Chapter Text
Prince Daeron Targaryen had always lived on the edge of everything—wine, women, whispers, and folly. The Red Keep had known him as the boy who would burn with laughter in one hall and stumble through the next with a goblet in hand. Some called him reckless, others charming, most simply knew that wherever Daeron went, light—or fire—followed. And yet, even fire could burn out.
That night, the halls were alive with revelry. Servants hurried along corridors, carrying trays of wine and sweetmeats, while the music of lutes and flutes spilled from the great hall, echoing against stone walls. Daeron had taken more than his share, though he smiled through the haze as if nothing could touch him. His laughter was sharp, brittle, almost hollow. He stumbled from the hall, doublet stained with wine, hair damp with sweat, his pulse thrumming in rhythm with the music he could still hear echoing behind him.
The Red Keep was golden that night.
Not in truth—not in stone or sky—but in the way firelight clung to everything, softening edges, turning flaws into something almost beautiful. Torches burned low along the corridors, candles flickered in alcoves, and in the great hall, the light danced across goblets and silk and polished armor until the entire world seemed dipped in molten gold.
It was a forgiving kind of light, Daeron had always preferred it that way.
“Another,” he said, lifting his goblet before the servant had even finished pouring the last. His voice was smooth, practiced, almost amused—as though he were watching himself from somewhere else entirely.
The servant hesitated only a moment before obeying.
Wine spilled into the cup, deep red and heavy, catching the glow of the fire like blood turned to glass. Daeron watched it swirl, something distant in his gaze, before bringing it to his lips.
Too fast, too much, too rich. He knew it. Of course he knew it–but knowing had never been enough to stop him.
Around him, the hall roared with life. Laughter rose and fell like waves against stone, music threaded through the air in bright, careless notes, and somewhere to his left, a woman was speaking—something light, something flirtatious—but he could not quite make out the words.
It all felt… blurred.
Like a painting left too long in the rain.
“You’ll drown yourself in that cup one day.”
The voice cut through the haze—sharp, familiar.
Daeron turned his head slowly.
Aerion stood a few steps away, arms crossed, expression carved from something between irritation and disdain. Firelight caught in his pale hair, sharpening every angle of his face.
“You say that every time,” Daeron replied lightly.
“And one day I’ll be right.”
“Then you’ll be insufferable about it,” Daeron said, smiling faintly. “I can hardly wait.”
Aerion did not smile.
“You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”
Daeron glanced down at his doublet—dark now with spilled wine—and shrugged. “The court expects nothing less.”
“That is not something to be proud of.”
“No,” Daeron agreed, surprising even himself. “I suppose it isn’t.”
For a moment, something flickered between them—something quieter, more honest. But it passed quickly, swallowed by the noise of the hall.
Aerion exhaled sharply. “Father watches.”
“Father always watches.”
“And you give him reason to regret it.”
That stung more than it should have.
Daeron lifted the goblet again, letting the wine steady the sudden shift in his chest. “Then perhaps he should look elsewhere.”
Aerion’s gaze hardened. “You are a prince of the realm.”
“And yet,” Daeron said softly, “I have never quite felt like one.”
Silence stretched between them, taut and fragile.
For a moment—just a moment—it seemed as though Aerion might say something more.
But instead, he turned away.
“Drink yourself into oblivion if you wish,” he said coldly. “Just do it out of sight.”
And then he was gone.
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Daeron did not follow. He stayed where he was, seated at the long table, surrounded by people and yet utterly alone.
The wine tasted different after that.
Not sweeter, not sharper—just heavier. Like it settled deeper in him, sinking past bone and breath and into something harder to name–he drank anyway.
Of course he did.
Because it was easier than thinking.
Easier than remembering the way his father’s gaze lingered too long, too disappointed. Easier than recalling the quiet conversations that stopped when he entered a room. Easier than acknowledging the simple, terrible truth:
He was not what they needed him to be.
So he drank.
And the world softened again.
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By the time he left the hall, the music had become unbearable.
Too loud.
Too bright.
Too alive.
He stumbled slightly as he crossed the threshold, the sudden quiet of the corridor hitting him like a wall. The torches here burned lower, their light dimmer, shadows stretching long across the stone floors.
It was colder here, it felt like a softer place to land.
“Prince Daeron.”
He turned, slower this time, blinking against the shift in light.
The Maester stood near the doorway, concern etched into every line of his face. “You should rest.”
“I will,” Daeron said, though even to his own ears it sounded like a lie.
“You’ve had too much.”
“I’ve had just enough.”
The maester sighed, stepping closer. “Your body cannot endure this forever.”
Daeron laughed softly, though there was no humor in it. “Forever is a long time, Maester.”
“And yet you seem determined not to reach it.”
Something in the words settled wrong. Too close to truth, so close that Daeron’s smile faltered, just slightly.
“You worry too much.”
“I do not worry enough,” He replied quietly. “Not if this is how you intend to go on.”
For a moment, Daeron said nothing.
Then he stepped past him.
“I’ll sleep,” he said over his shoulder. “That should please you.”
“Daeron—”
But he did not stop.
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The corridor stretched endlessly before him, twisting and turning through the keep like something alive. His footsteps echoed too loudly. Or perhaps the world had simply grown too quiet.
He pressed a hand to the wall as he walked, steadying himself against the sudden tilt of the floor. The stone was cool beneath his palm, grounding in a way nothing else had been all night.
He exhaled slowly, as if drowning, as his breath faded in the shadows, the gravity of his condition pulled him downwards. It was not just the wine—not just the dizziness or the heat or the way his vision blurred at the edges. He paused, closing his eyes, for a moment, there was nothing.
In the darkness, a whisper cut through like light, faint and soft, like a ghost of a memory. Daeron’s breath caught–he opened his eyes, heart suddenly racing for reasons he could not name. The corridor was empty. The torches flickered endlessly. Nothing had truly changed, and yet—he felt it.
A presence loomed over him, distant and intangible.
“…hello?” he said, the word slurred from the alcohol. The silence stretched beyond him. He let out a quiet, almost embarrassed breath, shaking his head. “You’ve truly lost your mind now.”
But again, he heard it, not a voice, not even true words, but he understood it all the same. It was distant, likely imagined, and impossible to ignore. It tugged at his mind like the prospect of more alcohol, the faint familiarity of something he did not understand, and somehow, calling.
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He forced himself forward. Step by step, breath by breath, until at last he reached the staircase. It spiraled upward, steep and narrow, shadows pooling between each turn. He had walked these stairs a thousand times before, half-drunk, laughing, careless.
Tonight, they felt different, they weighed on his chest more than they ever had. They stretched too long, they spanned too wide, they felt uncertain in a way that you cannot fully define. Irrationally foreign for a path he has charted his entire life.
He placed one foot on the first step, then another. Slowly, the world shifted beneath his feet. Not exactly in a violent way, it did not send him crashing down, it simply felt, wrong, unstable, like a ship wuthered by heavy winds,
He gripped the railing firmer this time.
“Gods,” he muttered under his breath.
His head throbbed, sharp and insistent. The edges of his vision darkened, narrowing until the world became a tunnel of flickering light and shadow. He tried to steady himself, he tried to breathe.
The sound came again, brushing against his ear like an autumn wind, it sent shivers down the expanse of his body. His heart slammed against his ribs.
“Who—” he began, but the word dissolved before it could form. The step beneath him tilted further–or–perhaps–he did.
His hand, once firm against the mahogany, slid. The world lurched over him. And in that moment–that one suspended moment, everything stilled—the torchlight, the shadows, even the air itself seeming to hold its breath.
Within the seconds of silence he felt it clearly. It was too gentle to be fear, too comforting to be regret. It enveloped him impossibly, a kind of warmth he knew he would never be worthy of, something impossibly kind, a comfort foreign to his heart.
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Then he fell.
The stone rushed up to meet him, the world shattering into fragments of light and sound and motion. Pain flared—sharp, blinding—and then—
Nothing.
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In the darkness that followed, he did not feel his body. He did not feel the stone, or the fall, or the hands that would soon gather around him in panic. There was only silence, it spread endlessly, the weight of it heavy on his tired body.
And then—a flicker, soft as breath, gentle as a breeze, like spring after winter, an undeniable presence in the void.
He turned toward it instinctively, though he had no body to turn with. Light gathered around it, faint and distant. And in that light—a girl.
He could not make her out exactly, he did not know her name. But he felt her, he felt the pull of her like something written into his very being, like someone tethered to him by the gods.
She did not speak, she did nothing but exist within the orbit of him, floating amidst the spreading chaos within his drunken brain. That alone was enough to keep him from disappearing entirely. She alone was enough to anchor him to life.
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Far away from her, hundreds of miles from the Jade Sea she called home, in a world of stone and fire, Prince Daeron Targaryen lay unmoving. But somewhere deeper— etched within his heart of hearts—he had already begun to dream of her.
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“Prince Daeron!” The maester’s voice reached him too late, cracking through the chaos like a small bell. “Careful, my lord—please, steady yourself!”
But Daeron could not have registered the words, not with his mind keen on the outline of her. To an onlooker, the stairs before him stretched out like a cruel puzzle, each step tilting beneath his unsteady weight. The torchlight flickered across the walls, painting mocking shadows that seemed to reach for him.
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When his mind awoke again—it was neither night nor day. It was not air, nor warmth, nor sound. It was silence and weightlessness and a cold so deep it seemed to touch the marrow of his bones. Panic rose in his chest, unreasoned and raw, but there was no breath to catch, no voice to scream. His body lay elsewhere, or perhaps still, and he was trapped in a space beyond all known reality.
He searched for her desperately within the expanse of the purgatory he was subjected to. He travelled each corner of his mind searching for something that would bring her back, anything to feel the warmth of her, to trap the echoes of her breathing within the inexplicable darkness.
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In the Red Keep, the panic was palpable. Maesters hovered, murmuring Valyrian words of healing, herbs and tinctures in their hands, but each effort ended in frustrated silence. Potions, poultices, whispered prayers—none reached him. King Maekar’s patience had long frayed. Each day, each failed attempt, carved lines into his face. The life of his son—his heir—hung in a liminal space that no one could pierce.
“I will find someone who can bring him back,” Maekar said one evening, pacing the chamber where the small council had gathered. His voice was low, edged with desperation, but carried the weight of command. “Someone whose gifts surpass the maesters, whose power is older than Westeros itself.”
The knight raised an eyebrow. “From where, Your Grace?”
“Yi Ti,” Maekar replied. His gaze, steady and sharp, swept the council. “A princess, whispered to have powers older than Valyria. She can call the lost back from sleep, fever, even death. And if she succeeds…” His jaw tightened. “…she will still be bound to him.”
Whispers rippled across the hall. The Red Keep, accustomed to intrigue and betrayal, rarely witnessed desperation so naked. And yet, the king’s eyes were unyielding, as if the very life of the realm depended on it.
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The message reached you at dusk.
The sky above Yi Ti burned gold and red, the last light of the sun stretching across tiled rooftops and silk-draped courtyards. The air smelled of jasmine and incense, warm and familiar.
You were in the gardens when they found you.
“Princess,” your attendant said softly, bowing low. “A message. From Westeros.”
That alone was enough to draw your attention. Westeros did not reach so far east without reason. You took the scroll, fingers tracing the unfamiliar seal before breaking it open. The parchment was thick, the ink precise, the words carefully chosen.
The king’s hands tremble, evident from the stain in the parchment. You had reviewed it over and over. You exhaled slowly, folding the message with care. “A prince,” your attendant murmured. “From across the world.”
“A dying one,” you corrected softly.
“You will go?”
You turned your gaze back toward the horizon, where the last light of day bled into shadow. You had felt it before the message came, felt his murmurs warm against your skin. Faint and distant, like a thread pulled too tight across an ocean. Something—someone—reaching.
“Yes,” you said at last. “I will go.”
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The journey was long.
Longer than any you had taken before.
The ship that carried you west groaned beneath the weight of distance and storm. The Narrow Sea was no gentle passage; it raged and roared, waves crashing against the hull with relentless force. The nights were the worst. The sky stretched endlessly above, unfamiliar constellations watching from afar, and sleep came slowly, if at all.
But when it did—you found him, felt the callouses of his hands against your cheeks as his soul reached for you. Not clearly, nor fully, but enough to know that he felt you all the same. That he longed for you to soothe him.
You stood at the edge of something vast and empty, calling softly into the void.
“Daeron,” you whispered back, your voice soft as you searched for him in your dreams. You woke with your heart racing, breath uneven.
“He’s there,” you murmured into the darkness of your cabin. “He’s still there.” Each night after, you tried again. Each night, you reached further–and each night, the distance between you lessened—if only by the smallest measure.
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King’s Landing did not welcome you gently.
The city rose from the horizon in jagged lines of stone and smoke, its air thick with salt, sweat, and something harsher—something restless. Eyes followed you the moment you stepped onto the docks. Whispers trailed in your wake as you were escorted through the city, up toward the looming walls of the Red Keep.
“She’s the one.”
“From Essos—”
“A witch, they say—”
You did not react, you had heard worse. The keep itself was colder than you expected. Not in temperature—but in presence. Stone walls that held too many secrets. Corridors that echoed with things left unsaid.
Somewhere, carved into the walls, he existed, you felt it immediately, stronger now, closer.
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They brought you before the council without delay.
The chamber was vast, lit by tall windows and flickering torches, its air heavy with scrutiny. Lords and advisors lined the room, their gazes sharp, assessing, some openly skeptical.
At the center stood the king. Maekar Targaryen was not a man easily ignored. His presence filled the space, stern and unyielding, eyes fixed on you with something between expectation and warning.
“You have come,” he said.
“I have,” you replied.
His gaze lingered, measuring.
“You understand why you are here.”
“My understanding is that your son sleeps,” you said calmly. “And no one in your kingdom can wake him.”
A murmur rippled through the council, they sneered at your boldness. Maekar’s expression did not change.
“And you believe you can?”
You held his gaze.
“I believe he is not gone,” you said. “And that is enough.”
Silence followed, not exactly disbelief, but something more uncertain.
“And if you are wrong?” one of the councillors pressed, stepping forward. “If this is beyond even you?”
You turned your gaze to him, unshaken.
“Then your prince will remain as he is,” you said. “As he would have, regardless of my presence.”
Maekar stepped forward then, cutting through the tension.
“If you succeed,” he said, voice low and deliberate, “you will marry him.”
The words hung in the air, heavy, inescapable.
“And if I fail?” you asked.
His eyes did not leave yours.
“You will still marry him.”
There it was, the truth, laid bare. Not a reward, a binding, a certainty.
You had not been invited, you had been claimed—one way or another.
You did not flinch.
“I see,” you said softly.
The room watched, waiting.
Weighing your answer.
Slowly, you inclined your head.
“Then I will do what you ask,” you said.
“I will find your son,” you continued. “Wherever he has gone. And I will bring him back.”
Maekar studied you for a long moment.
“See that you do.”
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You had heard of Daeron Targaryen—of his beauty, his recklessness, the wine that clung to him like a shadow. But tales, no matter how vivid, could not prepare you for the sight of him: pale, unmoving, a man whose body still breathed, but whose soul wandered in a space no healer had yet mapped.
You remembered the storms raged across the Narrow Sea, waves smashing against the ship with a sound like stone on stone. You had held the rail, knuckles white, heart steady. Fear had no place here. Your hands had healed sicknesses that had taken entire villages, and curses older than any Westerosi maester’s memory. You would not fail.
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The first time you touched him, your hands trembled, not from fear but from awe. His skin was warm, pulse faint but present, yet the man within—the mind, the soul—was elsewhere. You pressed your palm gently to his chest, whispering his name, feeling a strange current pass between you.
“Daeron,” you whispered.
He stirred. Not in body, but in mind.
Somewhere in the endless dark of his coma, he saw you. A girl of soft light, hair cascading like dusk, eyes full of sorrow and determination. He reached for you, and the darkness pulled him away, stretched him, teased him, almost cruel in its distance.
“Stay,” he said.
“You must wake,” you whispered.
“I can’t,” he admitted.
“You can,” you promised. Day after day, night after night, you sat beside him, calling him across the void with songs in the old Valyrian tongue, lullabies from Essos, words that spoke to something older than memory. Slowly, impossibly, he began to respond. Small movements first: a twitch of fingers beneath your hand, a shallow sigh, a shift in breath. Once, in a dream, he opened his lips to speak, and a single sound slipped past, broken, uncertain.
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In the dream world, Daeron saw you. Always, unchanged, ethereal and impossible, yet tethered to him by threads he could feel but not touch. She spoke, soft and insistent: “You do not get to choose sleep. Not when I am waiting for you to wake.”
“I would stay,” he admitted in that dark, empty realm, fear and longing curling in his chest. “If it meant staying with you.”
“You do not get to choose,” she whispered back, her voice breaking slightly, a note of sorrow threaded through resolve.
And then, for the first time in months, his fingers twitched.
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Somewhere in the endless dark of his dreams, Daeron followed her. He saw her laugh softly, kneel beside him, brush back strands of hair that did not exist. He felt the warmth of her hand on his cheek, the pull of her voice calling him back. Every dream, every whisper, every touch was another thread pulling him from the void, weaving a fragile tapestry between sleep and life.
“I cannot stay here,” he said in the dream one night, heart heavy with longing. “I am not meant to wake.”
“Yes,” she replied, eyes sad but unwavering, “you are meant to live. And you are meant to live with me.”
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Daeron did not know the world outside his mind. He did not remember the Red Keep, the king, or the courtiers. But he remembered her. He remembered the girl whose hands had reached across nothing, whose voice had threaded through the darkness, whose warmth had called him back from the edge of everything. And he would not let go.
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Slowly, his eyes lifted, the fog of the alcohol overpowered by the warmth of your presence. His dreams became tangible in a way
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