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Daeron woke up with a single thought profoundly pulsing in his temples. Something that was obvious and simple, and yet something he had completely missed. Something that, now that he thought of it, weighed his legs with leaden guilt and constricted his chest with claws of shame. He felt color in his cheeks and a terrible headache wash over him as his lilac eyes flew open, a gasp passing his lips. The dawn wasn’t even breaking yet, but the thought was as clear in his mind as a sunny midday:
“There was no one to ask Valarr how he was doing.”
Of course there wasn’t. Of course. Valarr’s father laid dead, expected to be burnt this very evening. Matarys was in King’s Landing, awaiting Valarr’s explanations of their father’s passing – something that Daeron was not envious of, not at all. Kiera was still short with Valarr, only appearing next to him out of duty but retreating to her chambers at first ability. Daeron’s own father was so guilt-ridden himself that he could scarcely look anyone in the eye, and especially so in the unique eyes that were Valarr’s. Not so unique before, but certainly unique now. Aerion was unconcerned with such things, and… there was no one else left.
Except him.
They always seemed like they had a connection, with Valarr. There was something about him that echoed inside Daeron. Like a sad song you heard and wept and yet couldn’t help but hum under your nose when no one was looking. It was something intangible and fragile, yet something Daeron couldn’t resist from dwelling on.
And yet, he all but abandoned Valarr. He could have visited Valarr after it all happened, he could have popped by during his cousin’s vigil to keep him company at least, or put a friendly hand on his shoulder so he didn’t feel quite so alone as he watched over his father’s cold body. But he didn’t. Selfishly, self-centeredly, obliviously, Daeron kept to his cups and used the excuse of his hurt leg to avoid all eyes and remain in his rooms. He drank, and he evaded sleep, and then dreamt anyway when his body could no longer hold him up.
A week had passed this way. A week. Seven whole days and nights. As Daeron felt sorry for himself, for his leg and his face and his poor little mind, Valarr had no such luxury of drowning his sorrow and passing into dark, black sleep. He had to stand there, watching over his very own father getting more and more dead each passing hour, and there was no one to ask him how he was doing.
Gods, Daeron’s throat clenched as he thought about it. His poor cousin Valarr.
As he walked through the long hallways, Daeron swept a lock of hair that stubbornly slipped out of the loose horsetail he tied with a ribbon at the base of his neck, his brows knitting over his eyes. He was such a complete and utter imbecile. How could he claim to hold some fondness for Valarr if he simply just… forgot about him, in a time like this?
It was easy to forget sometimes that not everything in the waking world carried on without his input. For so often he felt himself a piece of driftwood caught in a roaring mountain river descending further and further down into the unknown. He was a living person, as well, in a world of other living people. That was something he needed to remember. If not for anyone else, if not even for himself, then for Valarr.
After all, was it not Valarr who, unbeknownst to himself, made it bearable for Daeron to consider going to sleep most nights? Was it not Valarr’s comely and enigmatic visage that appeared in the few, precious dreams that were Daeron’s own, and not those of his blood?
And still, he just left him to deal with all this without a second thought. What a despicable, wretched creature he was.
Lightly limping his way to the door of his cousin’s chambers, Daeron swallowed the knot that formed in his throat, and decided that he was going to make up for his detestable behavior by being there now, in whatever manner Valarr needed. He knocked on the door and straightened out his doublet, the annoying lock of hair slipping back in front of his face. He had no time to swat it this time, as the door opened.
Instead of Valarr’s striking features, a small lad of no more than ten appeared in the doorway. He was wearing Dondarrion colors as well as their features – olive eyes and dark red hair. Daeron recognized the boy as Valarr’s squire for this tourney, whose name still slipped his mind. The lad proudly raised his chin and announced:
“His Grace prince Valarr is resting today and would not be disturbed.”
Daeron smiled, drew an arm behind his back as he bowed politely, and replied:
“Tell His Grace it’s no disturbance, only his tallest cousin.”
Valarr’s voice made itself known from behind the door, causing both the boy and Daeron to perk up.
“See prince Daeron in, Jonah, then you may be free for the day.”
So few words, yet they made Daeron’s heart sing. There wasn’t resentment in that voice, or anger. Valarr wasn’t mad at him and even wished to see him – that was a good start to the day. Though, just how flat and raspy that usually clear voice sounded was cause for concern, and Daeron curved his brows with sympathy as he entered the room after being gestured in by the squire. He walked further into the room, casting a concerned gaze over Valarr’s visibly tired frame still dressed in a black gambeson.
“Are you sure there will be nothing else, Your Grace?” the squire asked, dutifully standing straight and looking up at the prince.
“Quire sure,” Valarr replied absent-minded, his brow furrowed in focus as he was busy taking off his leather gloves. Just as the lad opened the door to leave, Valarr suddenly looked up as if remembering something and added: “Do bring the armor back to lord Ashbey’s smith, please. Then you may be free.”
“At once, Your Grace,” the little Dondarrion replied, energetically gathering the plain steel armor Valarr must’ve worn during his vigil into his already quite capable arms. The lad was a good squire – far better than Daeron ever was.
It was very much unlike Valarr to stumble over his words like he just did. He was normally a very collected and meticulous young man – noble traits that Daeron himself lacked, admired, and envied. To see his cousin appear a scatter-brain was rather disconcerting and definitely worrying. How tired must be his poor Valarr...
Clinging of steel filled the room for a short time until the boy disappeared into the hallway and closed the door behind him, casting the chambers into complete silence now only interrupted by the quiet rustle of Valarr’s gloves.
Daeron watched his cousin struggle with the small buckle, his visage obscured by sharp shadows cast by late dawn that seeped through the windows in thick, orange beams. It was almost dreamlike, and only Daeron’s headache was real enough evidence for him to know it was in fact not a dream. Valarr grew agitated, and rushed the glove off his hand without undoing the buckles with one decided thrust. Just as Daeron was about to ask if he needed help, Valarr interrupted him and all but grumbled:
“You are not my tallest cousin.”
The words were so uncalled for that Daeron had to blink his confusion away before he asked:
“I beg your pardon?”
Valarr ripped his other glove off his hand and rubbed his hands with relief now that they were bare. Then, he looked over his shoulder at Daeron with his dark eye and stated in a flat tone Daeron couldn’t quite read:
“Jonah’s eldest brother Jerran is half a head taller than you.”
Daeron knew not why, but the words offended him. He huffed and locked his hands behind his back, turning his face and insisting:
“The tallest princely cousin, then.”
“That you are,” Valarr agreed unenthusiastically, and the tense sigh he released after that was enough for Daeron to want to face him again.
His cautious gaze ran over Valarr’s frame, his fallen shoulders, his neck that appeared to be so stiff Valarr couldn’t help but rub the back of it with a hand now that there was no glove to stop him. Daeron couldn’t remember if he ever saw Valarr show physical discomfort so openly before. His cousin was usually quite good at showing noble tranquility no matter the circumstances. Seven nights of no sleep must’ve made quite a dent in his stoic demeanor.
Valarr looked down to start working on the buckles of his gambeson, but before they started to agitate him as much as the gloves did, Daeron made a determined step forward. Then a second one, a shorter one since it was his hurt leg that he leant on for it, and then just one last to appear near his cousin. He put his hand on Valarr’s upper arm and with a small, soft push encouraged him to turn to face him.
With a sigh that hurt Daeron only he once again knew not why, Valarr did just that and turned on his heels to face him properly. Daeron’s long fingers began working on the top buckle, the one right over Valarr’s throat, as his eyes tried to stay focused on his task. Only it could not be helped, could it? Dearon couldn’t stop himself. He slowly led his gaze up, passing Valarr’s unshaven for a week chin, his chapped lips, his pretty nose, the mole by the corner of it. Then Daeron reached his eyes, and his breath got caught in his throat.
There were so many colors there, each of them cutting his heart in a different way. The pale blue was cold and skeptical, evaluating his worth. The dark brown with a glowing ember lighting it up from within was painfully longing for comfort that Daeron didn’t know how to provide. The reds in the sclera of his eyes and on the edges of his lids screamed of sorrow and hurt, and Daeron only wished he could whisk them away somehow, only he could not. The blues and purples coloring the thin skin under Valarr’s eyes were painfully familiar – something Daeron oft saw on his own face when he avoided sleep for many nights in a row. There were even spots of black in there, especially on the sides of the bridge of his nose where the skin was thinnest and betrayed the most of Valarr’s understandable exhaustion.
He knew not for how long he was frozen in place, taken so completely with the sight of his beautiful cousin’s gaze. He only knew that he startled when Valarr asked him, his voice both stern and concerned:
“Daeron?”
Daeron blinked himself out of his trance, looking back down at his fingers almost sheepishly as he finished working on the top buckle of the gambeson and moved lower to the next. His heart was increasing its pace in his chest, his throat going dry. Why could Valarr, of all people, have such little trouble in unsettling Daeron?
“I’ve…” he began, his voice timid and pitiful. He hated how it sounded, but persevered nonetheless: “I’ve come to apologize. I do not believe I would be able to make it up the hill to witness the funeral pyre, not with my leg.”
“Somehow, I did not think you would,” Valarr replied, his voice lacking warmth completely.
Daeron was tempted to look up into his eyes again, but was stricken with shame so hot and immediate that, instead, he stubbornly stared at his own fingers as they continued to work on the last buckle at the belt level of the gambeson. That voice… it made him feel like the smallest man that ever walked this world. He stepped around Valarr, avoiding his eyes as best he could, and helped him take the heavy padded piece of attire off the surely weary shoulders.
Strong masculine scent wafted off Valarr’s lightly damp undershirt, black as were most things his cousin chose to wear. Daeron did not hate the scent. It was sharp and strong, evidence of vigor and youth and activity. Evidence of seven days spent inside heavy armor, as well. Valarr’s hair tinged with grease smelt of incense and smoke, but the rest of him from the neck down smelt of nothing but Valarr.
He was going to complement Valarr on the way his scent made Daeron’s thoughts entangle in his head, even if it would have made him sound daft. But Valarr broke the titillating mood that settled in the pit of Daeron’s stomach, and washed him in a wave of foreboding cold instead when he quietly said:
“While I stood vigil, they had to strike down Vaenyr.”
Even though all Daeron saw was the back of Valarr’s head and the strong line of his shoulders, he could still easily tell his cousin’s every sentiment. Guilt was the primary one, of course. Sorrow, as well. Regret, hopelessness, even shame. It must’ve been a queer feeling, to miss one’s horse when one’s father laid dead, set to be burnt later this very day. Bur Vaenyr was a magnificent piebald warhorse, ten-and-one but formidable as only a warhorse in his prime could be. He was in Valarr’s life for longer than he wasn’t. It only made sense to feel a sense of loss for the end of such a beast.
“It’s alright to be saddened by the passing of one’s steed,” Daeron attempted to console his cousin as he continued to helplessly hold the empty gambeson in his hands.
“It does not feel that way,” Valarr replied, and solemnly walked towards the bed to sit at the edge of it near its head.
Daeron hung the gambeson over the back of a chair, and then limped to the bed as well to sit on the edge by its feet. He put his hands on his knees awkwardly, the hair strand hanging in front of his eyes and tickling his nose. He didn’t look at Valarr, allowing him the privacy to take off his boots and hose – it sounded like Valarr needed the privacy, evidenced by his cousin’s bothered and labored huffs and relieved sighs.
“You could have… asked someone to swap with you for the vigil,” Daeron suggested carefully. He wasn’t sure that he could ever stand guard over someone’s body and spirit for seven whole days and nights. It seemed inhumane, as well as inhuman.
“Whom would I ask?” Valarr replied helplessly, stretching out his legs and wiggling his toes, embarrassing Daeron by doing so who had to dart his eyes away. Valarr continued without looking at him, wiping his face with a dry hand: “The brave Kingsguard who rode against father? His brother, the kinslayer? Or you?”
The words rung in the air for a while longer, unanswered. Daeron had no answer at all to that. He supposed Valarr was right, there was no one he could call upon. Certainly not Daeron, the worst knight at the tourney – the knight barely worth the title, if at all.
Despite the dreadful cold guilt that filled his every blood vessel, Daeron still felt his heart flutter when he saw Valarr blindly gesture at him with a hand, asking to be handed the wineskin. He happily did so, feeling useful for once, and saw his normally abstinent from stimulants cousin drink thirstily and needily out of the vessel.
“What is that?” Valarr asked with a grimace as he returned the almost empty wineskin, his voice perplexed and finally sounding like himself. He looked up at Daeron with wide, wondering eyes, and Daeron was overjoyed to smirk at him and reply:
“Green spiced cider. An acquired taste.”
“I wish not to acquire it if it can be helped,” Valarr chuckled helplessly, the sound like a balm to Daeron’s restless heart.
Feeling warmth finally sneak into the air between them, Daeron dared to slowly slide his hand around Valarr's shoulders to embrace him and bring him closer. Valarr did not resist, stiffness leaving his back and his neck to be replaced with thick weariness. He even relaxed in Daeron’s grasp, his head all but drooping forward for the tremendous fatigue that was filling his poor cousin’s every limb.
Daeron turned his face and kissed the hair above Valarr’s ear. His eyes closed as he did so, and the pit of his stomach was set aflame at the small, appreciative hum that Valarr let slip past his throat. He was only here to comfort, not indulge himself. Still…
What harm was there in kissing Valarr’s temple?
Was it so bad that he kissed his cheekbone after that?
Did it make him all that terrible to slowly and softly press his lips against the corner of Valarr’s? Valarr, who did not recoil or tense, but only leant against his touches, searching for the contact, falling perfectly against the lines of Daeron’s body and his lips.
Valarr turned his face, his heavy dark lashes falling over his eyes. His cousin tilted his head and touched the side of his face with a weary palm, the daylight between them disappearing as their lips found each other in a glorious, sought for touch. With his other hand, Valarr found the pesky unruly strand of flaxen hair in front of Daeron’s eyes to deftly lead it away and tuck behind his ear.
Daeron inhaled sharply at the gesture, his brows curving in a strange sense of despair that took over him as he wrapped his arms around Valarr’s shoulders.
Red tendrils of mist climbing up Valarr’s feet, soaking his clothes, weighing him down, pulling him deeper.
Valarr parted his lips, strong breath of a man who hadn’t eaten in a while entering Daeron’s nose and his mouth, but he could not care less about that. He slid his tongue inside Valarr’s mouth, tilting his head further, tightening his hold around Valarr. He heard a shaky, cathartic breath leave Valarr’s pretty nose and break against the skin of his face.
Flames white-hot and gold-glimmering, burning through the mist, scorching Valarr, melting his hair.
Daeron leant forward over Valarr, encouraging his cousin to lie down on his back. It did not take much to persuade him to do so. Daeron was now on top, setting the pace, slowing his lips down only to enjoy it all for longer. The scraping of Valarr’s stubble around his mouth, his strong tired fingers in his hair, his chest rising and falling under him in short, rapid breaths. It was all so fleeting.
Reborn. Blackened. Bright as flame. Face obscured, eyes glowing in the dark. Ice-cold and blaze-hot.
Daeron frowned in their kiss and cast the insistent visions aside. He cared not for bloody prophecy right now. Valarr was here, he was real. He was receptive. He was craving, even, bringing Daeron closer and kissing him with so much warmth.
Slowly, full of care, Daeron parted their lips and raised himself on his arms. He looked down and Valarr and said reflectively:
“Oft, I dreamt of…”
‘…kissing you like this,’ he meant to say, ‘and those dreams were always my own.’
But he saw the utter lack of tension in the lines of Valarr’s fatigued face. The decidedly closed eyes, the long lashes resting willingly over the dark circles under them. There was such uncommon on those beautiful, noble features peace present on Valarr’s face that there was no doubt about it, and Daeron couldn’t help but smile down at the sight.
Valarr was asleep.
Daeron carefully and soundlessly sat up, and then slipped off the bed completely. He winced and knelt down, his injured knee screaming at him but the pain fell on deaf ears. As he knelt by the bed, Daeron cautiously lifted Valarr’s feet off the floor and arranged his legs on the bed, hoping that his cousin would be comfortable. Daeron then stood up, desperately trying not to groan at the effort, and then looked around for a blanket which was found shortly.
He could do this for Valarr. He failed to do so much else, the least he could do now was ensure he could soundly sleep, comfortable and warm. He could indulge, of course, kiss him awake, continue where they were. But that wouldn’t be for Valarr. It would be for Daeron, and… Daeron had been selfish enough as of late. Definitely enough.
He would grant Valarr this rest. And the tiniest, smallest kiss he would place on his cousin’s forehead would be perfectly comforting and selfless.
Or… at least most of it – selfless. Daeron could never be perfect.