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The wind off Blackwater Bay had teeth that night.
It crept through the high arches of the Red Keep like a living thing, slipping along the corridors and galleries with long, restless fingers. Torch flames bent and guttered as it passed, and the old stones of the castle seemed to breathe the cold back out into the night air.
Far below the cliff walls, the waters of the bay moved in slow dark swells, moonlight breaking across them in fractured bands of pale silver. Ships anchored in the harbor creaked against their moorings, ropes straining softly. From somewhere in the distance came the lonely call of a harbor bell.
Kiera of Tyrosh stood at the edge of an open gallery overlooking the sea.
She had not brought a cloak, what would be the point?
The wind pulled at the long braids woven through her soft pink hair, lifting them so that the tiny golden rings threaded through them chimed faintly together.
Chime. Chime.
The sound was delicate, barely louder than the whispering wind but in the quiet gallery it carried clearly.
In Tyrosh it would have blended easily into the life of the city. Harbor bells ringing from the towers. Sailors shouting crude jokes across crowded docks, music drifting from the wine houses along the canals.
Here, high above King’s Landing, the city sounded almost lonely. Kiera rested her delicate hands against the cold stone railing and gazed out across the black water.
How many years had it been, Kiera whispered to herself?
She knew the exact number of months, days, hours, and even minutes since the bells of King’s Landing had rung without ceasing while the Great Spring Sickness ravaged the city.
She asked herself again, how many years since Prince Valarr had died in a bedchamber three towers away?
The grief had changed with time. It had once been sharp enough to steal her breath. Now it had settled deeper, somewhere quiet and constant beneath her ribs. Her grief was like an old injury that no longer ached unless touched.
Yet nights like tonight the memory returned with strange clarity.
She could see Valarr as he had been in the gardens of the Red Keep, sunlight catching copper in his dark hair as he laughed. He had never looked quite like the songs described the blood of Valyria. No silver hair, no pale ethereal beauty.
His Dornish mother had given him darker coloring and warmer skin. Kiera had always loved the color variation of his eyes, even mesmerized by them.
But he had possessed something the songs rarely captured.
Energy. Life.
Valarr had always seemed on the edge of motion, as if the world were slightly too small to contain him. His genuineness, honesty, softness, and courage were a combination of traits scarcely found even amongst the most noble men.
Kiera closed her eyes briefly. The wind shifted. The rings in her braids chimed again.
Valarr had loved that sound.
When you walk through a room it sounds like a ship coming home, he had told her once, smiling lazily over a cup of Arbor red. Harbor bells in Tyrosh.
Her fingers tightened against the stone railing.
Footsteps approached from the corridor behind her.
Kiera did not turn at once.
There were always footsteps in the Red Keep at night. Courtiers wandering in search of wine. Guards making their rounds. Servants hurrying quietly through shadowed corridors.
But something about these steps drew her attention. They were steady, measured even.
Too steady.
When she glanced over her shoulder, she felt a flicker of surprise.
Prince Daeron Targaryen appeared sober.
The realization came instantly. It showed in the straightness of his posture. In the clear focus of his eyes. In the quiet deliberation of each step.
Usually there was a looseness to him, soft edges blurred by an overindulgence in wine.
Tonight there was none of that. He looked tired instead.
Not the soft fatigue of a man who had enjoyed too much drink. A sharper weariness. His blonde hair was tangled and darkness encircled his blue eyes. The kind psychological and physical fatigue that came from too many sleepless nights.
He stopped beside her at the archway.
“You’ll freeze out here,” he said. His voice was low and rough.
Kiera kept her gaze on the sea.
“I grew up beside the Narrow Sea,” she replied. “This breeze is nothing.”
Daeron leaned one shoulder against the stone arch.
For a time neither spoke.
The silence between them had become a familiar thing over the years.
Yes they were married. Yet much of their marriage existed in quiet spaces like this.
Separate thoughts and parallel lives defined their marriage, their relationship.
After a moment Kiera said softly, “You’re sober.”
Daeron’s mouth curved slightly.
“That obvious?”
“Yes.”
“I thought I might try it for an evening. I wanted to surprise you, my sweet wife.”
“Why tonight,” Keira replied.
He did not answer immediately.
The wind shifted again, tugging at the loose strands of pale blonde hair around his face.
Finally he exhaled. “Because the wine stopped helping.”
Kiera turned slightly toward him. “The dreams again,” she asked.
Daeron laughed softly under his breath. “They never stopped,” he said. “I simply got better at drowning them.”
Dragon Dreams.
The phrase drifted through her thoughts. Among the Targaryens such dreams were spoken of with careful respect or careful fear. Visions of fire and flight. Sometimes prophecy. Often madness. For Daeron they seemed to be something simpler, nightmares.
“What did you dream this time?” she asked. Kiera didn’t want to know but asked anyway, perhaps out of morbid curiosity.
Daeron rubbed at his temple. “It’s been the same dream for the last month.”
His gaze drifted toward the dark sea. “I’m flying.”
His voice slowed. “Not riding a dragon. Not sitting on its back like the dragonlords in the histories.”
His fingers curled slowly against the railing. “I am the dragon.”
Kiera watched him carefully, studying the beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
“I can feel the wings,” he continued quietly. “The wind beneath them. The heat building in my throat.”
He swallowed. “Below me there’s a city. Sometimes King’s Landing. Sometimes somewhere older.” His jaw tightened slightly. “And I burn it.”
The wind moved softly through the arch.
“And when you wake?” she asked.
Daeron gave a faint humorless smile.
“With the taste of smoke in my mouth.”
Kiera studied his face.
“And that is why you drink? And continue to do so.”
“Yes.”
“And when wine isn’t enough…”
His eyes flicked briefly toward her.
“You know the answer.”
She did.
“The brothels.”
“Yes.”
The word lingered between them.
Kiera had known about them almost from the beginning. The Street of Silk was not subtle about its clientele. Daeron’s reputation was well known to her even before their marriage. Years before she’d heard King Maekar, then Prince Maekar ruminate on the failings of his oldest son.
“You expected me to be angry,” she said.
“Most wives would be,” Daeron replied.
“I’m not most wives.”
“No, no you are not.”
Daeron watched the moonlight catch in the rings of her braids.
“You were thinking about Valarr tonight,” he said after a moment.
Kiera did not deny it. “Yes.”
“I thought so.”
She hesitated. “I still love him.”
Daeron nodded slowly. “I know. Most of the court probably knows too.”
“I never meant to hurt you,” Kiera said as she peered down at her feet.
“You didn’t.”
She looked at him more closely. “You say that very easily.”
Daeron shrugged.
“Kiera… Valarr was my cousin. I knew how he felt about you long before the two of you married.”
“And?”
“And he adored you.”
Her throat tightened, “I adored him too.”
“I know.”
Daeron rested both arms against the railing. “He used to talk about you constantly.”
“What did he say?”
“That a Tyroshi woman with hair like a painted sunset convinced him the world was larger than he could have imagined.”
A small smile touched Kiera lips. “That sounds like him.”
“He also said the little rings in your hair sounded like ships returning to harbor.”
The memory struck her so suddenly she had to look away.
“Yes,” she whispered.
The wind stirred again.
For several moments they stood quietly together.
Then Kiera said, “I feel as though I’ve been living with his ghost.”
Daeron nodded. “So have I.”
“You?”
“He was younger than me,” Daeron said quietly. “He was not supposed to die first.”
“No he was not. Neither were Matarys or Prince Baelor.”
“He had plans. Tourneys. Travels. Foolish heroic ambitions.”
Kiera smiled faintly. “He wanted to see Tyrosh again.”
“I remember.”
The silence that followed felt different now.
Less heavy.
Daeron glanced at her. “You know… the brothels are not the worst part.”
“What is?”
“The mornings.”
“The dreams?”
“Yes.” He rubbed his hands together slowly. “That moment when I wake and remember everything clearly.”
“The fire,” she asked.
“The fire. The city. The feeling that something inside me wants to destroy everything,” Daeron said softly.
Kiera stepped closer. “That sounds unbearable.”
“Some days it is.”
She hesitated. Then she reached out and took his hand.
The gesture surprised him. “That’s new,” he said softly.
“Yes.” Her fingers tightened slightly around his.
“You don’t have to face those mornings alone.”
For a moment Daeron did not move.
His hand was warm despite the cold wind. He looked down at their joined hands, then back at her face.
Something passed through his expression, something brief and almost vulnerable. It made Kiera’s chest tighten unexpectedly.
This, she thought suddenly. This is the man I could love. Not the drunken prince stumbling through feast halls. Not the distant husband disappearing into brothels. This quieter version of him. The one who stood beside her under the moonlight speaking honestly. She felt the fragile possibility of it like the first warmth of spring after winter.
Then Daeron gently pulled his hand free.
The movement was not unkind. But it was careful, guarded even.
“I appreciate that,” he said.
Kiera felt the brief warmth vanish as quickly as it had come. Of course.
He stepped back from the railing. “You should go inside,” he said. “It’s cold.”
The words sounded almost formal. The distance between them returned so easily it made something inside her twist with frustration.
“You’re leaving,” she said.
“I should try to sleep,” he said, almost without a hint of emotion.
“The dreams will come,” Kiera said concerningly.
“Yes.”
“And tomorrow night you will drink again.” Kiera didn’t mean this as an accusation, more of a stated fact based on years of proven history.
He did not answer immediately.
“Probably,” he admitted.
Kiera studied him.
Part of her wanted to say something sharper to demand more of him. To remind him that she was his wife and not merely another quiet presence in the castle. But another part of her understood too well how fragile this moment had already been.
“You’re very patient with me,” Daeron said quietly.
“I’m not patient.”
“No?”
“No.” She met his eyes. “I’m hopeful.”
Something flickered across his expression. Hope, she knew, was a dangerous thing to offer someone like Daeron.
He hesitated.
For just a moment it seemed he might say something more. Instead he simply nodded.
“Goodnight, sweet Kiera.”
“Goodnight, Daeron.”
He turned and walked back into the torchlit corridor. His footsteps faded slowly into the castle. Kiera remained at the railing for a long time afterward. The wind moved gently through the arches. The rings in her braids chimed softly in the dark.
Somewhere far below, a ship’s bell rang across the harbor. And Kiera wondered, not for the first time, how close she might come to loving a man who kept stepping just beyond her reach.