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The spindly dragon of ice-pale scales and ashen skin glides in the night sky with its sweeping wings. The wind strikes those scales, drifting them along the gale. Though, by the downpour of the rain and storms, which howl like a growl from a dragon’s mouth, the beast falters, sending itself careening above the endless abyss. Its vision now sees only a blur of mist and rain. Eventually, its back pitches backward, exposing its pale blue belly to the thunderstorms. Then, at last, the dragon crashes upon the muddy land, sloshing wallows, and at her feet.
The same maiden, a constant presence in his haunted sleep, she is his haunting mystery. With the same gown of faded sapphire linen on, the clamminess from the rainfall clings her dress onto her skin. Invariably, as always, her thick-flowing tresses veil both sides of her countenance. But the visage has been a riddle to him; always a featureless void.
Except one thing, the unmistaken, undeniable feelings of her being, which comes with solace and serence. As if her presence alone rescues him from the night-terror of the earlier shocking scene. The nameless maiden, as ever, sinks on her knees next to the helpless beast. Her smooth palm caresses the hardened scales of the sprawling dragon. The warmth of her flesh stirs the monster from its unconsciousness, alerting its head to lift up in a watchful manner. Those slit-pupiled eyes then search for a remaining, blurry sight of her face. She abides as if a ghost in his sense.
The vision shatters as the dream releases him. The sensation of her presence, for a moment and as a routine, lingers within his heart. A strange feeling of longing for the absence and unreal touch. His haunting mystery, Daercon names her that way. A woman with no name and a blurry visage who has followed him in slumbers since his primal dream after birth.
—
Across Westeros, the vast land full of regions and noble houses, the great vassals were therefore invited to Prince Aerion’s nameday feast. From the high table to the lowest benches, fine meats and autumn harvest, such as dark plums, pears, and pomegranates heap high on every silver plate, along with Arbor Gold from the island of the Arbor, which were poured to the brim of those powerful lords’ goblets. They savor every drop of wine, every bite of juicy meat, sweet fruit, and every bit of merriment because the lavish feast has raged for hours now, since dusk.
Aerion’s laughter peals ring out musically during the celebration with some great lords that shower him with sycophancy. From the far side of the table, Prince Daeron could possibly catch the sound of those false words and how self-serving they are. Yet Aerion, as usual, is blinded by his own greatest pride.
Two seats next to his side, Prince Baelor and his father, Prince Maekar, sit rigid with composure, bearing the weight of the bloodline. Valarr, his cousin, in the meantime, gives his wife such a gentle, teasing banter, making Daeron himself bristle at the sickenkingly sweet words from his shy cousin’s mouth. Close to his side, one empty seat that has been deserted for hours now by his youngest brother, Aegon, a witty boy with a vibrant nature who has now been swallowed up in the churning sea of bodies in the dancing crowd.
Soon enough, the pipes and harps change their rhythm. From fun, frantic music to a tender ballad, turning the dancing floor into an intimate stage for men and their loved ones to drown in each other’s arms. Yet, some highborn children now either scamper all around the hall or slopping their drinks and pelting crusts.
Drunken, Daeron is. With his heavy-lidded eyes and a flushed face that glows with wine-fever, he can no longer sit straight. A slouching seat then forms at last and his hand that has held the half-drained goblet begins to lumber before spilling the expensive Arbor Gold onto the table before him. He is simply the very image of a clumsy sot in the Street of Silk, for he has been lost in the tasteful wine and chaotic chatter around him.
It truly bores him now, these people, and they start to be overwhelming to his senses. Their rowdy, noisy jests and cackling laughs only want him to seek an escape, a quiet place, an area of solace that lets him form at least one thought without these interruptions. Daeron the Drunken always despises royal feats, a humble inn with modest wine would rather be his choice. Therefore, with no more hesitation, the prince finally discovers a furtive escape to slip away that avoids any notice from people in the hall.
—
The echoes of celebration start to fade in the torrential downpour. Thunderstorms continue to gather its greatest to the Blackwater Bay and lightning in the sky, from time to time, jag white forks of searing bolts. The temperature out here is mayhaps clammy and dank, though his wine-fevered face and ruddy neck are suffused with heavy heat from the crimson wine. One of his hands, still, holds the goblet tight as he makes his way along the hallway that steeps in gloom and low lights.
In this desolate passageway, it finally allows him to dredge up a thought, any kind of thought now. Dragon dreamers always exchange words with themselves rather than real people for their minds are unfathomable with fantasies and perhaps fate-bound prophecies. Daeron the Dreamer, with the crimson wine that fills his stomach tight, is eventually swallowed by the dark currents of his own mind. The weight of omens drags him down and his foot fails him at the end. The goblet of Arbor Gold then slides from his trembling hand and his limp body falls at her feet.
From behind, a gentle brace steadies his weight as he slumps to the biting stone. Then, a soothing cadence that can pull him back to the present escapes your lips, “Are you alright, my lord?” Daeron’s body turns into a heavy, leaden stillness right afterwards. Your words ripple through all the dark currents in his head earlier, such a solace release of the crushing pressure in his psyche.
And eventually, the undeniable, constant familiarity has him drift back to the same, repeated dream he has had. A dream of his haunting mystery. A nameless maiden with a visage that is presented only as a featureless void. Will your face be a blur to his sight once again if he dares to look upon you now? Yet, your touch is too distinct to deceive himself if you are merely a ghost in the back of his mind.
With that, Prince Daeron’s head turns around with measured ease, with curiosity and perhaps fear in his own heart if this is, after all, an illusion in his own mind, a cutting jest for a dreamer like himself. But your face is no the featureless void, your visage is bloomed with health and flushed from the icy air. Your hair is as dense as he remembers, and it drapes as a heavy silk curtain above your long arms. With the powder velvet gown on, you look ethereal under certain lights of the beaming moon.
While his sloppy palms cling to your sleeves, that glassy, unfocused gaze peers at your face, tinging with desperation and almost in strange relief. Finally, with a drawling manner, words slip from his slack lips in a shallow, broken breath. “I dream of you…” he said, softly and likely, “I always dream of you…” and so the world of you both shuddered to a halt, as if time itself had been caught in a sudden grip.
At long last, he found her, his haunting mystery, that heartening destiny.