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Aerion is missing.
It has been more than three moons since Daeron has last seen him and no one knows where he is. Father had thought that he ran away at first. Why he had thought so, Daeron did not know.
Aerion is a proud prince, that much their Father should have known better than anyone else. He would have never left the comforts of their wealth for anything willingly. Unless it were for dragons, of course, but their dragons were dead.
In this world, at least, they were out of reach even for the House that once claimed them.
Daeron drains another cup at that thought. Or at least tries to. It would have been easier to drink if not for the woman staring at him.
A Targaryen, she is. But not one that should be here.
She is not his sister, nor his aunt. Donned in traitorous green and not in the rightful black and reds of their house, she would have stuck out like a sour thumb had the others been able to see her.
Yet they do not and Daeron does not possess the will to question her colors.
She is plump as the singers had made her out to be. Glassy-eyed too as one would picture a grieving mother would appear like. But she is not one yet, that Daeron is sure of.
Her son has yet to lose his head, but already, she weeps as though he already has. It is pathetic. She is pathetic. Daeron understands her more than he should have.
“You could drink if you wish to forget,” He offered to her once, already deep in his cups whilst she embroidered in the dark corners of his room.
“I do not wish to become him.” She had said to him, never once lifting her eyes from her needle work. “You should not as well.”
Daeron remembers heaving at that thought. Sick to his stomach and face pinched with disgust at the prospect of appearing anything like her husband. A servant runs to get his father to help him.
Father had not seen her when he arrived. Neither did he a second later.
Yet he remembers her words all the same.
It is annoying, utterly irritating to have a woman like her become a permanent fixture in his life when none other saw her. A product of his Targaryen heritage, he thinks, but no other Targaryen wrote of seeing ghosts from the old.
To others, there is nothing. He stares at nothing, speaks at nothing, laughs at nothing, nothing of her is ever seen in their eyes.
To Daeron, there is a woman—a ghost queen—always appearing in the corner of his room. Always on the verge of tears, always embroidering, always dreaming of death.
It drives him mad, he thinks, if he is not already mad to see a dead woman appear in the rooms he inhabits.
He thinks of asking her name after the second moon of her appearance. It would have been the polite thing to do, though there was no need as he already knew her identity. He does not ask, nor does she give it.
There is no need for formality. Not between Dreamers, Daeron thinks. If one could even call him that. She does, yet she is not known as one by her family either.
Her sister would, if she took the chance to tell her in the years before. But she did not and Daeron does not whisper for her to reach for her sister though he believes that she should.
She is too frightened to do so. Too paralyzed by her dreams as he is to change her fate. Too unsure of her children’s fates to risk shortening their already short lives.
She would not risk riding to her sister even if he were to ask her too.
“I do not wish to die.” She says to him. Clutching her embroidery to her chest, her eyes glassy as they have always been. “But the tower rises and the Brightflame will burn the spools of green.”
When she had said so, he did not remember. He did not need to, it was all the same either way. She could weep all she liked and it would not change a thing. It never has.
Daeron does not comfort her. There is no use. He does not wish to die either, but they both will in the end. Already, they are dead Targaryens walking.
So he raises his cup to her instead and downs his wine. She weeps beside him. Whether it is for herself, her children, her family, or for him, Daeron does not know.
He does not question it.
.-- .... -.-- / .- .-. . / -.-- --- ..- / .... . .-. . ..--..
“He is not supposed to be here.” The Dreamer whispers to him.
Dragons dance around them, live and fierce as Daeron always imagined they would be. Beautiful and formidable and yet still also as fallible as their riders.
“Yet the Gods wish for him to be.” Daeron whispers back.
.-- .... -.-- / .- .-. . / -.-- --- ..- / .... . .-. . ..--..
“He must have mentioned something to you.” Father says, pacing back and forth in his solar. “Think, Daeron, you were the last to speak to him, were you not?”
Daeron sits by the hearth, curled in on himself and already wishing he had a cup of wine in his hand. Indeed, he was the last to have seen Aerion before he disappeared, but he has no information that would be of use to his father.
Insults were the only things his brother had said to him before the Gods took him, none of which would be of help now. He has said this to his father more times than he could count, but it would not matter.
Father would continue to worry over his brother until he returns.
Daeron also worried for his brother, though it was for another reason entirely.
It has been four moons since Aerion had gone missing and Father still does not know where he is. Already he has sent out word to Lords from Winterfell to Dorne and even asked the Crown for aid, yet still there was no sign of him.
It was like the prince had disappeared into nothingness, some of the nobility whispered among themselves. The punishment of the Gods, they add when they feel as though no one would hear them.
They were right on the first part, painfully wrong on the second.
They would never know of this, of course, until Aerion returns.
Father grabs him by his chin and forces him to look at him. “Are you even listening to me, boy?” He demands. It would have been more frightening if he did not look like the shell of a man he once was.
A shade lighter than he usually is, Father appears ill. There are dark bags beneath his watchful eyes and a tremble in his once stable hands. It is unnerving to see and nearly pushes Daeron to his cups the first time he noticed it. The formidable and once infallible Anvil is gone and in his place is a man filled with worry and despair.
Daeron worries for him, that moment, more than he does of Aerion.
He will sooner drive himself to death than he finds his brother, Daeron thinks, for the Gods were not finished with his brother yet, and were not inclined to return him sooner than needed.
“I am,” Daeron says, and before he could stop himself, “The Gods will return him when it is time.”
Father stares at him as though he had grown two more heads, and Daeron does not blame him. Daeron has never been a pious man and nor will he ever become one. It is merely the truth he says, though he knows that his father would not see it as such.
Father leaves him to his thoughts soon after that. Daeron does not ask where he will go, nor does he ask permission to leave his solar. He merely lays on the myrish rug and stares into the hearth.
Aerion is not dead as they believe him to be. He fights for now, stubborn as a dragon and fierce as the boy Daeron remembers him to be, for a dead Queen.
It is dangerous what his brother is doing, but Daeron is not one to question the Gods for using him as they see fit.
His brother is a dragon, after all, he will not stop being one even if Daeron wishes he would.
.-- .... --- / .- .-. . / -.-- --- ..-
“The Black Queen falters,” The Dreamer whispers, eyes dull and fingers bleeding. “The dragons will fall.”
Spools of green rise from the fabric, nearly overcoming the black. Suffocating and overwhelming, the dragons soar to break free.
“The Brightflame burns.” Daeron whispers back, eyes more focused than they once were. “The dragons will rise.”
.-- .... --- / .- .-. . / -.-- --- ..-
Daeron still remembers the first time he saw her in his rooms. He had screamed himself hoarse that day, frightened as a child whilst he gazed on the breathing body of a dead princess.
She did not pay him any mind back then, as she did not now.
She appeared less than a week after Aerion had gone missing. Silent as she was, crouched on the floor with her embroidery. Father did not see her then, Daeron suspects that he will never see her at all.
“The rats will come for my son,” She said to him, working diligently on her fabric. Then she paused, voice small yet still echoing in the darkness of his chambers. “As will the pretenders for your father.”
The air in Daeron’s lungs seemed to vanish entirely, yet he had not bothered to correct her. There was no use.
She was correct, after all, and she would remain correct until time came to prove it so. His father was a dead man walking. It did not matter when he would die, it mattered only that he would die before his time.
Daeron drank to it as he always did.
Uncle dead. Grandfather dead. Father dead. The Targaryens were dead dragons flying. There was no changing it.
He weeps thinking about it more than he should. It was a waste of tears as their tapestry was already woven, yet he cannot help himself. She does not pay him mind when he does.
She understands him more than she should. She knows that there is no use, they are already bound to their fate. She continues with her stitches beside him, quiet as a mouse and never paying him mind even as he vomits his wine.
Father finds him laying in his own mess, drunk out of his mind hours later. Alone as he is in the company of a dead princess. He does not see her as he drags Daeron back to his chambers.
Daeron stares at her anyway.
..-. .. --. .... - / ..-. --- .-. / ..- ...
“He is unravelling it.” The Dreamer whispers, eyes wide with fear and disbelief. She herself is unravelling, braids loose and gown askewed, yet there is a pinch of hope in her eyes.
It is unusual to see but stranger things occur around them, still. The dragons are moving, the green one plots its doom whilst the black dips its head in fear of what will never pass and rages for the crown stolen.
“It is the will of the Gods,” Daeron whispers, wide-eyed and breathless as he stares into what has transpired. “The Pearl Prince lives.”
..-. .. --. .... - / ..-. --- .-. / ..- ...
There is a shift in his dreams.
Where there was once only death and destruction, lies a battle. One that lies in the past, finished and paid in blood, but still plays all the more different in another world with a newer dragon before his eyes.
Daeron does not risk a cup. He does not dare to even drink a sip of wine. He cannot miss this, he thinks to himself, cannot risk not seeing his brother fly to unravel their deaths.
He is restless. He is worried. He waits with a baited breath to see if his brother falls from his mount. He weeps all the same even as his brother lives and readies himself for a bigger display.
It is happy tears, Daeron insists when questioned.
Father does not believe him.
There is no reason to be happy in his mind. Aerion is missing still and no one knew where he went. They believe him dead. It is his madness that took him, they whisper when they believe his father could not hear them.
Daeron giggled to himself when he first heard that. They are right, in a way, but not fully, for his brother is mad in ways only a Targaryen Dragonlord is.
He would wager that his brother is only as mad as the Rogue Prince was when he claimed his mount Caraxes without the King’s leave. Though perhaps a touch more for his boldness to claim a mount from a world that was not his.
Still, only Daeron and the dead girl know of this.
And only he is delighted by it.
She is petrified. Though she does not weep as much as she did five moons before. It is progress. She is brought to hysterics at the realization of the shift. She does not wish to speak of it.
Embroidering, still, in the corner whilst her eyes remain glassy and unsure as they have always been. Despite this, there shines a glimmer of hope in her eyes.
She does not like it. She does not wish to hope. Does not wish to feel the bitter strike of disappointment if he fails. A fool she is for being terrified of the prospects of her living.
Daeron understands her more than he likes.
“He could fail,” She hisses, teeth bared and fingers digging into the fabric of her work. “He is untested and wreckless, the spools of green could catch him.”
“He is quick and he is a dragon.” Daeron insists, his eyes determined even as his clothes remain a mess. “I have faith in him.”
He is shaking but Maesters say it is from his withdrawal from his wines. They do not know that it is from fear of seeing his brother fly closer to the jaws of a conqueror. Father watches him argue with nothingness from his desk.
“He will not fail.”
Father purses his lips but makes no comment on his words. He looks at him as though he has gone mad. He does not know that he is merely arguing for Aerion’s honor with a dead princess.
Daeron does not bother to correct him. There is no use arguing with a man like his father. He will not believe him even if he tried.
Daeron returns to laying on his back and staring at the hearth. The air is shifting and his brother remains flying.
It is almost startling to think how much has already changed. There is already no stopping it. Aerion has already succeeded in unraveling the tapestry, now Daeron must wait for him.
The fifth month of his disappearance passes without much excitement. His brother remains missing, still, and the princess continues to appear in the rooms Daeron occupies.
Daeron is no longer afraid even as his father cracks under the grief of a son that is not dead but is regarded as such. The Anvil has changed much in the moons that his brother is gone, and Daeron only wishes that he holds out a little longer while Aerion finds his way back to them.
For the first time in a long time, Daeron smiles and allows himself to hope. He does not dream of death, only victory as his brother flies alongside the Rogue Prince and the Lady Hand worlds away.
Aerion will return to them. That, Daeron is sure of.
.-. . - ..- .-. -. / - --- / ..- ...
“He will win.” The Dreamer says, her hair no longer bound in braids and her gown reduced to a simpler one more fitting for a princess than a Queen Consort. She does not whisper, she does not need to any longer.
Around them, a dragon lays basking in their heat. A she-dragon, her dragon, their dragon she insists. Dreamfyre.
Daenor nods, hands gliding on top of their dragon’s scales. “I told you he would not fail.”
Around them, the dragons sing as one.
.-. . - ..- .-. -. / - --- / ..- ...
There is a girl in the Queen’s quarters.
Daeron does not need to hear more before he is running. It is her, he knows it. He could feel it in his bones. The thrum of magic thickening in the air as he draws closer to her.
He must see her.
He has to.
There is already a small army of guards gathering outside the Queen’s quarters when he reaches it. He is late. Why he is the last to be alerted of her presence, he does not know.
As he expected, the entire royal family is there with their weapons drawn and ready, though only the oldest members are allowed inside. Daeron slips in, staring as both his father and Uncle circle her.
She does not pay them any mind, however, too busy with her stitches to care even with their sword and mace drawn.
Father is the first to spot him, his face twists as though he has eaten a lemon. “Get out, boy, take your siblings to my quarters. I will see to you later.”
Daeron does not pay him any mind, he only stares at her. It has been six moons since he first saw her in his rooms and still, she has not changed. Still plump and glassy-eyed though her children live, still stitching their shroud.
Helaena Targaryen is exactly how he sees her in his dreams.
The Queen steps closer to pull him out of the way when Helaena finally speaks.
“I am afraid,” Helaena says, eyes glassy as she looks straight at Daeron. The others watch them, “I do not wish for them to die.”
“Who are you?” The King demands, Uncle places himself between him and Helaena as though she could harm him. His eyes panning between Daeron and her as he draws closer to her. “How did you get in?”
“Who will die?” His Queen asks, her voice steady as she reaches over to Daeron.
But he avoids the Queen’s touch. They both ignore their questions, “They do not need to die. You could save them, you only need to go to her.”
“He will burn me.” She hissed, eyes wide with a mixture of terror and anger. Father reaches over to him, but Daeron slips away before he could even touch him. “The Brightflame will burn the spools of green and he will leave nothing behind, not even ashes to bury.”
“But the Queen will not.” Daeron closes the gap between them and reaches over to her hand to stop her from sowing. He catches her hand, miraculously, and feels the heat of her dragon through her. “Tell her I sent you. My brother was a glad child once, who liked fishing. Aerion will understand if you say this to him.”
Father took in a sharp breath behind them, but they did not pay him any mind.
They stare at one another for minutes until a tear falls from her eyes. “I do not wish to die.”
Daeron laughs, grating as it is to his ears. It is improper. It is distasteful. It is easier to do than to offer her comfort she will not take. “You are already dead. On the spikes, your body lies broken. Is it not more pleasant to die a Targaryen’s death through fire?”
It is a cruel thing to say. Daeron does not apologize.
Helaena’s features drop and she meets his eyes with a blank stare. “And is it not more pleasant to die of old age than of pox?” Daeron freezes and she does not stop with him. She looks at his uncle and then to his father, “Is it not more pleasant to die an old King than a young Prince from a mace, a Lord Hard than an old King from a rock?”
Daeron flinches, but still he does not allow his father to pull him back. It is not the first time he has heard of their deaths. He has seen it himself in his dreams, helpless and paralyzed by fear, but it is different to hear it spoken aloud.
“You are frightened,” Helaena tilts her head, she is confused but Daeron doubts that his father and Uncle read her as such. Her words were not spoken out of malice, but they are heard as such all the same. “Have you not already seen your family's death?”
“I have.”
Father makes a pained sound, “My boy.”
Daeron is unnerved, unused to hearing such a tone used regarding him.
“My apologies,” Helaena whispers after a moment, she picks up her embroidery hoop and ties off the thread. “I did not mean to frighten.”
“I do that sometimes as well.” He admits. This time, when his father makes a move to pull him away, he does not stop him. Daeron allows his father to pull him upright and Father makes quick work to check him for injuries before facing her again.
“Who are you?” He demands, features pinches into a snarl.
The guards move to close in on her. Why they had only just begun to do so, Daeron does not know. For entertainment, or perhaps, curiosity of the girl found inside the Queen’s quarters.
Already, he could see how word of this encounter would spread. It would paint them as weak and poorly protected with a mad woman able to breach their defenses. It could ruin them, put more doubt into House Targaryen's already crumbling might. Despite this, Daeron could not bring himself to care as much as he should.
It is almost time. He could feel it in his bones. Aerion will fight as a proper dragonlord on a formidable mount. He just needed a push for him to fly.
“Go to her.” Daeron whispers, and drag your brothers with you so that the Gods will return mine, he does not say though he doubts that he needs to.
A smile curls on Helaena’s lips, a sword is already pointed at her neck but she does not spare a glance to it. It will not hurt her, Daeron knows, it will not even touch her. For she is not here, not really, and no sword could ever hurt those that are not present.
She removes the fabric from her embroidery hoop and offers it to him. “Take it,” She says, “You will have more need for it than I do.”
Then, she disappears. Quick as she was to appear, Helaena vanishes from the Queen’s quarters with a blink of an eye. Daeron stares at the shroud that she leaves behind, he thinks of picking it up and keeping it before quickly dismissing that idea.
Their family will have no need for shrouds so long as Aerion returns victorious.
And he will, Daeron could already see it.
.. / ... . . / -.-- --- ..-
“You were right.” The Dreamer—Helaena says to him, her eyes clear and bright. There is no dragon on her lap, but in its place a small girl that sleeps with not a worry in the world.
Dragons surround them. The bigger few dance in the air—playing, Daeron realized, while the smaller few on the ground make nests out of fallen towers and spools of green.
They looked well for dragons who fought against their own.
A smile curves at Daeron’s lips, it was almost time.
.. / ... . . / -.-- --- ..-
Daeron’s eyes feel heavy even before they question him.
They move to secure the Red Keep first before anything. Guards tripling in number as word began to spread of what had transpired in the Queen’s quarters. Any hope of controlling what was said was lost in the wind as servants in their path scurried away like rats.
They worry that there are others like her hidden in the walls. That she is a distraction and that the real threat to the Crown still walks the corridors of the Keep.
There is none, but none ask him so he does not say this.
Father is the one who all but drags him to the King’s solar. His siblings are hounded to the King’s rooms before they could protest and more than three dozen men stand to guard their doors.
Daeron could only imagine what they must be thinking now. Father must be disappointed, as would Uncle and the King, but it was not as if he cared all that much about how they felt.
He wishes to sleep. Wishes to know if his dreams would allow him to see the battle his little brother is preparing himself for. The battle that would decide not only if Aerion would return to them but also the fate of their house.
It would be easy to sleep here, Daeron thinks, on a day bed with only the King and the Queen as company. Father is still outside dealing with his siblings, while Uncle is ordering his own to stay with them.
They can hardly stop him if he decides to lay down and shut his eyes. They most likely would not even try to stop him if he does.
They did not believe his dreams. No one did. Aerion was the closest to, Daeron thinks, and then Aegon. But that was before the wine. Afterwards, his brothers were all too happy to dismiss them as drunken rambling just like the rest of their family did.
He tries his best to stop himself from dwelling on that too much. It would not change anything if he did, only drag him deeper into his misery and cups. Still, it did not lessen the pain their doubts brought.
Though, he could hardly fault them for not understanding his ramblings.
Most of his dreams were muddled at best, insanity at worst. Rarely does he dream of anything clearly. Even rarer are clear faces and words. He has never dreamt of anything as clear as he has in the moons that Aerion has been missing.
A sign from the Gods, perhaps. That their blessing has been given and that dragons would return to House Targaryen once more.
Daeron buries his face into a pillow, willing for sleep to claim him when he hears footsteps approaching. Father and Uncle no doubt. The Keep must be secured then.
“Who was that woman?” The Queen asks.
Daeron does not bother to lift his head, only shifting a bit to the left to let them hear his voice clearly. “You would not believe me if I told you.”
“Try us, Nephew.” Of course, Uncle would say that. What is he if not a conciliator?
Daeron's lips twitch, but does not bother to call their bluff. “The wife of the Usurper King, Helaena Targaryen.” As expected, he is greeted with silence. “I told you that you would not believe me.”
“Helaena Targaryen is dead.”
A laugh escapes him, “Not in their world.” If she had any wits left, she would already be on her way to the Dragon Queen.
Again, silence.
Then– "Enough!”
Father hauls him to his feet and starts to shake him. Fury is etched into his features, Daeron would have been more terrified if he did not see the pain and desperation in his eyes. “Do you think this is a joke, boy? Have your wits finally abandoned you that you speak of a dead queen being the one in the Queen’s quarters?!"
“I am not lying,” There is no use to argue or even attempt to plead his case, for some illogical reason Daeron does it anyway. “It is her. Just this once, Father, believe me.”
Father does not. That realization hurts him more than he wants to admit.
“And Aerion, she mentioned him did she not?” Father’s voice is raw, Daeron almost flinches at how desperate he sounds. “What of him, where is he?”
“With the Dragon Queen,” Daeron whispers, Father releases him and buries his face in his hand. “He fights for her, bleeds for her cause. I saw it. He rides a large mount and will fight a Conqueror's Dragon atop Blackwater Bay with the King Consort and Lady Hand.”
The King and Queen sigh deeply, while Uncle’s features twist to one in pain. He placed his hand on Father’s shoulder and shook his head, “Go to your siblings, Daeron.”
Uncle does not look at him when he orders him to leave. Daeron does not need to see his face to know that he is disappointed.
He does as the Lord Hand asks without another word.
A tear must have slipped from his cheek as he leaves the King’s solar, he makes no move to check if one has.
Disappointment bleeds into him as he ventures to the King’s rooms. Really, he should have expected this. There is no point in attempting to make them understand his dreams. Their minds were already set. They will never see him as anything other than the mad son of Maekar Targaryen, nothing will ever change that.
Not even Aerion’s return.
It is quiet as he expected inside the King’s quarters. His cousins pace by the daybed whilst his siblings curl around one another on the King’s bed, their eyes darting to him the moment he enters.
He ignores them as he makes his way towards the hearth. A battle awaits for him in his dreams, Aerion’s flight against the Conqueror’s dragon, and he will waste no more time in holding himself back from seeing it.
Daeron lowers himself to lie on the myrish rug in front of the hearth, limbs heavy as though all the fire he had inside of him has been snuffed out. Sleep claims him before he could even feel the hand his cousin places on his shoulder.
His breath evens out not long before his Lord Father enters the King’s rooms in search for him. He does not hear his Lord Father call out his name, nor does he feel his attempts to rouse him.
His Lord Father calls for a maester to be brought, but it matters not as Daeron falls deeper into sleep’s sweet embrace.
Even with the terrified shouts of his Lord Father and the frantic shaking of his younger siblings, Daeron does not wake.
-.-. --- -- . / -... .- -.-. -.- / - --- / -- .
It is loud when Daeron opens his eyes. Thunder rumbles at a distance as dark clouds gather above him—a sign from the Gods, he thinks to himself, of the battle that is to come.
“You have come to watch,” Someone says. Heleana.
Daeron's lips twitch, “So have you,” He does not bother to face her, he has no need to see her face to know that he is right.
They are both here for the same thing.
To watch the end, or at least, to see the final pull that will fully unravel the tapestry of their deaths. Daeron more so than her.
For her, it matters not who lives now who dies during this battle. Her tapestry has already been unraveled, she and her children will live so long as the Dragon Queen loses no more children.
Daeron, on the other hand, needs his brother to live. For him to die now would spell the death of their House: sickness would take his family, leaving them vulnerable to the false dragons’ attacks.
They needed him.
He needed him.
Aerion could not die before him. Daeron could hardly imagine such a world where he was alive and his younger brother was not. It would not be right. He is the elder, it should be he who Aerion buries first not the other way around. It would not be fair if his little brother leaves him-
“You should not worry much,” Helaena says, pulling him from his thoughts. “His Shadow will protect him. Always.”
Then a pause, “You should be careful with her, she will burn you if you get too close.”
Daeron's brows come together in a pinch, a shadow? He has half the mind to ask her what she meant when he hears a thunderous roar of a dragon.
The hairs on his arms rise as a green mountain of a dragon flies over King's Landing. There is only one dragon in the history of their House known for its green coloring and large size. It is the Conqueror’s dragon, Vhagar.
Daeron swallows, suddenly he is unsure of how his brother would fare in this battle. While his brother’s mount was big, the Conqueror’s dragon was bigger still. Far too big for him to take on for his first fight on dragonback.
He may not come out of this battle unscaved.
“There is no stopping them,” Helaena whispers, closing the space between them until they are standing side by side. “He will fall.”
Daeron tears his eyes from Vhagar and looks at her. For the first time in the six moons that he has seen her, she appears glad. A far cry from the disheveled mess that she was in the moons before.
It would not be his brother that falls, he realized.
It will be hers.
Three dragons appear at a distance, large and formidable—the Red Queen, the Blood Wyrm, and… a dark one. Daeron’s heart falls to his stomach, that is not a Targaryen Dragon.
That is–
“His Lady.” Helaena says, and Daeron goes very, very still. “The only one that he will ever mount.”
A loud shriek is heard and dragons dance in front of them. The Red Queen locks claws with Vhagar as the Blood Wyrm takes a bite out of her wings and the dark mount bathes her in dragon fire.
It is terrifying and breathtaking all the same to watch, Daeron has never seen anything like it. He never wants to see a repeat of it ever again.
The guards behind them drew closer but not a single one drew their blade. Daeron and Helaena might as well be ghosts to them with how their eyes pass through them.
To them, no prince nor princess stands by one another to watch the dragons dance.
To them, there is no one there but the guards themselves.
It is not completely untrue, Helaena still remains sleeping in her guests’ quarters on Dragonstone with her children curled beside her. Whilst Daeron lays boneless and lost in his dreams on his Lord Father’s bed a world away.
It is an odd thing to be present but not at the same time. Dizzying and almost unnerving if Daeron dares to spare thought to it.
Indeed, this is a far cry from the dreams he is used to plaguing his sleep but he is not one to complain. Different it may be but it is not entirely unwelcome.
He prefers this, Daeron thinks, to the murky horror that he had grown accustomed to. Better the horrors he sees clearly than the ones that hid behind their obscure meaning.
Nonetheless, this will be the last, he knows it. When he wakes, his dreams will return to their muddled state. Though that thought does not bring him as much distress as he thought it would.
Perhaps he no longer needs to fear his dreams as much as he did.
In front of them, the Conqueror’s dragon falls to the sea and with it, the would-be Kinslayer.
It is done.
His brother laughs, whole and hale atop a mount that he has bled for. Though he is far, Daeron nearly laughs with him. Their tapestry has been undone. Aerion only needs to return to their world to set it anew.
“Dreamfyre should be her name,” Helaena says suddenly, a gentle smile on her lips. “She would not mind. She would have been yours either way had things been different.”
Daeron nods and does not bother to ask what she meant. He will come to learn of it either way. For now, there is no need to worry of it.
Blood and bone are not as absolute as they once were.
For the first time in a terribly long while, Daeron allows himself to think of a better morrow.
Maybe he does not need to die, after all.
-.-. --- -- . / -... .- -.-. -.- / - --- / -- .
Daeron wakes to the sound of singing.
His Lord Father is not in the room when he opens his eyes. Unsurprising, he thinks, given that his Lord Father had not exactly been pleased with him the last time they spoke. Disappointing it is, but not entirely something that he is unused to.
“Perzyro udrȳssi, Ezīmptos laehossi.”
Daeron’s limbs ache as pushes himself to sit up from his Lord Father’s bed. As he expects, Aerion sits by the window, singing to himself as he twists a ring on his finger.
“Hārossa letagon, Aōt vāedan.”
It is an unthinkable sight to others given his brother’s colorful reputation. To Daeron, however, it is a welcomed one.
“I did not think you much of a singer, valonqar.” Daeron says, lips twitching with mirth. “Shall I give news to our Lord Father now of your change in profession?"
Aerion scoffs when he looks at him, though not unkindly as he moves to plant himself on the foot of their Lord Father’s bed. “Funny how you laugh at my singing when your own voice is grating enough to wake the dead and have them raise their swords to silence you at once.”
Daeron laughs, but makes no attempt to correct him. “How cruel of you to insult your brother when he lies sick and weakly abed.”
“I merely speak the truth,” Aerion said, proud and haughty as Daeron remembers him to be. It seems like his time with the Dragon Queen had nothing to dull his arrogance. “Though I must admit, lekia, I did not think you possessed such dramatics to sleep for a fortnight after speaking with Helaena.”
A fortnight?
Had he truly been asleep for so long?
“It cannot be helped,” Daeron answers with a shrug, then because he could, “It runs in the family, I fear.”
His little brother laughs, a wonderful sound that Daeron feared he would never hear again since their mother’s death. “So it does.”
The door opens after that, though neither of them pay it much mind. Daeron is simply too taken with looking at his brother. He is lighter now, Daeron thinks, and possesses a glow that could only be possible for a dragonlord.
He wonders how long it would take before Aerion decides to introduce him to his lady. Soon, he hopes, for he is selfish and wishes to know what fire made flesh feels like beneath his fingertips.
Glass shatters behind them, and then– “Aerion!”
Their Lord Father gathers Aerion into his arms, holding him tightly as though he would disappear if he did not. “My boy, you have returned to me.”
His tone is soft, far softer than anything Daeron has heard aimed at him. It is unfair, but it is not Aerion's fault their Lord Father favors him.
Daeron tries to ignore the envy he feels inside his heart and looks away. This moment is not his to trespass in.
“I have looked everywhere for you, where have you been?” Lord Father’s voice cracks, it is painful to hear. Would he feel the same way had Daeron been the one missing? “My boy.”
Aerion laughs, not unkind but unexpected enough that it makes their Lord Father flinch. “You would not believe me if I told you, Father.”
Daeron huffs, their Lord Father just might if Aerion is the one to say it. Either way, no one would be able to deny the truth once Aerion takes flight on his dark mount, if he had not already.
Though going by how their Lord Father reacted mere moments ago, it seems that he has yet to tell them of his latest achievement.
How curious.
“Try me,” Their Lord Father is almost pleading with Aerion. It feels wrong to hear that sort of tone from him. “I will believe you.”
Of course he would say that.
It is not that much of a bluff as it had been said to Daeron. Aerion believes it as one nonetheless.
“No, Father, ” Aerion says, meeting Daeron's eyes, “You would not.”
And Daeron laughs before he could stop himself. For it matters not if Lord Father does not believe him, Daeron knows the truth and soon the entire Realm will too.
More than eight and seventy years since the end of the bitter war that slayed their dragons, a dark one will soon fly atop Kingslanding.
Aerion has done the impossible and Daeron cannot wait to see their faces when that day comes.