drop dead! | daeron targaryen x reader
PLOT! y/n the cursed girl marries daeron the dreamer and they have a quiet marriage
pairing: daeron targaryen x reader
word count: around 8.7k
a/n: sooo olivia's song reminded me of the book series the raven boys and i thought, might as well write it. i did get kinda lazy again in the middle so i apologize (i realize i like writing the beg and the end but not the middle)
"YOU MAY LOVE HIM," SHE SAID, TRACING THE LINES ON YOUR PALM, "BUT IF YOU KISS HIM, HE WILL DIE."
The tent did not look like much.
A length of faded cloth, patched more times than you could count, staked crookedly into the grass at the edge of the road. A charm of bones and dried herbs hung at the entrance, clinking softly whenever the wind stirred.
You had no interest in the fortune teller, instead wanting to spend the coin your father gave you at the market intending to buy a new doll. However, you had heard squeals of delight from the fellow noble ladies about the fortune lady and the amazing futures she had given them.
Your father mocked fortune tellers, calling them stupid and a waste of coin. Either they would tell you what you wanted to hear or they would try to frighten you. Your father would probably mock you once he learned of your visit.
But curiosity got the best of you.
You stood in front of the tent flaps, contemplating what questions you would want to know.
But you were interrupted.
"Come in, then," the fortune teller called from inside the tent. Her voice was thin but certain.
You hesitated only a moment before ducking beneath the flap.
The air inside was thick with the smell of smoke and crushed leaves and old roots left too long to dry. A small fire glowed between you, its embers low and red. The womanâs eyes caught the light strangely, pale and sharp as frost.
âYouâve got coin for me,â she went on, before you could speak. âCome, child. Sit.â
You did, depositing your coin into her outstretched hand. The woman took it from you, slipping it behind her, and grabbed your hand that was still in the air. Her grip was tight and hard, turning it this way and that, her fingers rough and cold. You couldnât help but squirm in her grip.
Her thumb pressed into your palm and stilled. A frown tugged at her mouth.
âAh,â she murmured.
Something in the sound made your stomach twist. âWhat is it?â
She did not answer at once. Instead, she released your hand as though it had burned her and leaned back, studying your face now instead of your palm.
âHow old are you?â she asked. You told her.
"Mm." Her gaze lingered. Measuring. "Young, but old enough."
"For what?" you pressed.
The womanâs lips thinned. For a heartbeat, you thought she might refuse you altogether but then she sighed like someone already weary of what must be said.
"For sorrow."
The word settled heavy between you.
You scoffed. âI did not come for riddles. If you have something to tell me, say it plain.â
At that, she huffed a quiet laugh. âPlain, she says. As if the world were ever so kind.â
Still, she leaned forward again, close enough now that you could see the fine lines etched deep around her eyes.
âYou will love,â she said. âThereâs no stopping that. Itâs in you already, same as breath.â
Your chest tightened despite yourself. That sounds good.
"And when you do," she went on, softer now, "you must remember what I tell you."
Her fingers closed around your wrist, sudden and strong.
"You may love him," she said quietly. "You may take his hand, lie beside him, whisper all your pretty promises in the dark."
You nodded, though your throat had gone dry.
Her fingers tightened around yours, not painful, but unyielding.
âBut you must never kiss him.â
The words seemed to dim the little light that remained.
A hollow sound rang in your ears. âAnd if I do?â
For the first time, something like pity touched her expression.
âThen you will feel it,â she said. âThe moment it happens.â
Your heart began to pound. âFeel what?â
She tilted her head, studying you as one might study something already lost.
âThe end of him.â
Silence swallowed the tent.
You did not forget.
How could you possibly do that?
The smell of smoke still haunted your dreams. Sometimes you woke with it thick in your throat, as if you had just stepped out of that tent. Even now, years later, you could still feel the fortune tellerâs grip around your wrist, tight, unyielding. You could still hear the certainty in her voice when she spoke of something as simple as a kiss.
For a time, you told yourself she was a crook.
That everything she said was nothing more than a trick to part foolish girls from their coin. That the heaviness in your chest afterward was your own doing. Some fear conjured from nothing.
You returned to your fatherâs hall that day with your coin spent and your thoughts carefully smothered. When your maids asked what the fortune teller had said, you laughed and gave them something harmless. A marriage to a handsome lord, perhaps. A child or two. A future that was soft and ordinary.
Something that would not linger long in your thoughts. But as the years passed, you could hear the woman's voice in your head.
You will love.
The first time someone tried to kiss you, you were twelve.
It meant nothing.
A boy, flushed with wine he was far too young to drink, caught your wrist in the gardens as you made your way back to your chambers. He was laughing, careless, loud, entirely unthinking, as he leaned in with all the confidence of someone who had never been denied.
You turned your head at the last moment.
His lips brushed your cheek instead. Close enough that you felt the heat of it. Close enough that your heart stuttered violently in your chest.
You laughed it off. Made it into a small, harmless joke. The boy never noticed the difference who barely noticed you slipping from his grasp at all.
But in that brief moment, just before he kissed you, something cold had settled in your stomach. Not because you thought he was your true love.
But because of the possibility. Because of how easily it could happen. Because of how quickly everything could end. The thought of this drunk boy's blood on your hands, as absurd as it was, made you feel faint.
After that, you were careful.
Not in any way that would draw attention. You were not foolish enough to make a spectacle of yourself by shrinking away from the world entirely. No, your caution became something quieter. Distance. It wore the shape of indifference.
Men called you charming at first. Then distant. Then, when they grew frustrated, cruel. You never corrected them. Cruelty was safer than curiosity. Cruelty did not invite closeness. After all, closeness could be dangerous.
As you grew into the lady that you were expected to be, suitors would come and go. Some were earnest, some arrogant, some so dull you would forget their names before the evening ended. None of them stayed for a proper courtship. You made certain of it.
There were whispers that would occasionally reach your ears. You were toying with their feelings, took pleasure in their confusion and that there was something wrong with you. But that was fine by you.
You had nearly resigned yourself to spinsterhood. The other option was that you could be married to some aging lord. That would be a rather safe option, because you couldn't see yourself falling in love with a man who could be your great-great-grandpa.
But your father, inconveniently, wished for your happiness. Which meant he would not force such a match, which meant, you would have to choose one yourself.
You found the solution at a feast.
The hall was too loud, too bright, with laughter rising too sharply and voices competing against each other to be heard. You moved through it with practiced ease.
By the second course, you had danced once, refused twice and excused yourself from three seperate conversations. A perfectly ordinary evening.
You slipped from the centre of the hall under the pretense of seeking cooler air, weaving between tables until the press of bodies thinned and the noise dulled to something distant.
And then you noticed him.
Seated at the far end of a table, half-shadowed, a cup dangling loosely from his fingers. His hair, silver-gold, caught the low light. The rest of him seemed to fade into the dark.
A Targaryen.
Of course, only a fool would not know what those locks of hair could be. And yet no one sat beside him. No one watched him. No one seemed to care. You might have passed him by, you probably should have. If no one was here it was probably for a reason.
âYou look like youâd rather be anywhere else.â
You paused and turned.
He had barely moved, only lifted his head enough to look at you properly. His eyes were clearer than you expected. Not sober, no but not lost to the drink either.
You considered ignoring him. But he was still a prince.
âIs it so obvious my prince?â you asked.
âOne learns to recognize the expression,â he said lightly. âItâs a familiar one.â
You stepped closer, though not too close, your gaze sweeping over him. The looseness of his posture, the wine staining his sleeve, the complete lack of ceremony in the way he occupied his place.
Prince Daeron, then.
It had to be.
âI could say the same of you,â you said.
âThat would be accurate.â
You glanced back toward the hall, at the light and noise and expectation and found you had no desire to return.
When you looked back at him, he was still watching.
âDo you intend to stand there,â he asked, âor wait until someone comes to claim you?â
The bluntness nearly made you smile.
âDoes that happen often?â
âFrequently enough.â He gestured lazily to the space beside him. âThey assume youâve been cornered. Or that I have.â
âAnd which is worse?â
âFor you?â he said. âProbably me.â
You sat.
The silence that followed was⌠easy. Unexpectedly so. He did not ask your name, or your house or your purpose. He did not fill the air with politeness. He simply let you be there.
âYou do not behave like a prince,â you said after a moment.
âNo,â he agreed.
âYou are not troubled by that?â
âIt saves people from expecting more than I intend to give.â
Something in your chest settled at that.
âYou do not intend to give much, then.â
âNo.â
No apology. No pride. Just truth. You held his gaze a moment longer. And understood. Across the hall, someone called your name. You rose slowly, smoothing your skirts.
âIt seems you were right,â you said.
âAbout what?â
âThat someone would come to claim me.â
He lifted his cup slightly. âMy condolences.â
You hesitated, just for a moment. âEnjoy your wine, Your Grace.â
âAlways.â
You left him there, in the shadows, where no one watched. But your thoughts did not follow you back into the hall. They lingered behind. With a prince who asked for nothing. Who expected nothing. Who would never demand closeness. Who would neverâ You exhaled slowly.
Yes. He was perfect.
Your father did not interrupt you as you spoke. Which could have been worse. He listened just sitting there all silent with one hand curled around his cup.
âYou are certain,â he said at last, âthis is what you want.â
âYes.â
âPrince Daeron.â
âYes.â
He studied you carefully. âYou have turned away better offers.â
âI have.â
âMore advantageous ones.â
âPerhaps.â
âAnd now this.â A pause. âWhy?â
You met his gaze evenly. âHe is of high birth.â
âHe is.â
âWhat could be more honorable than such a match?â
Your fatherâs eyes narrowed slightly but he did not interrupt.
âHe is⌠suitable,â you added.
âSuitable,â he repeated.
âI believe he will not make an unsuitable husband.â
That, more than anything, seemed to settle him. At last, he leaned back.
âVery well,â he said. âI will not dismiss it. I will speak with his father.â
You inclined your head. âThank you.â
The match was agreed upon within the next few moons. Your father told you that Prince Maekar had been⌠puzzled. But not opposed.
âYou are certain,â your father asked you one final time, âthat you will not regret this?â
For a moment, your mind drifted to a dim tent and pale eyes. To the voice that promise love as though it were inevitable. Then to a prince in the shadows who was so detached and distant from reality. Someone you could never truly fall for since you lived planted in reality. Someone you could never destroy.
âYes,â you said. âI am certain.â
The wedding is quiet. Not in scale, there are lords and ladies, banners and vows, the weight of two houses that are neatly tied together. But quiet in the feeling.
When you were younger, before you had gone into that tent, you had looked upon your wedding date as if it could be a fairytale. That you would spend the week leading up to it, prancing about in your wedding dress out of anticipation. That you and your lord husband would share this longing for one another. There would be something undeniable between you.
However, standing in front of a large portion of the high lords and ladies, in front of the Septon and a husband who looked like he was just dragged out of bed, you looked back at your younger self and confirmed you were a fool.
After all, how many ladies actually got to marry for love? You had seen enough of the world to know how truly naive you were. Most marry for duty, for alliance, for the careful balancing of houses and expectations.
And you, you married for survival. Your duty was simpler than most. No alliances to secure, no great ambition to fulfill. Only this: That no no dies because of you.
Your wedding was sensible and safe.
At your side, Prince Daeron stands with an ease that borders carelessness. He does not fidget. He does not straighten his posture for the watching court. His cloak sits slightly askew, his expression calm, almost detached, as though this is merely another obligation to be endured rather than a moment to be cherished.
He does not look like a man in love. He looks attentive and maybe a bit curious in a way. He appeared to be an observer in a play, rather than actor in it.
In a way it steadies you. This is what you had wanted. You remind yourself of that, over and over like a prayer. This is what you chose. No longing, no affection, no risk of forgetting yourself in a moment of weakness.
No chance of leaning in and ruining everything.
When the Septon bids you take his hand, you do. Daeron's fingers are warm. Your contact is brief, proper and meaningless. You focus on the absence of feeling.
This is good, you tell youself, this is right.
But as the vows are spoke, as the words bind you together in the eyes of gods and mens, you feel something shift, not between you but within yourself.
A quiet, unsettling thought. It's not fear but something similar. A pitt has falled within you. That this man, this distant and careless prince you had chosen, is now yours and you are his. On this day till the end of your days (which if you kept your distance would be very long days).
You risk a glance at your husband then. And for a fleeting moment, something in his expression changes but like a thought passing, it was too quick to grasp.
You look away and steady yourself. You repeat your mantra again. This is what you wanted. This is safe. This is-
The Septon's voice rises and the audience cheers as you are now wed to Prince Daeron.
The feast stretches long into the evening. Longer that it surely needed to be. There is laughter, music and the steady flow of wine. Faces came up to you again and again offering their congratulations, some were genuine, some were very clearly disguising judgement.
You endure it all with practiced grace. You smile when required, speak when spoken to and allow yourself to be admired, assessed, weighed.
Beside you, Daeron does much the same. Though where you are careful, he is careless. Where you are measured, he is loose, leaning back in his chair, answering when it suits him, ignoring what does not. There is wine at his lips more often than not, but he never seems entirely lost to it.
Not tonight. Not like the stories say. Once or twice, you catch him looking at you. You do not linger on it.
By the time the hall begins to thin, your patience has worn thin with it.
It is expected of you to leave together. The thought sits strangely in your chest. Of course your septa had made sure you knew what was expected on a lady's wedding night. You weren't fearful as you should be.
Prince Maekar had decided there wouldn't be a bedding ceremony, so it was up to you and Daeron to walk up to your chambers alone. As you do, the halls get cooler and the noises fade until it's just the two of you alone for the first time since you met outside that feast.
Inside, the room is warm. It was well prepared by the servants. Candles were already lit, the bed was turned down and you saw a vase of lilacs on one of the end tables.
You stop just inside the doorway, not sure where to go or how this were to go. For a moment, neither one of you spoke.
âWell,â Daeron says lightly, glancing around the room, âthis is terribly ceremonial.â
You almost smile. âIs that not the point, my prince?â
âI suppose it is.â He exhales, slow, unconcerned. âSeems a shame to disappoint them.â
Your pulse stutters. You turn to him fully now. Maybe you could avoid the consumation part.
âI think,â you say carefully, âwe would both prefer not to perform for an audience that is no longer here.â
His gaze shifts to you, sharper now, a bit more present.
âAnd what would you prefer?â he asks.
The question lingers in the air. You choose your answer with care. Maybe if you just told him that you weren't looking for romance, you would save yourself from a kiss.
âSomething⌠uncomplicated.â
A pause. You weren't sure if he would catch what it was you were trying to convey. Then, to your quiet relief, he nods. âYes,â he says. âI think I would like that too.â
The tension in the room eases, just slightly. Enough for you to breathe again.
"But, it is our duties to consummate. So let's do that and we can move on, otherwise I won't hear the end of it until I'm resting in the grave."
He shrugs off his outer layers without ceremony, setting them aside with little care for where they fall. You turn away under the pretense of adjusting your sleeves, giving yourself a moment to gather your thoughts.
This is fine. This is manageable. There is no expectation here you cannot meet.
When you turn back, he is seated at the edge of the bed, watching you, not intently, not with pressure just watching.
âYou look as though youâre preparing for a battle,â he remarks.
You huff softly. âOld habits.â
âMm.â His gaze lingers. âAm I the enemy, then?â
âNo.â
The answer comes too quickly. Too honestly. You hesitate, then add, more carefully, âYou are⌠an unknown.â
âThat sounds worse.â
âIt isnât meant to be.â
Another pause. Then, unexpectedlyâ
âIt could be worse,â he says. âYou might have married someone who expects more of you.â
You study him. âAnd you donât?â
âNo,â he says simply.
The word settles between you. Something in your chest loosens.
âGood,â you say quietly.
His mouth curves slightly, it wasn't quite a smile, but close. The rest unfolds easily after that. Easier than you expected.
You two speak little but do complete your duties. The little conversations you two had were nothing of consequence. At some point you laugh. And he laughs. Then it is over.
Nothing of consequence. Small things. Meaningless things. The kind of conversation that fills space without demanding anything of it.
When you finally lie down, it is with careful distance between you. It was deliberate. A boundary drawn without words. He does not cross it. not when the candles burn low or the room settles as the wolf hour takes shape. It doesn't take long for the prince to sleep. (He did grab a drink which was stashed in one of the under end tables, downed that and then went to sleep).
You stare up at the canopy above, listening to the slow rhythm of his breathing beside you. This is what you wanted.
And yet, as sleep begins to pull at you, you find your thoughts drifting. Drifting to your husband. You turn slightly, just enough to see him in the dim light. His eyes are closed but he looks very peaceful.
The next morning you wake up before him. For a moment you do not remember where you are and then flashes of the night before hit you. You are now a lady married.
Your husband lay next to you. Turning around, Daeron laid exactly where you remembered him being last night. You were a tad bit surprised because you had heard that it was rare for Daeron to stay in one place at night but he was there.
You saw 4 bottles of wine on the end table that were not there the night before. They were all empty meaning that during the night, while you were sleeping he must've drank all of them. That seems like a lot.
He had one arm thrown over his head and the sheets twisted at his waist. His hair was like a messy bird's nest and once again beads of sweat could be found all over his face. His brows were furrowed tightly. He seemed a lot more distressed in his sleep than when he was awake.
You sit up quickly and decide now that you have laid with your husband, you can move on. You doubt that Daeron would come back to your bed (just due to what you have heard before) and it wasn't like you had to have an heir. But if you did, hopefully one time was enough.
You slip from the bed quietly, tugging one of the blankets tight to your chest as you moved throughout the room to dress. By the time the servants arrive you are fully ready for the day.
The days that followed settled into a strange ordinary. Everything at Summerhall was just manageable.
You saw little of your husband outside of the hours that required both of you. Daeron disappeared often. Some morning he would sleep until midday, other nights he vanished entirely into the city or the kitchens or wherever restless princes went when sleep eluded them. You did not ask him anything. He did not explain.
The few times you interacted were pleasant enough you supposed. He would be asleep beside you at midday feasts or share one courtesy dance with you where the smell of wine attacked you. Sometimes he would randomly appear beside you during court functions, mumuring some random observations so dry and unexpected that it would arouse a laugh from you.
The set up suited you. Distance had always suited you.
But you found yourself smiling a bit too much when the prince graced you with his presence. Despite all his faults, Daeron was someone you were becoming accustomed to.
To the sounds of his boots dragging faintly on the chamber floors long after midnight, to the clink of bottles appearing where they weren't before, to him and his long limbs occupying every surface he touched.
You had learned a bit from your few days with your husband. He hated overly sweet wine, he never remembered where he placed his gloves, if he read books (which he did do on an odd day) he would always leave them open and face down and he was rather kind.
Not in obvious ways as he was never one to be gallant or particularly attentive. He did not shower you with compliments or grand gestures. At dinners, he noticed when conversation wearied you and interrupted before you could be trapped too long (before he would rest his head on the table). When court became unbearable, he appeared at your side with some flimsy excuse to pull you elsewhere. Once, after an especially dreadful evening, he handed you a goblet of wine without a word.
You stared at it suspiciously. âAre you trying to poison me?â
âIf I were, Iâd choose something sweeter.â
You took the cup despite yourself.
âYou dislike sweet wine,â you observed after a sip.
âI dislike many things.â
âAnd yet you drink constantly.â
âThat is because sobriety is intolerably repetitive.â
You snorted softly before you could stop yourself. His eyes flicked toward you then with brief surprised.
With how much you realized you liked your husband a panic seized you. You had chosen Daeron for a reason since he would ask you nothing in return for your relationship, which he hasn't. It's just been a civil and convienent companionship. He remained distant enough from you to be safe.
But that did not explain why your pulse quicken whenever he looked at you too long. Or why you had begin to anticipate his footsteps outside your shared chambers on the third night and fifth nights of the weeks (those were the days he always seemed to return to your rooms at some point earlier than usual).
One moment that haunted your thoughts was a rainstorm that had ruined a hunt you were forced to attend. The skies opened without warning, sending nobles scattering beneath cloaks and curses alike. By the time you reached shelter, you were soaked through entirely.
You stood near the entrance of the keep, dripping rainwater onto stone floors while servants rushed frantically around you. Daeron arrived several moments later looking only mildly inconvenienced by the weather. His hair clung damply to his forehead. Water ran down the line of his throat beneath an open collar. You looked away too quickly.
âYouâll freeze standing there,â he said.
âIâm aware.â
âAnd yet you persist.â
âYouâre very observant today.â
âItâs the wine.â
âThere is always wine.â
âExactly.â
You should have gone to your own chambers then. Instead, somehow, you ended up in his. Perhaps because they were closer. Perhaps because neither of you wished to endure the fuss of servants just yet.
It was a mistake, a terrible one.
The room smelled faintly of cedarwood and spilled wine. Rain battered softly against the windows as Daeron shrugged off his soaked outer coat with visible annoyance.
âYou know,â he muttered, âI begin to understand why dragons preferred flying.â
You laughed quietly while wringing water from your sleeves. His gaze lifted immediately toward the sound. That was becoming dangerous too, that look he got whenever you laughed around him. It was always slightly startled and pleased. As though he treasured it more than he should.
Your stomach tightened. You turned away quickly, moving toward the fire.
âYou stare,â you said lightly.
âSo do you.â
âI do not.â
âYou looked at my throat for a concerning amount of time.â
Heat flooded your face instantly. âI absolutely did not.â
âMm.â
Your heart stumbled hard against your ribs.
Daeron seemed to notice it too because his expression altered slightly. The teasing ease faded into something quieter. You took a step back instinctively.
The fortune tellerâs voice rose from the graveyard of your memory so suddenly it made your skin prickle.
You may love him. Your throat tightened.
No. No, you thought fiercely. Not him. Anyone but him.
Daeron tilted his head slightly. âYouâve gone pale.â
âIâm tired.â
âThat sounded unconvincing.â
You forced a smile. âThen it matches the day.â
For a moment, he simply watched you. Then, mercifully, he looked away first. The tension dissolved enough for you to breathe again. But only barely.
After that, you became careful again. You withdrew in subtle ways. You avoided lingering too near him, spoke less during dinners and retired earlier. You also declined invitations that might leave you alone together too long.
Daeron noticed. Of course he noticed. He simply did not mention it at first. But one evening, as you prepared to leave a feast early, his voice stopped you.
âHave I offended you somehow?â
You turned too quickly. âNo.â
âYouâre avoiding me.â
âI am not.â
âYou are,â he said calmly. âThough I admit Iâm fascinated to learn what crime I committed to you.â
âYou committed none.â
âThen why do you look at me as though Iâve drawn a blade?â
The question struck too close. You looked away immediately. âYou imagine things.â
âFrequently,â he agreed. âBut not this time.â
Silence stretched. You could feel his attention resting on you steadily. He wasn't demanding or anything like that. Just was simply waiting for his answer.
Finally, he sighed softly and leaned back in his chair.
âWell,â he murmured, lifting his goblet, âif you decide you hate me, Iâd prefer advance warning. It seems courteous.â
Despite yourself, a small laugh escaped you. Daeronâs gaze flickered toward you again. And there it was. That warmth. That unbearable gentleness hidden beneath all the carelessness.
Something inside you twisted painfully. You left soon after.
That night, sleep did not come easily. Because for the first time in years, you allowed yourself to admit the truth plainly.
You were beginning to love your husband.
And if the fortune teller had spoken true, you were beginning to fear him dying far more than you feared yourself.
The hour was late enough that the keep had gone quiet.
Not truly silent, never that. Somewhere distant, guards still changed shifts and servants still moved through hidden corridors like ghosts behind the walls. But the noise of court had long since faded. The laughter, the music, the endless performance of noble life all swallowed by the deep stretch of night.
You should have been asleep. Instead, you sat near the fire in your chambers with a book open in your lap unread for the better part of an hour. The fire had burned low, leaving the room washed in amber light and shadow.
Your thoughts, traitorous things, had drifted where they often did now. To your husband. To the way he had looked at you earlier that evening when you laughed at something one of the lords had said. To the brief touch of his hand against the small of your back while guiding you through the crowded hall. To the tiredness hidden beneath his usual dry amusement.
They were dangerous thoughts. You closed your book sharpley when a knock sounded at the door. Your frowned. Another knock followed, this one seemed less certain.
You rose carefully and crossed the room. When you opened the door, Daeron was leaning one shoulder against the frame.
His hair was loose and slightly tangled, silver-gold falling untidily around his face. One of the ties at his collar had come undone. There was wine on his breath, though not enough to make him unsteady.
His eyes lifted to yours. "Youâre awake,â he observed.
âYou are standing at my door in the middle of the night.â
âYes,â he agreed after a pause. âThat does appear to be whatâs happening.â
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched. He noticed. His expression softened faintly at the edges.
âMay I come in,â he asked, âor have you finally decided Iâm intolerable?â
âYou are intolerable.â
âBut not enough to refuse me entry?â
âThat remains undecided.â
Still, you stepped aside.
Daeron walked past you slowly, shrugging off his outer coat as he entered. He looked tired tonight. More than tired perhaps. Worn thin in some quiet invisible way.
You closed the door behind him. "Youâre drunk."
âOnly conversationally.â
âThat is still drunk.â
He wandered toward the fire without ceremony before lowering himself into the chair opposite yours with a long exhale. For a moment neither of you spoke. You had become strangely accustomed to these silences with him. They no longer felt awkward. Merely⌠shared.
Daeron tilted his head back against the chair. âI escaped a meeting with father,â he said eventually.
"You shouldn't have done that."
"The meetings are so impractical. And inconvenient for me," He said with a pout, illiciting a smile from you. He groaned, "My head hurts as well."
âYou could try drinking less,â you suggested lightly.
âThat sounds dreadful.â
âYou say that about most things.â
âMost things are dreadful.â
You shook your head softly, moving to pour water into a cup before offering it to him. Daeron accepted it without argument, which alone told you something was wrong. Your stomach tightened slightly.
âYouâre quiet tonight,â you said carefully.
âThatâs because Iâm reflecting.â
âThat sounds dangerous.â
âIt has been catastrophic for my mood.â
You sat back down slowly, studying him. His eyes remained fixed on the fire now, distant in a way you had begun to recognize.
âYou shouldn't stay out so late if they tire you so badly,â you said after a moment.
âIâm aware.â
âThen why go at all?â It was a question that you really were curious about. You are aware that this is a question you probably should've asked him long ago, but better late than never.
He let out a soft hum. "I get to disappear for a while."
âBut why?"
"It's calming. You should try it sometime."
âI consider it often.â That finally drew a real smile from him. It was small, crooked and beautiful.
Your pulse stumbled painfully. You looked down immediately. Everything about this was becoming dangerous.
âYou know,â Daeron murmured after a while, âthey still seem confused by us.â
You frowned slightly. âWho?â
âEveryone.â
âThat narrows it down considerably.â
âIn the halls, the visiting Lady Tarly asked if Iâd threatened you into marriage.â
You blinked. âCharming.â
âI told her you were terrifying and I feared for my life.â
âThat was wise of you.â
âI thought so.â
Another silence settled. Softer this time. The fire crackled quietly between you. Then, unexpectedly, Daeron spoke again.
âI still donât understand it.â
You glanced toward him. âUnderstand what?â
âWhy you chose me.â
Your breath caught slightly. He was still looking at the fire. Not at you. Which somehow made the words feel more honest.
âThere were better men,â he said lightly, though the humor in it felt thin now. âBetter princes certainly.â
You tried to answer carefully. âYou are a prince.â
âYes, but rather a disappointing one.â
âThat is not true.â
His mouth curved faintly. âYouâre kind to lie.â
âIâm not lying.â
âArenât you?â
Finally, he looked at you then. There was something unguarded in his expression now. Something raw beneath the wine and wit and carelessness.
âI know what people say about me,â he said quietly. âIâm not offended by it. Most of it is true.â
Your chest tightened painfully.
âThey think Iâm a waste,â he continued. âA drunk. A disappointment. Sometimes an embarrassment if theyâre feeling particularly generous.â
âDaeronââ
âItâs fine.â He shrugged lightly though the movement lacked its usual ease. âI made peace with that years ago.â
âNo one should speak of you that way.â
âBut they do.â
His gaze held yours steadily now.
âAnd still,â he said softly, âyou married me.â
The room suddenly felt too warm. You could hear your own heartbeat. You should say something safe now. Something distant. Something that restored the careful space between you both. Instead, you found yourself asking quietly:
âWhy does that trouble you so much?â
For a moment, Daeron said nothing. Then he laughed tiredly.
âBecause I think,â he admitted, voice rougher now, âyou deserved someone better.â
The words struck you harder than they should have. You stared at him. This man. This impossible, gentle, aching man who thought himself unworthy of kindness. Something inside you cracked softly.
Before you realized what you were doing, you had crossed the space between you.
Daeron looked up slightly in surprise as you stopped beside his chair. Too close. You could smell wine and smoke and cedarwood. His eyes searched your face carefully now.
âYou shouldnât say things like that,â you whispered.
âWhy?â
Because you are making it impossible not to love you. The thought nearly terrified you.
Your hand lifted before you could stop it, brushing lightly through the disheveled strands of silver-gold hair falling across his forehead. Daeron went very still. The air shifted instantly. Your breath caught. His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth. Everything inside you lurched violently.
No no no noâ The prophecy crashed through you like ice water.
Your body reacted before your mind did. You pulled back sharply. Daeron froze. The warmth vanished from his expression so quickly it made your chest ache.
âIâŚâ You swallowed hard. âI should sleep.â
The words sounded wrong the moment they left your mouth.
Daeron stared at you for one awful heartbeat longer. Then he looked away. And just like that, the walls returned.
âOf course,â he said quietly.
The distance in his voice was unbearable. You wanted to fix it immediately. To say something that would erase the hurt you had just placed there. But what explanation could you possibly give?
Sorry, I cannot kiss you because I fear it will kill you. Utter madness. So instead you stood there in horrible silence while Daeron slowly rose from the chair.
âI didnât mean to keep you awake,â he said lightly again, though the ease no longer reached his eyes.
âYou didnât.â
He grabbed his discarded coat. At the door, he paused.
The words hit like a blade between the ribs. Then he left. And the sound of the closing door felt far too much like something breaking.
You did not sleep.
The room felt too large without him in it even though these were your own chambers. You lay still in the bed you had just shared, staring up at the canopy, listening for something that wouldnât come.
No footsteps returned. No careless stumble of wine and habit. Nothing. Only silence. And with it, the memory of his face when you pulled away.
Not hurt, exactly. Worse than that. Resigned.
Three days passed like that. Three days of absence that should have been normal and werenât. You told yourself it was relief. That this was what you had wanted; space, distance, safety restored to its proper shape. But the silence in the keep did not feel like safety. It felt like something had been removed and the world hadnât decided how to fill it yet.
Daeron did not joing you in meals. He did not appear in passing corridors. He did not, as he sometimes did, materialize at your side with a dry comment that made the world feel briefly less sharp. Even the servants spoke of him less, as if the act of naming his absence made it heavier.
By the fourth day, you stopped pretending you werenât counting.
One night, you decided you would disappear at night. You ventured into the gardens far later than you should be and enjoyed the fresh nightly air.
That was where you finally laid eyes onto your husband. He was stumbling in through one of the gates. You decided to strike up a conversation.
âComing back so soon?â
Your voice stops him. Daeron stands a few steps behind you, one hand now braced against the wall, watching you with something unreadable in his expression.
âWere you following me?" he asks.
"No, this is pure coincidence."
The garden is now too small for the two of you to exist together.
âYouâve been avoiding me,â you continue, not really knowing what you hoped for.
âI havenât.â
âYou have.â
He steps closer. You donât move.
âWhy?â
You shake your head. âItâs nothing.â
âItâs not nothing.â
âThis was a mistake,â you say suddenly. The words come too fast, too sharp. His expression shifts.
âWhat was?â
âThis,â you gesture vaguely between you. âUs. This marriage.â
A lie. A desperate, useless lie. You don't know what it was that got you speaking of such things. You did not expect to. Perhaps the nightmares of the curse you have been having have finally gotten to you. He studies you for a long moment.
âNo,â he says quietly. âIt wasnât.â
You laugh but itâs thin, strained. âYou donât even love me.â
The words are meant to push him away. To make this easier. They donât. His gaze sharpens.
âDonât I?â
The question lands harder than anything else he could have said. Because you donât know the answer. And that terrifies you.
His steps slow as he approaches you, as though giving you time to stop him. You donât.
âTell me,â he says softly, âwhat youâre so afraid of.â
You swallow. You could lie. You should lie. But youâre so tired of it.
âIf I kiss you,â you say, your voice barely steady, âyouâll die.â
Silence. Not disbelief. Not laughter. Just quiet.
âAnd you believe that,â he says.
âI know it.â
A beat. âAnd you married me anyway.â
Because I thought I never would. Because I thought you were safe. Because I didnât knowâ
âI didnât think it would matter,â you whisper.
Something flickers across his face then. Something you donât quite understand.
âHm,â he murmurs. âThatâs unfortunate.â
Your heart stutters. âWhy?â
He steps closer. Close enough now that you can feel the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breath.
âBecause,â he says softly, âI think it does.â
Your pulse is deafening. This is it. You know this. Youâve always known this. The way he looks at you likeâ like you are something worth choosing.
âDaeron,â you say, more firmly now, âdonât.â
But your voice betrays you. It isnât a command. Itâs a plea.
He pauses and searches your face for any doubt, for any fear, for permission. He finds all three.
âIf I walk away,â he asks quietly, echoing a moment that feels like it belongs to another life, âwill you come find me again?â
You donât answer. You canât. Because you already know.
Yes. You always will. Even though you shouldn't. You should keep your distance.
A sad, knowing smile touches his lips. âI thought so.â
Another heartbeat. Another chance. You donât take it.
âIâm sorry,â you whisper.
"I am too."
And then he closes the distance..
For one perfect, impossible moment heâs alive beneath your lips. He's warm, real and yours. This is not the kiss you had at your wedding ceremony. That kiss was between two strangers who knew nothing of each other. This kiss was filled with every emotion, every doubt, every worry, every piece of knowledge you had aquirred of each other.
You thinkâ maybe the curse was wrong.
His hand rises, cupping your cheek at last.
And then you feel him still.
Your eyes fly open and you pull away. âDaeron?â
His forehead falls gently against yours. A breath leaves him.
It is soft and final.
The garden is too quiet and too still and you feel everything instantly. Just as she said you would.
The end of him.
Later, much later, you will remember everything in fragments.
The taste of wine on his lips, the fragrance of wood on him, the press of his hand around your waist. And voice, thin and certain:
You will try. You did.
You will fail. You did that, too.
And now, you are left with the silence. And the memory of the only moment that ever felt real.
Tears fell from your eyes as you felt his body slump against you. You knew you needed to call the servants. It was your duty to. To explain to Maekar why his eldest boy laid in your arms.
But for now, Daeron's body was yours to hold. And you did until it was cold to the touch.
Daeron Targaryen dreamed of death often.
Not always in grand ways. Some had dragonfire, some had battlefields, some were just quiet and ordinary.
Sometimes he is drowning in a cup he never finished. Sometimes he is lying beneath a ceiling he cannot name, listening to voices that refuse to become words. Sometimes he is simply walking, and then mid-step the world forgets him.
He never minds them. Dreams are honest in a way waking life is not.
So when the sickness first takes root in him, he does not recognize it as anything new. It begins, as most unpleasant things do, with inconvenience.
A heaviness behind the eyes. A warmth that does not belong to wine. Nights that stretch longer than they should, sleep arriving too easily and leaving too slowly. He tells himself it is nothing. The court is tiring. The air in Summerhall is stale. His fatherâs expectations are tedious enough to make any man feel ill.
He has always been good at explanations that do not require concern. That is what he tells himself.
That is what he tells you, too, when he can still stand long enough to joke about it.
âItâs only exhaustion,â he says once, leaning back in a chair as if the world has simply become less worth holding up. âOr possibly regret. Hard to distinguish the two lately.â
You donât laugh. You are watching him too closely now.
That is new. He pretends not to notice.
The dreams worsen before the body does. In them, he is always near water. Not always drowning. Sometimes simply standing at the edge, watching it rise. Sometimes the water is red. Sometimes it is empty. Sometimes it is only a reflection of himself, and he cannot tell which version is real.
In one of them, he turns and sees you. You are not as you are now. You are as you were the first time he noticed you properly, half-shadowed, half-alive, looking at him like he is something you have already decided not to fear.
In the dream, he tries to speak. But his mouth fills with water before the words can form. He wakes coughing. There is wine on the bedside table when he wakes. He drinks it anyway. It does not help. Nothing does.
By the time the maester names it, Daeron has already stopped listening to his own body.
The Great Spring Sickness, he hears vaguely. Something that lingers in the lungs, in the blood, in the spaces between strength and collapse. Something that does not always announce itself with urgency.
He thinks that is rather polite of it. He does not tell you immediately. He should. He knows he should.
But there is something almost embarrassing about admitting that his body is failing him quietly. That it is not dramatic, not heroic, not even interesting. So instead, he continues as he is: half-present and half-elsewhere. Joking when it is required. Disappearing when it is not.
He becomes very good at hiding illness behind indifference. He has always been good at that. And then there is the other thing. The thing he does not name at all. The way you have begun to look at him. Not with fear but a sort of calculation. As though you are counting something he cannot see.
It unsettles him more than the fever. Because he cannot fix it. He is used to fixing things by leaving them alone.
The night before everything changes, he dreams again. This time, he is not alone.
He is standing in a garden he does not recognize, though he knows it is supposed to be safe. The air is too still. The flowers are too white. The sky feels like something pressed too tightly over the world. You are there. You are speaking, but he cannot hear you.
He steps toward you. You step back. He tries to say your name but nothing comes out. And then, very gently, you kiss him.
It is not like the real world. It is softer. Final in a way that feels rehearsed. Like something that was always going to happen, no matter how many choices were made before it.
In the dream, he understands immediately. This is how it ends. Not with sickness. Not with wine. Not with anything he could have argued with. With you. And strangely, he is not afraid.
He is only tired.
When he wakes, there is blood on his lips. He assumes it is a dream still clinging to him. It is not.
He finds you in the garden later. He does not remember walking there. That part is becoming more common.
You speak to him. He answers. It feels like a performance he is watching from a slight distance, like someone else is wearing his skin and doing a passable impression of Daeron Targaryen, drunk and polite and almost intact.
You ask him something about avoidance. He almost laughs. He almost tells you the truth. Instead, he says, âI havenât.â
Because that is easier. Because that is still true enough to pass. But then you say something else. Something that does not fit into any of his practiced categories.
âThis was a mistake.â
And something in him goes very still. Not because it hurts. Because it is familiar. This is how dreams speak. He has heard this tone before. When you say the curse out loud, he almost wants to smile. Of course it would be something like that. Of course it would be absurd enough to survive unchallenged for years inside you.
He wants to tell you that curses are rarely that polite. That death is rarely that specific. That if the world truly wanted him gone, it would not bother with rules like kisses. But he is tired. And you are shaking.
And he realizes, too late, that you believe it more than you believe him. That is the first thing that truly frightens him. The idea that you might already be mourning him while he is still standing in front of you.
When he kisses you, it is not what he expects. There is no sudden ending. No clean collapse. No divine certainty. Only warmth.
Only you.
Only the very brief, unbearable clarity of it.
And for one suspended moment, Daeron thinks: So this is it.
Not because he feels death arriving. But because it feels like the first thing in his life that is fully real.
His hand rises without permission. He touches your face as if confirming you are not another dream. You pull away. He should say something. He cannot find anything worth saying.
Because in the exact same moment, something inside him shifts not violently, not dramatically. Just quietly wrong. Like a bell that has been struck too many times finally deciding not to ring again.
He hears you whisper his name. He tries to answer. But the world has already begun to tilt away from him. Like sleep that has finally decided it will not let him wake again.
And as the garden fades, as your arms tighten around him, as the last shape of your face tries to hold Daeron thinks what a kind death the universe had bestowed on him.
Daeron Targaryen was the first noble in King's Landing to die from the great spring sickness. He had caught the virus while he was in one of his taverns on a night out. And after a few weeks of the virus corrupting him on the inside, it had finally chosen to be done with him.













