaella will die! You have to keep her away! You have to!”

“Alright, alright! Daeron, I understand.” Maekar indeed did not understand, for he never truly understood any of his son’s dragon dreams. But right now, he indulged him, hoping it would calm him down.

Daeron sagged, all the fight going out of him as exhaustion took over. The tension in him dissolved, but he continued to mutter under his breath, about Vaella and fires and Summerhall.

Maekar reached over and against his better judgement, grabbed the cup of wine sitting on the stand. “Drink,” he ordered. This was a horrible idea, but if the wine could dull Daeron’s visions, then perhaps his sleep would be more restful. The priority now was recovering from the pox. He would deal with Daeron’s alcohol problems afterwards.

His son took a few sips of the wine before Maekar pulled the cup away, refusing to let him drink more than he deemed necessary. He tucked Daeron back into bed and waited for his breaths to slow, before drifting off the sleep himself.

Maesters came and went, bringing medicine and food and checking in on the sick prince every few hours. Aemon as well. Maekar continued to stay in Daeron’s chambers the entire time. On the fourth day after his arrival, Maekar noticed that Daeron had gotten quieter than usual. His son responded to him less and less, withdrawing into his own mind whenever Maekar tried to talk.

He tried to ignore it, but something was wrong. By midday, Maekar could no longer hold in his worry. “Is everything okay?” he asked his son. “Does somewhere hurt? Do you need something? I can fetch more milk of the poppy if you need it?”

More milk of the poppy was a terrible suggestion, as his son had far exceeded the normal amount usually given, but Maekar did not care—as long as his son was comfortable.

Daeron did not reply, his expression glum. There was something clearly bothering his boy, and Maekar was not letting it go.

“Daeron,” he said, more sternly. “What is it?”

His son shrugged. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“You are not fine!” Maekar snapped. He could not help the exasperation that seeped into his voice. “Something is wrong.”

“Nothing is wrong.”

“Daeron!”

His son let out a frustrated growl. “Leave me alone!”

Maekar refused. “What is bothering you?”

“Nothing, Father.”

Maekar closed his eyes, trying to stave off his temper. It would do no good if his fury got the best of him right now, but Gods was Daeron making it difficult to maintain his composure. Taking a deep breath, he mustered up all his patience. “Daeron, you have been avoiding me today. If I have done something to offend you, then I apologize. If you would like me to leave, then I will. But you must tell me what it is exactly that has you so upset, or else I cannot help you.”

Finally, his son responded with something other than denial. “You don’t need to stay here, you know.”

“What?” Maekar frowned. “Do you have a problem with my presence?” He felt guilty. Maybe he should not have spent every moment crowding into his son’s space. He was impeding his son’s recovery by hovering like a mother hen the entire time.

Daeron sighed. “No, of course not. It-its just that… It's really alright if you leave. I know you have much more important things to do. Other things you rather be doing.”

Maekar stared, incredulous. “There’s nothing more important to me than your health right now, Daeron.”

“That’s not true.”

Yes it was. Of course it was. How could his son think such a thing? That his own recovery was not Maekar’s top priority? “Daeron, look at me.”

His heir did not turn, deliberately avoiding eye contact. “Look, Father, I will be alright. You have been here for four days, and I have not shown any signs of improvement. I know you are frustrated with the lack of progress. So, just go. Go back to Kings Landing. It’s fine. You need not spend all day looking after your disappointment of a son.”

“That’s not what this is.” A wave of alarm washed over Maekar as he tried to process his son’s line of thinking.

Daeron shuddered. “It’s all my fault. You are here, away from home, having to attend to me when you could be doing anything else. Once again, I am your burden.” A tear slipped down his cheek. “I’m sorry, Father.”

Maekar felt sick. Did his son truly think he was so worthless, nothing but a nuisance to the crown? Maekar knew he was not the best at showing affection, but surely Daeron knew how important he was to him, yes? But it did not seem that way, and it made Maekar’s stomach churn.

“Daeron, let's make one thing clear,” he said, unable to keep his voice from wavering. “You are my son. I am here not because I am forced to, or out of duty. I am here because I want to be by your side. The last few days have been the longest we’ve spent together in so long. Despite your illness, I have enjoyed my time with you.” He reached over and cupped his son’s cheek. “I love you, Daeron. I love you. There is no place I would rather be right now, and I need you to believe me.”

His son remained unconvinced. “All I am was a disappointment. Now, I am an even greater one.”

“I don’t care, Daeron, I still love you. And I need you to live. Survive this, and then you can prance around the realm as much as you like, go visit your brothels and get drunk and do whatever you wish, I care not. Disappoint me as much as you like, but I need you to live.”

“I’m not the heir you want though.” More tears slipped out. “You are wasting your time here, trying to make me feel better. I’m not like Aerion.”

“I never wanted you to be like Aerion.” When Daeron let out a disbelieving scoff, Maekar quickly amended. “Fine, I admit I always wanted you to be more of a warrior, like me. I wanted you to be strong in sword and battle. But it matters not anymore. All you need to focus on is getting better.”

“But I can't,” Daeron rasped out, sob wrenching its way out from his throat. “I can’t fight this, it's too much. It’s too much. It hurts too much.”

“You can.” Maekar clamped a hand on Daeron’s shoulder. “Listen to me, son. You are not worthless to me. You are my firstborn and my heir, and I will never give up on you. You can do this. You can fight this. You will fight this. You cannot let the pox win.” He gestured towards his own face. “Look, Daeron. Look at my scars. They are proof I survived the pox. I know the pain you are in, I know how it feels. But I survived, and so can you. I know it.”

A trembling arm reached out, lightly tracing the red spots that covered Maekar’s cheek. Maekar leaned in slightly, watching his son’s eyes roam his face. “But I’m not strong like you,” Daeron whispered.

Maekar gently grabbed his son’s hand from his face, planting a kiss on his fingers. “Yes you are. You are strong. Your strength comes from your heart. Like your mother.” Indeed, out of all his children, his firstborn resembled Dyanna the most, both in appearance and in character.

Daeron choked up again at the mention. “But Mother died from her sickness.”

“She did, yes. But you will not succumb like her. You will be stronger than her, Daeron. You will survive this. And I will be here every step of the way, unless you ask me not to be. If I am a burden to your recovery, I will go.” He stood up. “If you desire, I will leave right now—”

“No!” His son gasped out. “No, no, please don’t leave. I didn’t mean to… Father, stay. I need you by my side. Please, stay.”

So, Maekar did.

He leaned forward again and procured a handkerchief from an inside pocket. He began to wipe the streaks of tears and sweat from his son’s face, and once he was done, he pressed a kiss on Daeron’s forehead before sitting back down in his chair. “Alright, I won’t leave. I promise. If anything else bothers you, speak up and do not let it wallow. Understand?”

Daeron nodded, his expression noticeably lighter than it had been an hour ago. A few minutes later, he was asleep, safe under his father’s watchful eye.

By the end of the week, Maekar was being ousted from Daeron’s chambers by Aemon.

“You have not slept properly for a while, Father. Thank you for watching Daeron, but now it's your turn to rest up. Go, your chambers have been prepped already for days and you have not touched it.”

“But it is not yet evening,” Maekar protested. “The sun still shines upon the day.”

“So what? You have not slept in a bed since Kings Landing. Day or night, you need to sleep. Daeron will not die from being away from you for a few hours. It is my turn to spend time with Daeron. Now go!” Aemon all but pushed his father out.

Maekar did not go to his chambers. He instead wandered around the castle aimlessly, his thoughts disoriented and consumed with worry. Daeron was not getting better. The fever still ravaged his body, seeping more and more of his son’s strength with every hour.

He found his way to a stone balcony in one of Dragonstone’s dark towers, overlooking the rest of the island. Wind moved softly around him, and the sky stretched endlessly above, filled with fluffy, white clouds. Below him, the sea rippled, waves crashing against shore. It was a beautiful day, but Maekar did not have it in him to enjoy any of the beauty, his mind too occupied with his son’s condition.

He did not hear the little footsteps creeping behind him, did not know he wasn’t alone, until he felt a tug on his robe. Maekar looked down to see Vaella’s wide eyes peering up at him. “Grandpa!”

“Hello, little one,” he said softly, bending down to her eye level. “What are you doing here?”

“I had a bad dream yesterday,” Vaella said softly. “Mama said it’s nap time, but I don’t want to sleep right now.”

“Where’s your mother?” Maekar glanced around for any sign of Kiera, but she was nowhere to be found. “Come on, let's go back to your chambers. Your mother will be worried if she finds you gone.”

Vaella vehemently shook her head. “No!”

She was as stubborn as her father, it seemed. Plastering a smile on his face, Maekar held a hand out. “Alright then. How about we go on a walk together? Just you and me?”

Vaella nodded and Maekar wrapped his calloused hand around her soft, little one. Together, they headed down the balcony, making their way through the corridors that led out of the castle. Maekar made sure to notify a Kingsguard of his and Vaella’s whereabouts, lest Kiera worry.

The two found a spot by Aegon’s garden, among roses and wildflowers. Maekar sat on a ledge and watched his granddaughter curiously explore. It eased his heart, just a little, being here with Vaella. For the first time in days, his thoughts were not solely occupied with Daeron’s health. Vaella let out a giggle when a butterfly landed on her shoulder, her eyes lighting up in joy. Maekar felt his chest tighten. With her sandy curls and bright violet eyes, she looked so much like her father.

Oh, how long had it been since Maekar saw that same spark of happiness in Daeron’s eyes?

Vaella skipped her way through the winding garden path, her steps full of energy. She stopped every once in a while to sniff at whatever pretty flower had caught her attention, before she found herself splashing in the fountain. By the time she made it back to her grandfather, her hands and hair were damp with water, and smudges of dirt covered her dress.

“Would you like to tell me of your dream?” Maekar asked Vaella, who was now leaning into him with a dandelion in hand, blowing fluff into the air.

Vaella paused in her dandelion blowing. “There was a dragon,” she began. “It was big and gold and strong. It soared in the sky and I rode on it.” Her smile slipped and she let out a small sniffle. “Then, it got sick or something, and we crashed to the ground.” She glanced up at Maekar, her big eyes full of sorrow. “The dragon died. Do you think that’s going to happen to Papa?”

“No, no, of course not,” Maekar was quick to reassure his granddaughter, although a chill crept up his spine at Vaella’s words. He leaned down to give her a kiss on the forehead, and brushed a strand of wet hair back. Gods, she really did look like Daeron. “Your father will be fine,” he said. “He’s a bit sick now, but he will recover. Your father is strong, Vaella. He will pull through.”

“But the dragon in my dream was strong too.”

“Your father is stronger.” Maekar gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze. “Do not fret, little one. Your father will live. Now, let's head back to the castle now, alright? The sun is about to set.”

Vaella seemed ready to go back home. She nodded with a yawn, and Maekar led her back to her chambers, back to her mother, before finally making his way to his own.

Sleep did not find Maekar easily. His granddaughter’s dream ate at him and he could not seem to let it go. There was something so dark and unsettling about it all. A sick golden dragon. It didn’t feel like a coincidence, was too specific, too relevant. And to come from Vaella too? Trepidation climbed up his spine. His son Daeron spent his whole life haunted by visions. Was it possible that his daughter had inherited them?

No, it couldn’t be. He convinced himself against it, for it would be the only way he could possibly get some rest. Vaella’s dream was just a normal nightmare, sprung from a child’s vivid imagination. He had to believe that. There was no way Daeron was dying. Maekar was not losing his son to fucking pox.

But even then, the thought lingered, unwelcome and loud. He tossed and turned in his bed, unable to find the rest he desperately desired. Although he was exhausted to the bone, he could not bring himself to fall into deep sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he would see Vaella’s dead golden dragon, dead and still, and then it would turn into a dead Daeron. He would see his son, pale and unmoving, and he would break out in cold sweat.

It went on for a few hours, the shallow and unrestful little bouts of sleep. When he couldn’t take it anymore, he paced around his chambers and opened a window, hoping some fresh air would help. A cool breeze drifted in, brushing against his face and carrying a faint scent of the sea. He rested his hands on the sill, letting the quiet stillness of the night settle around him. As he watched the sky, a streak of light appeared, arcing across the darkness before vanishing.

A shooting star.

Dyanna, is that you? Maekar thought, staring at the place where the shooting star disappeared. Oh Dyanna, please help me. What should I do? Help me save our son.

He watched as another shooting star swept through the night. Then another. Perhaps this really was a sign. Maekar clasped his hands together and dipped his head down in prayer.

Please, Dyanna and all the Gods that may be listening, give Daeron the strength to survive this. Let him make a swift recovery. Let my son heal, both his body and his mind. Please, I cannot lose him.

Daeron deteriorated over the following week.

His fever spiked, the pain escalated, and soon enough, he was completely bedridden, having no strength anymore to get out of bed, even with assistance. He would have to be completely carried for baths and the privy.

Daeron’s spirits also declined drastically. He became detached, indifferent. It seemed he no longer cared to get better anymore. One day, when Maekar was about to give him his daily dose of milk of the poppy, his son turned away, avoiding the cup.

“Daeron, you must drink.”

“It won’t work. It doesn’t matter. I won’t be getting better.”

“Nonsense!” Maekar could not help but refute the statement. “You will get better. Now drink up.”

But Daeron shook his head. “Father… It's alright. You need not try so hard anymore. I already saw it.”

Maekar frowned. “What do you mean?”

His son swallowed painfully. “In my dreams. Last night, I saw… I saw myself die in this room. I saw the funeral. I saw it all already. This wasn't even the first time I dreamed of it.” He sniffled. “You can try all you want, Father, but my fate is already written.”

No.

No, no, no.

Blood froze in his veins and Maekar was overcome with dread. His mouth went dry. A cold, hard, knot formed in his gut. Daeron was wrong. He had to be wrong. Maekar shook his head. “Daeron, it was just a dream.” He had no idea who he was trying to convince more, himself or his son.

Daeron grimaced. “We both know my dreams are never just dreams. I’m telling you, I saw it all. The illness, my death, even the aftermath. Quite jarring, as you’d expect.” Daeron let out a small, wet laugh. “You didn’t even cry at my funeral.”

Maekar flinched. His heart hammered against his ribs and his head spun. He recalled Vaella’s dream of the dead gold dragon and his stomach clenched. Gods, he wanted to throw up. But he couldn’t allow himself to believe it. To believe meant to give up hope. “You are not going to die,” he said firmly. “Daeron, listen to me. You will recover. Forget about that dream. Focus on getting better, nothing else.”

“But you know my dreams… my dreams always come true,” Daeron murmured.

“Fuck your dreams. You will not die here, Daeron. Do you hear me? You will survive this. You must survive this!”

His son just looked at him mournfully, a dejected expression across his face. Maekar cupped his son’s face in his calloused hands. “Fight, please. You need to win. You need to live, Daeron. Please. I need you to fight this!” He placed his forehead against Daeron’s. “Please,” he whispered. “Please.”

But his son seemed to have completely given up.

That evening, Maekar made his way to the sept at Dragonstone. He walked into the sacred building, a candle in hand, ready to speak to his Gods and beg for his son’s survival.

To his surprise, he found Kiera there, kneeling with a candle. Maekar frowned. He was sure Essos did not believe in the Seven Pointed Star, and as Kiera was from Tyrosh, he was lost as to why she would be in the sept worshipping Gods she had no faith in.

Kiera lifted her head when she heard him approach. “Your Grace,” she said, dipping her head. “I did not expect to see you here.”

“Neither did I expect you,” Maekar said. “I must admit, it confuses me as to your presence here. I did not think Tyrosh believed in the Faith of the Seven.”

“We do not,” Kiera agreed. She glanced around at the sept, and the statues of the Crone and the Stranger and the Mother. “But I still thought it would be nice to pray here, for Daeron’s recovery. Although it is not my faith, it is the faith of the kingdom.”

That was understandable. Maekar sat down besides his daughter in law, and together, they made their way through the altars of the sept, quietly reading scriptures and praying.

Afterwards, Kiera broke the silence between them. “You know how he came to have the pox, yes?”

Of course Maekar did. Everyone knew the most common way to get the illness was through brothels and pleasure houses. He swallowed, grimacing. “Kiera—”

“Our marriage was not out of love, but out of duty, as you know very well,” Kiera interrupted, her voice bitter. “I know he does not love me the way I want to be loved, and I admit I do not love him the way I loved Valarr. Daeron is… well, you know how he is. The visions never leave him and so he finds comfort in… other places. I understand, but I cannot lie and say it does not hurt.”

Maekar had nothing to say. What could he possibly say anyway, to comfort a woman with an unfaithful husband that happened to be his eldest son? Whose said husband was now dying from an illness he caught at a brothel?

She drew in a deep breath. “I mean no disrespect, Your Grace,” she added. “I apologize for my words, I did not mean to insult—“

Maekar held a hand up. He was all too aware of Darron’s behaviors. “You are entitled to how you feel, Kiera. It is alright, you may speak freely with me. I will not punish you for it.”

“Thank you, you are most generous, Your Grace.” Kiera’s gaze landed back onto her flickering candle. “Daeron is many things, but he is also a good man. He is a good father to Vaella, when he is present, and our daughter adores him. He cannot help the fate he was born with, he should not be blamed for those horrid dreams that haunt him.” She blew out the flame, then turned back to Maekar. “No matter our differences, I do not wish Daeron to die.”

Kiera stood up, straightening her outfit before giving Maekar another bow. “I am glad we had a chance to speak tonight. I won’t bother you anymore. I will be on my way now, Your Grace.”

“Goodnight, Kiera.”

“Goodnight, Your Grace.”

Maekar watched his daughter-in-law go, disappearing into the darkness. He turned back towards the statues that loomed before him, to the Gods that stared into his soul. Seven Gods that decided the order of the world, that would decide Daeron’s fate.

“You cannot have him,” Maekar whispered, eyes glued onto The Stranger. Not yet. Not Daeron. Come back for him in twenty, thirty years. You cannot have my son right now. I refuse to let him go to you. Not before me.

He closed his eyes, and began to pray once again.

His prayers remained unanswered, as Daeron’s condition worsened drastically overnight. By morning, his son’s complexion was paler than ever, appearing waxy and grayish. His breathing grew more laboured, his eyes remaining dull and half closed. His son looked like a corpse.

Maekar's throat tightened at the sight. Daeron always resembled Dyanna with their matching sandy hair. It took Maekar years to be able to look his son in the eyes after his wife passed, and still, decades later, he would see Dyanna reflected in Daeron whenever he gazed upon him. And now, Daeron, with his pale face and disheveled hair, looked just like Dyanna before she passed from her illness. Oh, was his son cursed to meet a similar fate as his mother?

The maesters were losing hope. Maekar could hear their distressed murmurs all around him. Could see it in the way they huddled amongst themselves. The way they refused to meet his eyes.

Aemon tried to coax some more milk of the poppy into Daeron’s lips, but he refused to drink. “Throat hurts too much,” Daeron managed to mumble. His voice was hoarse and soft, and he winced every time he spoke.

“Daeron, please. You have to drink this.” Aemon’s eyes were already filled with tears.

“Sorry… can’t…” Daeron was slipping.

Maekar grabbed Daeron’s hand and shook his shoulder. “Daeron, don’t drift off. Stay awake!”

“It’ll be alright. Let me go,” Daeron whispered. “Let me go.”

But how could Maekar possibly do such a thing? How could he let his firstborn die before him? Maekar shook his head, grip tightened on Daeron’s hand. “No,” he said. “I refuse.”

“Father… please.” His son begged. “I’m so tired. I don’t want to fight anymore. I… I just want to be free… free of my dreams, free of… everything.”

Aemon let out a sound of anguish. Maekar turned to the other maesters that were watching the scene anxiously. “Do something!” He roared. “Fix him!”

One brave maester spoke, his voice soft. “I’m afraid there’s nothing more that can be done, Your Grace.”

“He is my heir! Do you not understand? My heir. He is to be your king after I am dead. He cannot die before then. He cannot die before me!”

“We have tried everything,” another maester said. “Your Grace, there truly is nothing else we can do.”

White-hot anger crashed into him. He clenched his fists, using all his energy to restrain himself from hitting the man. “So that’s it?” Maekar snapped. “We do nothing and wait for Daeron to die?”

“Father, I’m so sorry, but there truly isn’t anything else we can do,” Aemon said, his voice breaking. A tear rolled down his face and he bowed his head. “I’m sorry.”

This was absolutely unacceptable. Maekar stalked up to his third son. “You will fix your brother!” He shoved Aemon towards the bed, fingers digging into his shoulder, ignoring Aemon’s small gasp of pain. “Do something! Fix him now, you useless idiot!”

His son didn’t say a word. He stared at Daeron for a few moments, then with a choked sob, Aemon ripped himself from his father’s grip and fled the room.

Maekar almost went after him, but Daeron’s voice stopped him. “Don’t… don’t blame Aemon for this,” his heir managed out. “It’s not his fault.”

He whipped back around to stare at his son. “So we just accept it? That you’re going to die? And that’s that? I can’t do it, Daeron.”

“Father… please… please… let go.”

Maekar shook his head, and stormed out of the room, unable to bear it any longer. He stalked into his own chambers, slamming the door so hard the hinges almost blew off. Finally, he let his rage go. Goblets smashed into the ground, liquid spilling everywhere. Tables overturned. Glass shattered into a million pieces. Maekar punched a wall again, and again, and again, until his knuckles were bloody and he was sure a bone was broken. Then, he sank down onto the floor, amongst all the wreckage, and sobbed.

Afterwards, he went to find Aemon. Maekar had bandaged his injured hand and made sure he looked presentable enough, before venturing out of his mess of a room. He found Aemon sitting in the garden, eyes downcast and red rimmed. He flinched when he saw his father approaching, and Maekar felt a rush of guilt.

He sat down next to Aemon. “I apologize for earlier. My behavior was unacceptable.”

Aemon let out a sniffle. “It is alright. You were scared for Daeron.”

“Still, it does not make it right. I hurt you, and I am sorry.”

“You were right though,” Aemon said, shuddering. “I am a useless idiot. Daeron is dying and it’s all my fault.”

“Aemon, I did not mean to call you that.”

“But it’s true!” His son squeezed his eyes shut and turned away. “I spent years training at the Citadel. I have been a full fledged maester for over a decade and still, I could not cure my brother. I could not help him with his dreams, and now he is going to die from the pox and I still can’t do anything but watch helplessly.”

“Dozens of maesters could not cure Daeron. It is not on you. Not his dreams, and not his pox. I apologize for making it seem like it was your fault. I put too much weight on you. I am sorry.”

Aemon crumpled. A broken sound tore from his throat as the tears came all at once, hot and relentless. His shoulders shook and his breathing became uneven and desperate. Maekar gathered his son in his arms, and Aemon collapsed against him, sobs tearing through him. “He’s going to die,” Aemon weeped. “It’s not fair, it's not fair, it's not fair.”

Yes, it wasn’t. It wasn’t fair at all. And all Maekar could do was hold his heartbroken son as he cried his heart out. “It’s not your fault,” Maekar soothed over and over again as he held Aemon tightly, but he knew his words were falling on deaf ears. Aemon would blame himself for this for the rest of his life.

That evening, with a heavy heart, Maekar sent four letters out, one to each of his other children, to let them know of their brother’s worsening condition. Aerion at Summerhall, Daella at Tarth, Aegon at King’s Landing, and Rhae in the Vale.

Maekar did not know how long Daeron had, but he hoped his heir could hold on long enough for his siblings to come say goodbye.

Daeron was dead.

Dead.
Dead.
Dead.

Daeron had made it through one more night before finally succumbing at sunset the following day.

Maekar and Aemon had spent the entire day in Daeron’s chambers, making him as comfortable as possible. Kiera and Vaella were there as well, keeping vigil. Daeron did not talk much in the time before he passed. He had drifted in and out of consciousness, delirious for the most part. Maekar held his son's hand in the final hours, comforting him as best he could with words and assurances even though he wasn't sure Daeron heard any of it.

Then, right before the sun set upon the day, Daeron let out one last shaky breath, and was still.

Maekar was well familiar with death. It was practically an old friend by this point, claiming his parents, all his brothers, and his nieces and nephews throughout the years.

He and Dyanna were lucky that all their children survived infancy. He never suffered the loss of losing a babe or a child, and all six of his children had lived and grown and thrived. Well, thrive might be a bit pushing it. But they’d all lived, and despite the substantial amount of loss Maekar had suffered, losing a child was never one of them, thankfully.

Until now.

Daeron’s body was removed from his chambers and placed in a holding area in the sept before the burning.

The funeral happened a week later, once everyone had arrived in Dragonstone. That entire week, Maekar was numb. He barely ate and barely slept. The world had simply stopped moving. People spoke to him, but their words felt distant, muffled. He nodded when he was supposed to nod. He answered when spoken to, monotone and detached. He moved about like a ghost, disconnected from reality.

You didn’t even cry at my funeral.

True to his son’s vision, not a single tear slipped out during the entirety of Daeron’s burning. The septons droned on and on about Gods and souls, but Maekar did not hear a single word. He stood straight and poised, the epitome of a king, no trace of emotion on his face. But his heart felt hollow. Every breath felt like ice in his lungs as he watched his eldest son burn upon the pyre. He wanted nothing more than to scream and sob and curse the Gods.

But he did none of those things.

He maintained a stoic, strong composure despite the storm of grief inside him. Aemon and Aerion stood on either side of him. Aegon and his wife Bertha stood near Aemon. Rhae and Daella stood behind with their families.

All six of his children gathered together, one last time.

Everyone was sobbing. Even Aerion, who was trying desperately to pretend he wasn’t crying, wiping his face with his sleeve angrily every time a tear rolled down. Aemon cried the most, unable to contain his wails and his guilt. Aegon held his brother tightly, whispering comforts as tears streamed down his own cheeks.

Everyone was a mess.

Everyone but Maekar.

He locked himself in Daeron’s chambers afterwards.

The scent of medicine and sickness still lingered in the air, but he did not care. He lowered himself onto the edge of the bed and pressed his face into his trembling hands.

He recalled the day Dyanna told him she was with child. Maekar remembered it so very clearly. He had only been ten and six when he had his firstborn, barely a man grown then. Although he was the youngest of four brothers, he was the first of them to have a child. He spent Dyanna’s entire pregnancy hovering over her, frightened but excited.

Daeron was born big and healthy, and Maekar let out a huge breath of relief when he saw both Dyanna and his newborn were alive and well. He was even more elated to learn that his firstborn had his mother’s sandy gold hair.

“Daeron,” Dyanna had suggested. “After your father the Good King.”

Maekar had agreed, and thus Daeron Targayren was named.

And now, Daeron was dead. Nothing but ash buried in Dragonstone forever.

Maekar screamed. Finally, he let go of the composure he had forced himself to carry for the last week. The silence of the room broke as grief poured out of him in ragged, unrestrained cries. His son was dead. Daeron was dead. His poor, tormented, sensitive son with horrible dreams he could never get rid of.

Why were the Gods so cruel? Why could they not have taken Maekar instead? Why did they insist on taking away everyone Maekar ever loved?

Through the haze of tears, his gaze landed on the cup by the stand.

Daeron’s wine cup.

He did not know what possessed him to, but somehow, he found himself reaching for it. Maekar held the cup with both hands, peering into the swirling red liquid. It was half full still. His own tired eyes stared back, sunken and grief stricken. His reflection trembled with each unsteady breath he took in. He studied his wavering self within the wine, gaze glued to the etches of the scars along his face—the only signs left of the pox that once ravaged his body.

Pox that he survived, but his son could not.

He downed the cup in a single gulp, but it did nothing to dull the pain that pierced his very soul.

Maekar doubted anything would.

“Daeron. His name is Daeron Targaryen.”

Maekar looked down at the babe in his arms, at the soft silver hair that crowned his head and curious violet eyes.

The next months after his son’s death had passed by in a blur. Maekar returned to the Crownlands, returned to his duties as king. He had an entire kingdom to run after all, and he could not afford the luxury to hide in his chambers and cry all day, no matter how much he wished to. He named Aerion heir, gave him Dragonstone, and everything else proceeded as usual. He signed parchments, argued with lords, and oversaw the most irritating small council meetings.

Now, half a year later, Maekar found himself in a chamber at Kings Landing, cradling the newborn babe that Bertha just birthed. Aegon’s fourth child. His son stood by his wife’s bedside, beaming. “Do you approve of the name, Father?”

He stared at the babe, named for his uncle whom he will never meet. Maekar could feel tears welling in his eyes as he choked out, “Yes. Yes, of course. It's a beautiful name.”

And slowly, the hole in his heart stitched itself together, just a little. The hollowness that had haunted him for months eased. Not gone, no. He would never feel whole again. But the pain softened around the edges as he felt little Daeron squirm. For the first time since his son died, Maekar felt a flicker of warmth.

Welcome to the family, Daeron.

He prayed this Daeron would be granted a better fate than the man he was named for.

(Unfortunately, the Gods are cruel and Daeron Targaryen, son of Aegon V, lives an even shorter life than his namesake. But at least the horrible dreams that plagued Daeron the Drunken do not reach this Daeron, so perhaps the Gods did indeed finally answer Maekar’s prayers.)