Cory

As years went by, Baelor gave more and more work to his eldest son. Daeron wouldn’t mind, if only it didn’t mean he had to spend complete moons in that dreaded gloomy island. There were no more dragons on and about, he didn’t know why his family insisted in ruling over Dragonstone as if it was still full of life.  

“Ah, yes, future queen of the seven kingdoms, who would ever think an omega who is expected to pop out heirs like a common woman would ever have the gal to talk like one.”  He hiccupped, something he couldn’t help, feeling all too ready to just lay down on a quiet dark place to get away from the dreaming. Valarr finally set his scroll down, but the look in his mismatched eyes told Daeron he had fucked up.  

“When did you get your hands on more wine, beloved?” it was asked with a thin, sharp edge of fury. Cuttingly cold and so sudden, Daeron felt some of his numbness recede. For the old gods, how he wished Valarr’s tone didn’t have that effect on him. “I do not know what you’re talking about; I simply haven’t slept well in a while” that would hide his dark circles and paler complexion, but the sweating was a tattletale.  

He wasn’t lying. Sleep came like a fist most nights, a lance of a knight striking quite painfully on his head. Dreams of dragons and voices he knew but didn’t want to recognize. The impending doom of their family made its slow approach through their bloodline. No, sleep never came easy to Daeron, only when he was fully of wine twice over and lying in some dark ditch did it come like a curtain falling. Finite and soft.  

“Daeron, we are to be wed in less than a fortnight—” And there they went again, the damned wedding. Daeron let his eyes fall closed, letting his head fall back, and exhaling hard through his mouth. “Do not remind me of things I already know."  

“—I understand you like to spend your time hiding behind closed doors smuggling as much wine you can into your little hideouts, but my father is going to be king some day soon, and I will be named prince of Dragonstone, you will be my consort. That is a future none of us can change—” Daeron rolled his eyes behind his eyelids, pressing the heels of his palms hard against them, trying to see if the lights of the abuse could blur the images of fire and death, though there was no such luck. 

“You will be king consort some day and by that time we must have a strong line. Maybe your own father’s position to the throne has made you forget that your responsibilities changed as soon as our grandsire decided for us to be wed.”  

“And what a joyful day that was” Daeron mocked, cutting his alpha off. "Just two whelps barely of eight and ten years, set with the destiny of the dragon house upon their shoulders!” he laughed; he couldn’t help it.  

“I knew you would be declared my alpha months before our grandsire said anything. As surely as I can see the dragons fall upon the people and the fire that will rise from it. I could pluck your screams from my dreams, so do not ask me to remember where my standing is, cousin. I’m far too well aware of what destiny has prepared for us to live.” 

“The dreams are back.” Valarr’s voice lost the edge of fury. Somehow Daeron felt like he preferred it over the pity. “They’re never gone.” He whispered to the room, to no one. 

His father always treated his dreams as whims of a child who wanted attention; his mother often worried about his state of lack of good sleep, but his cousin—his cousin treated them like a sickness, and who would blame him for his consort to be, drowned himself in wine every living breath so he could escape them.  

“We should call a maester.” Daeron shook his head, dizzy. “They’ll give me draughts or poppy milk to calm down, and we both know I cannot be drinking that anymore.” Not since he was eleven and got addicted to it. Not since he almost killed himself trying to silence the dreams.  

Daeron stared at the floor and tried to make sense of the river that was his life. Past, present and future colliding painfully and spilling over other people’s paths. “A strong line, you said." His cousin had the sense to look regretful. “A dragon with four eggs but there are so many broken casings.” He had seen it not even a week before.  

"It breathes fire over their shells, and none of them seem to hatch.” Daeron was fearful of a great whole deal of things, but dying on the birthing bed might just be one of his worst nightmares. 

Daeron flinched as Valarr’s hand settled over his own. Heterochromatic eyes looking directly into his soul "That will not happen to us.” The alpha’s voice was soft, deep, it passed through him like a mist of sunshine during winter. Strong. As if the alpha believed he could change the course of fate just by simply stating it so.  

“You shouldn’t have to marry a drunk.”  

Valarr’s shoulders dropped; he tightened his hold over his hands just slightly. “Then don’t make me have to tie myself to one.” He answered, leaning forward until his lips ghosted over his forehead, and then he stood back. 

Daeron stayed sitting down near the hearth; the crackling of fire wasn’t all that comforting, but the way the light danced over Valarr’s features as he continued his duties was mesmerising enough to lull him to sleep.