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Daeron’s hands were trembling.
Not long after noon, Egg and he had come upon an inn some ways off the main path from Summerhall to Ashford, where he hoped their father would not be looking for them anytime soon. The innkeeper had muttered something about everyone having gone off to Ashford for the tourney, meaning there weren’t many patrons to be expected during the next handful of days. The place should serve well enough then, Daeron had decided.
The brothers had retreated to their room upstairs after Egg had finished his midday meal. Daeron hadn’t eaten, the smell alone making him feel nauseous.
The sun was still high in the sky, beating through the single window on the west side of the room. The light made Daeron’s eyes sting. It wasn’t helping with the throbbing of his head, either. He planned to seek relief later by well and truly drinking himself into a stupor. Oh, how sweet that sounded.
At present, Egg was sitting on a stool in front of his elder brother and was, once again, attempting to convince him to continue their journey to Ashford, at points gesticulating for emphasis.
Daeron was only half listening. He’d heard all his little brother’s various arguments several times over during the seemingly endless ride here. Had been painfully sober for half of it, too, having drained his wineskin before the brothers had stolen away from their escort during the hour of the owl last night. He’d made Egg wear his hood until now, but a child running around in the inn with a hood on all day would only serve to raise suspicions. Daeron had paid the innkeeper more than generously for room and board, hoping that it would also buy her discretion; however, he had taken note of the woman’s children, whose silence he felt less inclined to rely upon. It was safer to mitigate the risk of discovery, in any case. Egg’s silver-gold hair made him too easily recognisable.
By now, Daeron had gone too long without drink. His hands were too unsteady.
He’d asked the innkeeper to bring up a wine bottle to their room, along with some fresh towels and a bowl of hot water, which were now all placed on a small table next to Egg.
Daeron knew he would not be able to shave his little brother’s head while drunk out of his mind. But neither would he go near him with a knife held in a shaking hand. So, he grabbed the bottle and allowed himself a big gulp of the wine within. Tilting his head back, he closed his eyes for a moment and waited for the liquid to settle his stomach.
"I’m not discussing it again, Egg. We won’t be going to the tournament," he finally interrupted the boy's tirade. He briefly wondered how his valonqar wasn’t tired, yet.
"But I want to see it. And I want to be a squire!" Egg whined, crossing his arms.
"Well, you could go and squire for Aerion."
Hells, who in their right mind would actually want that? You’d have to be mad to willingly submit yourself to Aerion’s unique blend of insidiousness and cruelty. And Egg was being subjected to it enough as it was.
Regretting his callous words immediately, Daeron backtracked, "Never mind that. You know I’m a shit knight. I’ll probably fall off of my horse, break my neck and die in the first tilt. You don’t want that, do you?"
For all Daeron knew, that might very well be what his dream warned about. He had no doubt that none of his family would be surprised, were he to get himself killed by his own ineptitude. He did not belong on a tourney field, no matter how much his father wished it were so.
His dream had been as uselessly vague as ever. The unknown knight whom the dead dragon had fallen on might not have been the one to slay it. The dream might not even have been about the tournament. Or even about Daeron. But it had been recurring more and more often during the last few moons, making him feel disinclined to take any chances. Call him craven all you like, but he did not care to die.
"You wouldn’t be such a shit knight if you didn’t drink so much all the time," Egg countered. "You could actually do some proper training then. Mayhaps you could even beat Valarr in a joust. He’s not all that talented either. And Father could be proud of you then, you know how he always seeks to outshine Uncle Baelor."
Two things were clear: Egg was far too clever for his own good, and he knew how to rub salt in a wound with dangerous precision. Thrice in one breath, if he counted the digs at their father and their cousin. Quite impressive.
Daeron was tempted to take another swig from the wine bottle, just to make a point. He resisted, and put the bottle away. Instead he only sighed, starting to fiddle with a loose thread on the hem of his doublet.
Egg was one of the only people who actually still believed that what Daeron dreamed was true, that they weren’t just the delusions of a drunkard. But the boy could not truly grasp what the dreams heralded. Not that Daeron wanted him to. If he talked about them at all, he was careful not to speak of their details where his youngest siblings could overhear. Moreover, he’d long since given up trying to explain to people that he was drinking in order to cope with what he kept seeing. The wine didn’t usually stop the dreams from coming, but it kept them off his mind during the day. That was worth something, so far as Daeron was concerned. However, getting into a discussion about the effects of drink with a nine-year-old seemed dreadfully inappropriate, even to Daeron, and was something that’d likely earn him another scolding from their father at the very least.
The truth of it was that not being a drunk would not change a thing about Daeron’s failure to meet basic knightly standards, much less Father’s expectations. He remembered well enough how things used to be, all those years ago when he hadn’t yet known the sweet caress that wine could bring to his troubled mind. As far back as he could recall, his sleep had never been restful, visions of fire and ice, of blood and death tormenting him more nights than not, leaving him utterly exhausted upon waking. During the day, the terrifying images would return unbidden and at the most inopportune times. Freezing or curling in on himself in the training yard had earned Daeron many a hit from Aerion and other squires with their wooden practice swords. Worse yet were the tongue-lashings from his father afterwards.
Maekar Targaryen had a very distinct image in his head of what a man ought to be. Of how his son and heir ought to acquit himself. Gods knew why, much of it hinged on martial prowess and not showing weakness. Drink or no drink, all Daeron had ever and would ever achieve when one put him on a horse and a weapon in his hand was to make a grand fool of himself. He had long since concluded that trying to make his father proud was a futile endeavour. He was an unfit tool to help fulfil the man’s ambitions.
More recently, Daeron had thought his father had seen sense, having watched his firstborn stumble and fumble and lie around uselessly enough times to give up his efforts to make a respectable knight out of him. The man’s face still bore the usual contempt and disappointment, of course, but his biting remarks had become somewhat less frequent, and his vain attempts to get Daeron on the training yard equally so.
Daeron had been proven wrong when word arrived from King’s Landing that his grandfather, the King, required representatives of House Targaryen to attend the miserable circus at Ashford. His father had decided that his eldest was to enter the lists, along with Aerion and their cousin Valarr, and that Egg was to be his squire.
His little bother’s voice dragged him out of his musings. "Daeron?"
"Hm?"
"You’ve been standing around staring at thin air for five minutes."
Great.
"It can’t possibly have been that long, Egg. You’d have run off already."
"Mayhaps I will next time."
"Don’t. Father would kill me." Especially if Egg, with his penchant for trouble, turned out to be the dead dragon from his dream, Daeron’s mind supplied unhelpfully. He shook his head to rid himself of the thought.
"Was it a dream? That you remembered just now? You got that look in your eyes."
Too clever, indeed. "You needn’t worry about it, valonqus." He did not wish to burden his little brother. Instead, Daeron chose to put on a smile and ruffle the boy's hair one last time. With the other hand, which was now thankfully steady, he picked up his knife.
"Are you sure you know what you’re doing with that?" Egg asked indignantly, trying to squirm out of his elder brother’s grasp.
"Of course I do." Daeron definitely did not. "I’m going to give you the best shave of your life. Now stop wriggling around, unless you want me to cut off your ear in the process." That ought to inspire confidence.
The boy stilled and looked up at Daeron, uncertainty in his big purple eyes. "Won’t I look strange without my hair?"
"Not as strange as missing an ear, I wager. You’ll just look like an egg. Imagine how Aemon would delight in seeing it!"
Egg’s face brightened a little at that.
"Besides, you always say you hate how much you look like Aerion. Here’s your chance to express your individuality." That earned Daeron a toothy grin.
"Promise you’ll leave my ears intact, though?"
"Promise you’ll stop pestering me about the tourney if I do? And no more talk of running off, you hear?"
Egg let out a long-suffering sigh. "Fine."