Work Text:
The day the dragons came to Riverrun, the river ran high and restless, as though it sensed the coming storm.
You stood upon the battlements of Riverrun with your hands clasped behind you. Watching the banners approach, black silk snapping in the wind, and the three head dragon gleaming in red. The Red Fork churned below your walls, proud and unyielding, as it had since the Age of Heroes.
You told yourself you were a daughter of House Tully. You would not tremble. Remembering your family’s words. “Family. Duty. Honor.”
At their head rode Prince Maekar, stern and unbending, his silver hair bound back from a face cut like iron. Even at a distance one could feel the weight of him. His nickname was the Anvil after all. Duty rode in his saddle as surely as he did.
And beside him. Your betrothed.
Daeron Targaryen, or as people refer to him as the Drunkard.
He was beautiful, yes, as all his blood seemed to be. He was pale as moonlight, fine boned, violet eyed. But his seat upon the horse was loose, his posture careless. Even from above you could see the wineskin hanging at his hip, and when he lifted it to take a drink, his father’s jaw tightened ever slightly.
Prince Maekar had not ridden all the way to the Riverlands for courtesy. He had come to make sure his son did not shame him.
The gates of Riverrun opened, and the dragons entered the yard below.
When Daeron’s gaze lifted and found you upon the battlements, he smiled slowly and unfocused, as though you both shared in some private jest. Your stomach turned at the thought.
‘This is the worse thing that could happen to me,’ you thought.
The announcement was made in the Great Hall to the lords of the Riverlands, beneath banners of trout and dragon alike. Your father spoke of alliance, of honor, of duty, and of blood joining blood. Maekar’s voice followed. He too confirming the betrothal as though it were a matter of statecraft rather than a girl’s life.
Daeron stood at this father’s side, hands clasped behind him. Until you caught sight of him starting to sway. It was slight, barely noticeable, but you caught it and so did his father. Maekar’s hand shot out like a striking hawk, steadying his son by the forearm. The look he gave his son could have split the rivers turning below.
“Stand straight,” his father murmured, low enough only a few people heard.
Daeron obeyed. For a time.
When he was brought before you, he bowed with exaggerated grace, like he was trying to hard to make a show of it. He nearly overbalanced in his attempt.
“My lady of the river,” he said, voice warm with wine. “I have crossed half the realm to drown in your waters.’
A few nervous laughs rippled through the halls, mostly your father’s bannermen. Maekar on the other hand did not smile.
You curtsied like normal from years of practice. “I pray you find waters less treacherous than rumor claims, my prince.”
His violet eyes lingered on you too long, but not lecherous. Almost like searching.
But by the time the feast was in full swing, he had taken to drinking in earnest. The hall roared with music and spirits. Cups rang against tables. Roasted meats perfumed the air. Daeron drank toasts to your father, to the Riverlands, to dragons long dead and dragons that have yet to hatch. Each time his father’s gaze followed the motion of the cup.
More than once Maekar leaned near him and spoke in a voice edged like a blade. “That is enough.”
“It is never enough,” Daeron murmured once in reply, though he set the cup down, but only briefly.
You sat beside him and felt your future slipping like silt through your fingers. Your father seated on your other side was not the most oblivious to your internal turmoil.
At that point the wine seemed to have taken hold of him, he started to laugh too loudly. Spoke almost too freely. Once he reached for your hand and missed it entirely, fingers closing on empty air before correcting himself.
You wanted to disappear into the river. Swim as fast as you could away from all this.
By the time the musicians struck up a lively reel, you were certain the gods had turned their backs to you. To be wed to a dragon was one thing. But to be wed to a dragon who sought only solace in a cup was another. You thought of the Red Fork and wondered whether it would take you if you walked into it.
Then, in the midst of all the clamor, his hand found your wrist, not roughly or clumsily. But deliberately. You looked down at your wrist and then up to him. His look almost pleasding.
“My lady,” he said softly and when he spoke his voice changed.
Before you could protest, he rose and guided you from the hall. You felt Maekar’s eyes upon you as you both slipped through a side hall and out onto the terrace that overlooked the river.
The night air was cool. The torches flickered. Below you, the Red Fork gleamed dark and eternal. For a long moment, he said nothing.
And then, quietly, “You think me a disgrace.” The words this time were not slurred.
You drew yourself up. “I think you are a prince.”
“That is worse.”
He leaned against the stone barrier and stared down at the water. “I drink,” he said, “because I dream.”
You had heard whispers of it. Of the visions. Of how they plagued him.
“In my dreams, I see fire consuming keeps. I see brothers turning blades on brothers. I see crowns cracking like old pottery.” His jaw tightened. “I see my father’s disappointment long before he speaks it.”
The river rushed below, indifferent.
“And I see myself,” he continued. “Fallen.”
He briefly closed his eyes. “I am in a river. Not unlike this one below. The current drags me under. I know I should drown. I deserve to drown.“ His fingers curled against the stone. “But somehow I do not.”
You did not speak, but waited with almost bated breath for what he had to say next,
“The water holds me though,” he whispered. “It carries me. I feel… almost welcome. As though the river has claimed me and found me worthy of its course.”
His eyes opened and his found yours. “On the bank stands a woman with hair the color of yours and eyes as deep as still water. She does not reach for me though. She does not wade through the water. She simply stands, and the river changes.”
Your breath caught.
“I have seen your face in my dreams since before my father spoke your name,” he said. “Long before Riverrun was more than a rumor to me.”
The torches snapped in the wind.
“You are the river,” he said simply. “In my dreams, you keep me afloat. You quiet the storm in my head. The visions.. they soften when you stand in their presence.”
“You place a heavy burden on me, my prince.” You manage to say.
He gave a faint, rueful smile. “No. I place it on myself. No one saves a dragon who wishes to burn.” He paused. “But I do not wish for us to burn. The water protects that.”
For the first time that day, he did not look like a drunkard. He looked his age, but frightened.
“I do not want to be the man of the name people gave me,” he said. “I do not want to drown in wine because I fear what I see. In my dreams, I do not drown because you are there. Because the river chooses to bear me. And I wish to be that man.”
The Red Fork roared beneath you both, relentless and strong.
“I cannot promise I shall change in a day.” He went on quietly. “Nor that I shall never falter. But I would try.” His gaze did not yield. “For you. For what I might become beside you in this life.”
In the distance, music and laughter drifted from the hall. Somewhere within, his father waited, watchful as ever.
You had thought this betrothal would ruin you. Yet standing there beneath the night sky, with the river steady and the prince before you stripped of wine’s bravado. You saw not a disgrace, but a man clinging to the edge of something vast and dark, praying not to fall.
“I am no sorceress,” you said at last. “I command no currents.”
“No,” he agreed softly. “But you belong to them.”
He reached for your hand then and pressed it to his brow, reverent as a supplicant before a Septon.
“For the first time in years,” he murmured, “I do not feel as though I am drowning. But I do have one last request of this union.”
“What would that be, my prince?”
He looked to you, searching your eyes for the answer he wants. “When we are to be man and wife. I would do so humbly request we spend our days here in Riverrun. With the river to keep us together.”
You felt your pulse quicken at the request. “But surely you do not wish to leave King’s Landing?”
“I would wish to live anywhere but there. Here we can live happily or to the best of our abilities. We can grow and not be under the scrupulous eye of my family, especially my father. I would not have the courts ruin the one thing that would keep me afloat.”
It was a request you could not deny. You had heard how the ladies of court could be, especially to an outsider, and you would not have to leave the comforts of your home.
“If my father and yours agree to it. I would be happy to start our marriage in the quiets of The Riverlands. One can breathe out here and not feels as though you are suffocating.”
And with that you reached for both of his hands, looking at his violet eyes and seeing a glimmer of hope.
“Best we return to the festivities before my father sends out another search party for me.” He jested.
When we stepped back into the Great Hall, the warmth and noise rushed us over like a tide.
Music swelled. Tankards clashed. Your father was deep in conversation with a bannerman unaware that you had left. Prince Maekar sat stiff backed at the high table, watching his son as a hawk watches a wayward fledgling.
Daeron released your hand only when we reached the doors. You felt the absence of it keenly.
His father’s gaze sharpened at once. “Daeron,” his father called, not loudly but the single word cut clean through the noise.
Your betrothed inclined his head. “Father.”
“Walk with me.”
There was no refusal in that tone.
Daeron glanced once at you before obeying. You returned to your place beside your father, though your gaze followed the two dragons as they moved to the other end of the hall, beneath the shadows of the Tully banners.
You watched them.
Maekar stood rigid, hands clasped in front of him. Daeron faced him without slouching, without swaying. You could not hear the first exchange, but you saw his father’s expression darken.
Then Daeron spoke at length. Maekar’s eyes flickered toward you. Toward the river doors. Toward the hall itself. Whatever your prince said next made his father’s jaw clench. At last, Maekar gave a curt nod.
Then they returned to the high table.
Maekar did not address you first, but he addressed your father.
“Lord Tully,” he said, voice even as tempered steel. “My son has made… a proposal.”
Your father straightened. “Your Grace?”
Maekar’s gaze shifted to you briefly, measuring.
“Daeron believes it would be to his benefit,” the prince continued, each word almost deliberate, “to reside here at Riverrun for a time following the wedding. Rather than returning to King’s Landing.”
The words seemed to still the air about you. Your father blinked. “To reside here?”
Daeron stepped forward then, and there was no wine thick slur to his voice like earlier.
“Yes,” he said. “The Riverlands are.. quieter than King’s Landing. The air much cleaner. The noise less relentless.” His eyes found yours only for a heartbeat before returning to your father. “I believe it would be good for me.”
Maekar’s gaze hardened. “King’s Landing is where a prince belongs.”
“And yet,” Daeron replied carefully, “I have not thrived there, father.”
A heavy silence fell between them.
Your father cleared his throat. “Riverrun would be honored to host the prince with my daughter, should it please Your Graces.”
Maekar studied his son for a long moment. You saw something pass between them. Weariness perhaps. Or resignation.
“You would not be free of duty,” Prince Maekar said at last. “You would answer when summoned.”
“I know,” Daeron said quietly.
Maekar exhaled slowly through his nose. “Very well. For a time at least.”
Relief flickered across Daeron’s face, so swift you might have imagined it.
The prince turned to you then. “My son is not an easy man, my lady. If Riverrun can steady him..” He did not finish that thought. “See that he does not forget who he is.”
“I would not dare, Your Grace.” You replied softly.
The prince inclined his head once and withdrew. When he was gone, Daeron looked to you as though you had granted him some great boon. “Thank you.” He said.
“Of course. I think Riverrun may suit you just yet.”
A faint smile touched his lips. “It will. I have seen it.”
As the night wore on servants refilled cups and cleared platters. The music softened into something slower, sweeter. You watched Daeron closely.
He lifted his cup once more but only once. He drank, not deeply, and set it aside with a deliberation that did not go unnoticed by his father or you.
“You did not empty it?” you asked.
“I find I have less need of it at the moment.” He replied.
The musicians began a river waltz. An old tune your mother loved. Before you could lose your nerve, you rose.
“My prince,” you said, offering your hand. “Will you dance with me?”
Surprise flickered over his face, then something warmer. “I fear I may tread upon your toes.”
“I shall risk it.”
He took your hand then. His grip firm now. Steady. You moved onto the floor, the torchlight catching in his sandy blonde hair like threads of spun gold. The hall blurred around you as you found the rhythm. His hand at your waist was careful.
“You dance well,” he murmured.
“I was taught it was expected of me.” You replied.
“And what was expected of you, before this?” he asked.
You hesitated. “That I should wed some Riverlord. Bear his children. Keep accounts. Smile when I’m required.”
“And now?”
“Now,” you said honestly. “I am to wed a dragon who dreams of drowning.”
He huffed a soft laugh, though there was no mockery in it.
“And what did you think of that dragon this morning?” You met his eyes.
“I thought it the worst fate the gods could devise.”
He did not flinch at that.
“I cannot blame you.” He responded.
You turned beneath the chandelier, skirts whispering against stone.
“And now?” he asked quietly. You considered him carefully. You considered the way he had held himself, the cup he left half full, and the vulnerability he had shown you.
“Now I think,” you said slowly, “That perhaps the gods are not always cruel.”
His steps faltered for the barest breath before finding their footing again. You continued your dancing, slowly starting to admire each other being so close. And then the song ended. Applause rose around you. But you did not immediately part.
As the feast dwindled and lords began to take their leave, the hall grew quieter. Your father retired at last, clapping Daeron upon the shoulders with a warmth you had not expected.
“You are always welcome here, my prince.” He had said.
Daeron inclined his head. “Thank you, my lord.”
When the last of the musicians packed away their instruments, you turned to him.
“I wish to speak plainly,” you said.
He grew still now.
“This morning, I dreaded you.” You confessed. “I fear a life chained to a man who would never see me through the haze of wine.”
He absorbed that without protest.
“But tonight,” you continued, “You shared your dreams with me. Your fears and your hopes.” You drew a breath. “And because of that. I feel hopeful.”
The word seemed fragile between you and him.
“That we might have something rare,” you finished. “If you truly wish it.”
His expression changed not to mirth, not to arrogance but to something almost of awe.
“I do wish that.” He said simply.
The hall nearly empty now. Leaving only the embers glowing in the hearths.
“May I walk you to your chambers?” he asked.
“You may.”
You moved through quiet corridors, your footsteps echoing softly against stone. The torches burned low. Outside, the river sang its endless song.
When you reached your door, he stopped.
“For the first time in years,” he said, voice low, “I do not dread closing my eyes.”
“Then perhaps,” you answered, “the rivers and its trout are already at work.”
He lifted his hand slowly, as though asking permission without words placing it carefully along your jaw. And you did not deny him.
His lips met yours gently, tentative at first, then surer when you did not pull away. The kiss was warm and unhurried, tasting faintly of wine but not drowned in it.
When he drew back, his forehead rested briefly against yours.
“Good night, my lady of the river.”
“Good night, my prince.”
He left you there with the sound of the Red Fork below and the memory of his lips against yours.
That morning you believed yourself doomed.
But that night, as you lay in bed and listened to the water rushing past your walls, you wondered whether the gods had not send you a dragon, but instead sent you a man who wished, at last, to learn to float.