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Daerys Targaryen, one of the sons of Maekar I Targaryen, slips into his elder brother’s chambers in the dead of night, seeking refuge—seeking comfort—after yet another threat from his other brother, Aerion Targaryen.
Daerys is a beautiful boy—too beautiful, some would say. Pretty in a way that borders on softness, on something almost delicate, almost feminine. The lords whisper about it. They always do.
His father has tried to harden him, to shape him into something worthy of their name, but nothing ever seems to take. Daerys remains fragile—too gentle, they say, to carry the blood of the dragon.
And in the shadows, Aerion always finds him.
With quiet threats and a cruel smile, he whispers of cutting him down, of making him into a sister instead—something to be owned, something to be wed. He speaks of how Daerys does not deserve the title of prince, not when he is so weak.
Still, Daerys is not entirely without fortune.
His elder brother—his favorite—always receives him. Even like this. Even drunk.
Daeron lifts his gaze from his cup, violet eyes catching the trembling silhouette in the doorway. A flicker of irritation crosses his face as he recognizes the reason for the visit.
“You again,” he mutters, voice edged with weary resignation as he lets his head fall back against the sofa. “What has that monster done this time? Threatened you again with that ridiculous little fantasy?”
His words are sharp, but there is no real cruelty behind them. He shifts slightly, extending a hand toward him.
“Come here. Don’t stand there like a frightened lamb.”
Daeron takes another sip of wine, watching as Daerys approaches in hesitant steps. His expression softens, just barely, at the sight of unshed tears in his brother’s eyes.
Daerys steps closer, slow and hesitant, drawn in by the warmth that always seems to linger around Daeron Targaryen.
“I’m sorry, Daeron… I didn’t want to come, but—” he falters, swallowing thickly “—Aerion was cruel again. He went into my chambers… again.”
Daerys exhales shakily, avoiding his brother’s gaze. Shame coils tightly in his chest—shame at himself for not fighting back, and worse still, for coming here, seeking refuge like this.
Daeron lets out a quiet breath of frustration, his free hand tightening around the rim of his cup. The news of Aerion Targaryen’s behavior is no surprise—but the helplessness, the constant inability to properly protect his younger brother, gnaws at him.
“You’ve nothing to apologize for, Daerys,” he says, his voice softer now, as he gently takes hold of the boy’s wrist and pulls him down to sit beside him on the sofa. “Aerion shouldn’t have access to your chambers. I’ll speak to our father tomorrow.”
He says it like a promise—like something solid to hold onto—though they both know how such conversations tend to end.
Their father has always had a way of looking the other way when it comes to Aerion.
His violet eyes move over Daerys’s pale, frightened face, catching on the faint red marks along his cheeks—left there, no doubt, by rough hands. Something dark stirs beneath his usual careless composure.
“Tell me exactly what he did this time,” Daeron says, quieter now, but far more dangerous. “Every word.”
Daerys goes rigid, falling into silence for a long moment before he finally forces the words out.
“He… he made me—” his voice falters, jaw tightening as he struggles to continue “—he forced me to stay still, and…”
He swallows hard, his hands curling into fists in his lap.
“He held a dagger there,” Daerys whispers, his voice barely audible. “Said he had too many brothers… that one day I might as well be made into a sister instead.”
His cheeks burn with humiliation, his gaze fixed somewhere far away.
“He said he would take me as a wife,” he adds, quieter still. “That there’s no difference… that the only thing that makes me a boy could be taken from me.”
The words feel wrong in his mouth, like poison he cannot spit out fast enough.
Something in Daeron stills—and then turns to ice.
He sets his cup down with a sharp, decisive sound, the faint clang echoing through the room. Whatever haze of wine lingered is gone in an instant.
“Gods…” he spits, the word thick with venom. “How dare he. How dare he lay a hand on you like that?”
He rises abruptly, his full height casting a long shadow over Daerys. Restless, he begins to pace the room like a caged predator, all sharp edges and barely restrained fury.
His golden silver hair shifts with each step, catching the low light.
“Aerion has crossed a line we never should have allowed him near,” Daeron continues, his voice turning to steel.
He exhales slowly through his nose, quieter now—but no less dangerous.
“Our brother is losing what little sanity he had left.”
His hands curl into fists at his sides, the veins along his neck standing out sharply beneath pale skin. The image alone—his younger brother cornered, humiliated—is enough to stir something long dormant within him.
The prince beneath the wine. The prince he so often pretends not to be.
Daeron stills in front of him, then reaches out, lifting Daerys’s chin with a firm finger, forcing him to look up.
His violet eyes burn—sharp, awake, dangerous. Up close, the signs are clearer: faint shadows beneath them, the kind earned from too many sleepless nights, from too much wine and too many thoughts that refuse to quiet.
“Look at me, Daerys,” he says, his voice low, roughened at the edges. “You are a Targaryen prince. Not some pitiful thing for your own brother to torment.”
The words are harsh—but not cruel. Not meant to wound.
A tear slips free before Daerys can stop it.
“Brother…” his voice trembles, barely holding together. “I truly am a coward. That’s what they all say.”
His gaze drops again despite the hand beneath his chin.
“They say I’m like a maiden… that I’m weak.”
The single tear slipping down Daerys’s cheek seems to set something off in Daeron.
The anger fades almost as quickly as it came, replaced by something softer—something unexpectedly gentle.
“Hush,” he murmurs, the word far kinder than it has any right to be, as he brushes the tear away with his thumb. “No one has the right to judge you like that. Not them. And certainly not Aerion.”
Daeron exhales quietly before sitting back down, this time pulling Daerys with him without much warning, settling him against his lap as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
His arms come around him, steady and warm, holding him there—protective, unyielding.
“You’re brave for coming to me,” he says, softer now, his voice low against Daerys’s hair. “That takes more courage than most will ever have.”
A small, startled sound escapes Daerys at the sudden movement.
“No… that’s not true, Daeron—” his voice wavers, breaking under the weight of it. “I’m here like a child… crying to my elder brother.”
He turns his face away, only to end up hiding it against Daeron’s neck, unable to meet his eyes.
“I’m sorry…” he whispers, the words barely there, swallowed by shame he can no longer hold back.
Daeron lets out a tired sigh, his arms tightening just slightly around Daerys’s back. The weight of him in his lap is familiar—a burden he has carried more times than he can count.
“You are not a child, Daerys. You’re my younger brother—and it is my duty to protect you,” he murmurs, his voice low near his ear. “And you have nothing to apologize for. Aerion is the one who should feel shame, behaving like some wild beast.”
His fingers slip into Daerys’s pale golden hair, threading through it slowly, the gesture absentminded and almost paternal.
The scent of wine lingers on him, softened by something warmer, something distinctly his.
“Stop listening to those fools at court,” Daeron continues, his tone growing firmer now. “They know nothing about you.”
Daerys trembles faintly under the touch, his breath uneven.
“They see me as a mistake… I know they do,” he whispers. “I’m not the prince they wanted…”
He hesitates, the words catching in his throat.
“I’m not the son our father wanted either.”
He shifts slightly in Daeron’s hold, almost unconsciously leaning closer, seeking something more—more warmth, more reassurance, something to quiet the ache inside his chest.
Daeron lets out a low growl, his jaw tightening at Daerys’s words. The thought of his younger brother seeing himself as a mistake—a disappointment to their father—turns his stomach.
“Nonsense,” he snaps, his voice losing every trace of softness. “Our father would be a fool if he thinks a man’s worth is measured by his skill with a sword or his political ambition.”
His hands move from Daerys’s hair to cradle his face firmly, forcing him to meet his violet eyes.
“You are my brother, Daerys. Blood of my blood. That makes you just as much a prince as I am—or as Aerion.” His voice is sharp, full of vehemence.
Daerys continues to sob, quivering under his hold.
“Sometimes… sometimes I think it would have been easier if I had been a daughter instead of a son,” he whispers, barely audible. “Then the lords and Father wouldn’t be so disappointed.”
Daeron’s heart aches at the words. The idea that his gentle, sensitive brother has ever thought such a thing fills him with fierce protective rage.
“Do not say that! Never!” he exclaims, his voice dangerously loud. “If you had been a daughter, Aerion would have done far worse. He would have used it against you. Is that what you want?”
His hands tremble slightly as he holds Daerys’s face more firmly, thumbs brushing away the tears still falling.
“You are a prince. Yes. But you are also kind, compassionate, with a good heart—things none of us have in abundance,” Daeron admits, his voice hoarse.
Daerys feels his face heat at the closeness, at the weight of Daeron’s words. His lips tremble.
“I… if only… maybe Aerion would have treated me differently then,” he murmurs, voice broken. “He might have… hurt me less than he does now… not threatened me the way he does.”
He shivers under the force of his own confession, ashamed at even thinking it.
His brother exhales sharply.
“Daerys,” he says, searching his gaze, “don’t listen to the others. You are perfect as you are. Let them talk—none of them would understand.”
Daerys feels a deep warmth at his brother’s words.
He melts into his touch, wishing he could stay like this forever, even though he knows such thoughts might be improper… but when has he ever truly been “right”?
He doesn’t understand why it would be wrong. Daeron is simply kind to him—the only one who treats him with care. Even knowing that if anyone saw them like this, or overheard them, they would judge, and their father would likely scold him for being so vulnerable in front of his elder brother.
“I wish we could stay like this forever,” Daerys whispers, unable to hide the longing in his voice. “I don’t understand why this should be wrong. I feel… safe with you.”
“I wish the same,” Daeron murmurs against the side of his neck, placing a light, chaste kiss there. “There is nothing wrong with this. Nothing.”
His hands move with more confidence now, one tracing gentle circles along Daerys’s back, the other threading through his golden hair.
“Let me take care of you tonight, Daerys. Let me be the brother you need,” he says, his voice low and hoarse. “Forget Aerion, forget our father. Here, it’s just us.”
Daerys blinked softly and leaned a little closer to Daeron’s face, unsure of exactly what he was seeking.
“Do you promise? Will you take care of me tonight? Like when I was a child… —I want you to brush my hair, please.”
Daeron smiled gently at the childish request, his heart melting at the absolute trust Daerys placed in him. The sight of his younger brother seeking comfort in his arms, just like when they were children, brought back nostalgic memories.
“I promise to take care of you like I used to,” Daeron murmured, his voice filled with a rare tenderness. “For as long as you need.”
Without waiting for a response, he began to run his hands through Daerys’s golden hair in slow, rhythmic movements. His fingers sifted carefully through the soft strands, while his thumb massaged the boy’s scalp.
“I remember when you were just a baby and wouldn’t sleep unless I sang you Valyrian songs,” he said with a wistful smile.
Daerys managed a small smile. “Really? I’d love to hear one again… I like your voice a lot,” he whispered softly, shifting slightly to get more comfortable, completely unconcerned that he was in his brother’s lap.
Daerys’s complete trust in seeking comfort on his lap sent a wave of protective warmth through Daeron. His smile became more genuine, even lighting up his violet eyes.
“My voice,” he repeated softly, leaning so his lips brushed Daerys’s ear, “of course you’ll like it. It’s your older brother’s voice, after all.”
He began to sing an old Valyrian lullaby, the words flowing melodiously in a nearly forgotten tongue. His hands continued to stroke Daerys’s golden hair as he shifted slightly, adjusting to the boy’s closeness on his lap.
As he sang, Daeron noticed how completely Daerys relaxed against him, his breathing deep and even.
“Brother… please, take me to bed… please take me,” Daerys whispered sleepily. He knew it was unusual to ask— a prince his age shouldn’t need such comfort from his older brother. Yet he had always known that he and Daeron were different, closer than most could understand.
Daeron felt the weight of his sleepy brother, the calm and security in his steady breathing. The boy’s trusting request stirred a protective heat deep within him.
“Of course, little prince,” Daeron murmured, his voice full of affection. “I’ll take you to the bed where you belong.”
Carefully, he rose to his feet, holding Daerys as he had when he was a child. The young boy instinctively clung to his neck, hiding his face in the hollow of Daeron’s collarbone as they walked toward their private chambers.
At the door of Daerys’s room, Daeron gently nudged it open with his foot, making sure it was wide enough to enter without disturbing his brother’s sleep.
Daeron crossed the threshold with steady steps, moving through the familiar room as if it were his own. Carefully, he laid Daerys on the large, soft bed, covering him with a pale blue silk blanket.
“Better this way?” he asked softly, adjusting the pillow behind Daerys’s head. “Looks like you could sleep for days.”
He stood for a moment by the bed, watching as sleep gradually claimed the boy. The moonlight cast soft shadows over his angelic face, highlighting high cheekbones and relaxed lips.
Daeron sat on the edge of the mattress, running his hand through Daerys’s golden hair one last time before letting it rest.
“Good night, little prince,” he whispered.
Daerys yawned and mumbled sleepily,
"Stay with me a moment… please.”
Daeron smiled, feeling a protective warmth at the trust his brother placed in him. He leaned over and gently wrapped an arm around Daerys, letting him settle safely against his side, just as he had when they were children.
“This is fine,” Daeron whispered, adjusting the blanket over both of them. “Rest, little dragon. I’m here.”
His fingers traced soft patterns along Daerys’s back, and the boy slowly relaxed, secure in his older brother’s embrace.
Every shared breath, every careful gesture of care, strengthened a deep bond between them—one that needed no words to be understood.
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