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The crypt is cold and quiet and empty but for the urns lining the walls. It holds the remains of the last dragonriders and it is the coldest place the boy has ever known both in temperature and the feeling the room seems to carry. There is a silence to it that he thinks he has never encountered before, total and consuming, destroying sound before it reaches his ears. Rarely does anyone visit this room, the weight of those now in it is too heavy for most and it avoids the conflict of who deserves to be here and who doesn’t. And yet, the boy will never leave. He has no desire to, this is the closest thing he was to a place now.
He used to be Daeron Targaryen, son of Queen Alicent Hightower and King Viserys Targaryen, brother of King Aegon Targaryen II and Queen Helaena Targaryen and Aemond Targaryen, but now, he’s nothing. The boy, still young, still barely a man, has nothing anymore, he lost it all when he lost in the Dance and what little he could believe remained was lost when the rest of his family died and was interned there. All he has is ashes, what is left from a life of fire and blood, and all he can do is tend to them.
There’s even an urn for him. It’s empty, his body was never found, but they think him dead so he gets to be sat beside them. He almost wishes he was in there, that he wasn’t such a coward, that he didn’t run from the battle and damn his family so horribly.
But he has a new duty to complete now. He must care for them in their death. He must make sure they will never be neglected in their death. He must show them the love and dedication he failed to do in their lives.
He was never there in life. He was too far. But he must be now. He has to be.
He has to do something.