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Daeron had never been shy about wanting your comfort. Not even as a boy, a few years your senior, who by all means should have known better.
If he skinned a knee, he came to find you before he'd even finished crying about it. If he was rattled by a bad dream—and, even then, he'd always had bad dreams—he’d track you down, pale with shadows under his eyes, and slump down beside you without a word. He’d lay his heavy head right in your lap, or press his brow against your shoulder, letting his forehead rest against your collarbone while you stroked his hair. He never asked if he was interrupting your lessons, never cared if your septa cleared her throat in disapproval until Uncle Maekar dragged him away. It's as though asking had never once occurred to him, as though he didn't even consider that you might turn him away.
And you hadn't. You never did.
You once teased him for it. Lightly. Called him a baby, when you were young enough that the word still stung, and watched his pretty face crumple before you could take it back. You gave him your hand for the rest of the afternoon to make up for it. He never held a grudge, not about that, not about anything. He simply came back the next time he needed something, same as always, entirely unbothered by whatever indignity he'd suffered the last time he'd asked.
That's just how it was between you two.
By rights, it should have been embarrassing, a prince of the realm, grown into manhood, leaning so helplessly on his younger cousin, reaching for you like a little boy. Yet somehow, it didn't feel shameful. You liked being needed in that quiet, desperate way, even if it was a truth you only ever admitted to yourself.
When the wine found him, it looked at first like nothing worth worrying over. He'd come back from his wanderings down the hill loose and easy, humming some tune he'd picked up along the way. He slept better, after. Didn't wake in fits so often. You told yourself—and later, revisiting these moments, you know that you told this to yourself because it was easier—that a boy who laughed more and slept easier couldn't have found anything so very wrong.
"Come with me tonight," he pleaded one evening, tugging at your wrist. "We'll come back before anyone notices. Please?"
You made a show of resisting, part due to some deference owed to your father, some responsibility to at least put up a fight before giving in to the opportunity for rebellion. But mostly you just liked hearing him plead. Come on, cousin, we don't get to see each other as much as we should, come with me? Please?
Silly Daeron. Like you could ever say no to him.
You were caught, of course, the very first time you tried. You weren't practiced at doing things behind your family's back. Uncle Maekar's voice had filled the halls with words you'd never dare repeat in polite company, threatening to send Daeron to the Wall if he dragged the princess into gutters. Daeron was older, he should be setting an example, not leading you into danger. You weren't spared either, getting chastised for going along with your cousin's whims. Although he was admittedly gentler towards you, it still left your cheeks warm with embarrassment.
But you caught Daeron's eye in the middle of it anyway, and knew, even then, it would only be a matter of time before you tried again.
Baelor didn’t scold you for it. That breakfast, he passed you bread, a knowing glint in his eye, and said that young dragons should learn to stretch their wings every now and again. In your next attempt, the guards at the postern gate that night suddenly found the stars very interesting, letting two hooded figures from the Keep slip past them into the dark. Knowing your father was in on the secret took away a bit of the reckless thrill, but the air smelled like freedom just the same, even if it was slightly noxious.
There was an overflow of people tonight, something Daeron hadn't predicted. You kept flinching from every moving body, wary even once you'd managed to squeeze into a small corner, all too aware of what could happen if your hood slipped. White hair might have passed, at a glance, for any Targaryen bastard's get. But you weren't willing to leave it to chance.
He'd reached for your hand across the small table and squeezed it, hard enough to startle you into looking at him for an explanation.
"Do you trust me, cousin?" The crowd was rowdy and loud enough that any real conversation was impossible. You nodded. "Then drink. I have you. I promise."
You had wanted to question it, ask more on what he was planning, though you found there was little use arguing over the noise, so you'd steeled your nerves and downed your drink, letting the excess slosh down your face the way you'd seen the other men do. He'd cheered. You'd laughed with him. Though the crowd wasn't cheering for you, it had felt, for a moment, like they were.
At some point in the night, your hand had threaded through his, the motion old and natural. Your head had landed on his shoulder, unceremoniously. Daeron knew the names of half the room, or claimed to—the barkeep's daughter, a one-eyed sellsword nursing the same drink for an hour—and whispered their stories to you in fragments, probably invented, though you couldn't get him to admit it. It made you giggle into his shoulder as he built taller and taller tales out of nothing, until you choked on your own drink laughing, and he had to pat your back while you regained your breath.
There was a twinkle in his eye that told you exactly how much he was enjoying himself. You liked that about him. Silly, sensitive Daeron. You liked that he could make a strange, ugly, wonderful place feel familiar and warm.
You were properly drunk—the first time you had ever let yourself be fully careless. You'd spent your whole life wound tight, and here was Daeron, for once, entirely whole. Sober. His hand stayed over the lip of his own cup, turning barmaids away, watching over you until the sun threatened to rise and your stomach threatened to turn.
"This is good fun, Daeron. I can see why you do this so often," you mumbled, finally audible without shouting. The crowd had thinned some hours ago, leaving stragglers like the two of you behind. Sweat had made your hair stick to your face. You blinked as Daeron brushed the damp strands away, tucking them behind your ear, lingering there.
"I'm glad you came with me," he said, a smile in his voice.
You'd always known your cousin was handsome. You'd never had to confront it quite like this. This close, whatever girlish blindness had once protected you from noticing finally worn away. He'd grown into himself since the last time you'd looked, the way boys did, all at once like they were making up for years overdue. The soft roundness he'd had as a child had sharpened—his jaw, his shoulders. Hair like beaten gold, damp at the temples. Eyes like the sky before a storm breaks, clearer that night than you could ever remember them being.
You hadn't led a hard life. Nothing about it demanded escape, no quiet resentment driving you toward rebellion. You loved your home, your family. You'd do anything for them, were fully prepared for what duty would ask of you, when the time came.
But that night, in the dim, sticky belly of some Flea Bottom tavern, you'd felt something else entirely: alive. Beneath the fog and the roar of a hundred shouting voices, you were just another body in the crowd, swallowed by the shadow of the castle, like everybody else.
No one in your family could have understood the relief of it. Just for a few hours, simply being a stupid girl instead of a princess. No one but Daeron.
Wonderful, sweet, tortured Daeron, who'd set his own escape aside so you could experience yours. Even just for tonight.
"Me too," you mumbled, suddenly aware of the distance between you. There were two things warring in you, the part that wanted to shove yourself deeper into the junction of his neck and never resurface, and the part that couldn't bear being this close, his skin now suddenly feeling like it was searing yours.
The rowdy din of the tavern—the clinking of pewter tankards, the low rumbles of laughter, the scraping of chairs—seemed to recede into a muted, faraway world. All that remained was the small, sacred space between his breath and yours. Something fragile hung in the air, so delicate and taut that you held your breath, paralyzed by the quiet fear that if you spoke too loudly, or even shifted an inch, the spell would break and the moment would be lost forever.
The truth hit you with a sudden, overwhelming clarity. Gods. You love him.
Your mind went straight to your family. Your father, preparing for the weight of the Seven Kingdoms on his shoulders. Sooner, rather than later, if the rumours were to be believed about your grandfather. You knew the rules of your world; you had been trained for them, fully prepared for the day you would be traded for a high lord's loyalty.
You hate that you thought of it, the truth tasting bitter on your tongue.
Loving Daeron would give way to nothing.
It forged no new alliances, squashed no rebellions, brought no new swords to your family's defense. All that was his was already yours. Your lord father was too gentle a man to ever force you into something you didn't want, but you knew what you owed. You knew the good you could do—the good that you would do.
But tonight, you were just another stupid girl, weren't you? The rest of your life could be for the realm. But you could have tonight.
He was so close that you could feel the heat of him on your face. If you'd just tilt your head some, you could catch his lips in yours. You didn't know how to—Gods, did Daeron mind?
You didn't have time to process the thought before his trembling hand rose, his fingers cupping the curve of your jaw with a reverence that made your throat tight.
Then, he tilted his face upward, his nose brushing softly against the crown of your scalp, his forehead coming to rest against yours before his lips found the center of your brow. Even separated by the worn material of your hood, the kiss was a whisper of pressure. It was so light that for a breath you thought your mind might have invented it entirely.
You understood it for what it was.
It felt like an admission.
It felt like a retreat.
You reached for your drink and swallowed a heavy gulp, tears burning the back of your eyes. He knew. He knew before you, had arrived at the same bitter conclusion and you were just following the footsteps he's left in the sand.
"Tell me a story," you said. You needed a distraction before you cried further like a fool. "Like the ones you told about them." You nodded vaguely toward the room.
"Whatever do you mean?" he asked softly, offering a faint, fragile attempt at a smile. "I only tell true stories."
A weak huff escaped your chest, endeared despite yourself. Yet the warmth of it only made the ache beneath your ribs bloom act again, pressing into it like a fresh bruise. Sweet, gentle Daeron.
"And about who, this time?"
You let your eyes sweep the room. No face in the crowd tonight caught your eye. No one seemed worth building a tale around. After letting the silence stretch, you finally murmured, "Ours."
He considered you a long, heavy moment. You could feel him staring at the side of your face and couldn't quite bring yourself to meet it. It would be too honest. Too open.
"All right." He turned his cup slowly, not drinking from it, just turning it—something to do with his hands while he thought. He cleared his throat. "So. There's a man and a woman who walked into a tavern.
"This man was an honest man. He had a job as a baker, a little past Tanner's Row. Not the best at it, but good enough to keep the job. It paid him little, but at the end of the day, he got to bring warm food home to his wife, and that was good enough for them.
"Now, this woman was the most beautiful woman anyone had ever seen. She married him anyway, though he couldn't afford her gowns or jewels or silks. He used to worry, before they wed, that some lord's son would offer her everything he couldn't. He wouldn't have begrudged her for taking it, if she had. She deserved a proper life. A proper husband. Her mind could've rivaled a maester's, and her face could've won her a kingdom. Instead, she married a baker."
You nearly laughed, though your chest constricted painfully. "Was there a scandal?"
"Oh, yes. All good stories need one. Everyone thought the baker unworthy of her, and he thought the same. But the lady wife was stubborn, and so she stubbornly chose him anyway, over riches and comfort both.
"They lived near the Street of Steel. But tonight, they were feeling adventurous, and stumbled into this tavern, giggling among themselves. You'd mistake them for newlyweds — but they'd loved each other since before either of them could remember."
"What happens to them?"
"Nothing." He turned the cup once more before letting it still, a wistful smile settling over him. "Nothing of note at all. That's the best part, I think. He sleeps well. He has dreams, occasionally, but they leave his mind by morning. Doesn't drink, doesn't gamble. Just an honest man and his remarkable wife, living an ordinary life. It unfolds in front of them, same as it did for their mothers and fathers, and everyone who came before."
"That sounds like a very boring story," you said, though your voice didn't come out as light as you meant it to.
"The best lives usually are." He finally looked up at you, and for a moment neither of you said anything at all, the barmaids clearing tables around you, indifferent to the particular silence sitting at your table.
The weight of it hit you. They were all living their own lives, their own loves, their own destinies to wrestle with and fight, and yours was moving just as relentlessly. This night with Daeron wouldn't stop your future from coming. You were here, another stranger with another story, and you had a role you couldn't run from.
Daeron was not a baker, and you were not his wife. You were a princess of the realm and a daughter of an honourable man, and you would play your part. Your mouth had gone dry, your throat tight. But you needed to know something. You met his eyes and asked, "Are they happy?"
He smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "The happiest in all the realms."
You looked at him. There's a faint tremble in his fingers, the quiet grief tucked into the corner of his mouth.
What a pair you made.
"Happy," you echoed softly. "Doesn't seem very true, does it?"
"No." He let you keep holding his hand. "But it's nice to imagine."
He looked at you, heavy-lidded, something raw and aching flickering behind his eyes before he let them close. He looked so small slouching against the rough bench. Less Targaryen. Less imperial. Just a boy.
You didn't know how long you stayed like that, resting your head against his shoulder while your fingers played idly with his. You caught the faint line of a scar notched into his forefinger, and without thinking, raised it to press a kiss directly to the worn skin. He stiffened, caught off guard by the tender gesture, then relaxed.
"Come on," he murmured, slipping out of your seat, jostling you out of your peaceful stasis. "The sun will be up before we reach the hill."
You left coins on the table. Far too many for ale that sour, but in this life, you had that at least, in excess. You sighed, steadying yourself. When you leave the tavern, the air smelled of damp stone and old mud, and it somehow didn’t seem so bad as last night.
You walked the rest of the way in silence, the lower city giving way, gradually, to the long shadow of the Red Keep. Somewhere above you both, the castle was waking. Up there, he would be Daeron the Drunk. And you would be exactly who you'd always been—a good daughter, a dutiful daughter, ready to do whatever your family needed you to do.
Years into the future, you would remember this night, when the ache in your chest grew heavy enough to crush you beneath its weight. You would remember the shape of his mouth against your brow, the heat of him still lingering around you. You would think of the baker and his wife, and learn, slowly, how to live with what you'd chosen instead.
It wouldn't be enough. It was never going to be enough.
But it was something. And you would keep it, love tucked deep in your heart, a secret sealed between you, binding as any oath.