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Tags: arranged marriages, whimsy, reader is a member of House Tyrell, alcohol, addiction, attempts at prophetic dreams, flower symbolism, inspired by medieval revival music, no ai in writing, I hate ai, pre-tourney like a few years before, no use of y/n, 3rd person perspective, no beta we die like men
Disclaimer: I am currently waiting to make an ao3 account, currently Tumblr is the only place my work is published. Please do not insert anything into ai or republish my work for me!
This is short but the start of a series I plan on writing!
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Little Camellia
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There was never a day that Daeron thought he'd be married off. No one wanted a drunk for a husband, the poor girl was stuck with him. Daeron hoped the girl would find a way out, or at least a lover because the Seven know he couldn't care for her.
Yet the girl tried harder than he expected. She was given as a ward to his father in hopes they could develop some sort of relationship. She would frequently try to speak to him, he was too drunk most days to remember her words.
But she was consistent. Every time he would return to his chambers, there would be fresh flowers. All different kinds, all sorts of colors. They were picked fresh every day and set in a small bouquet by the window, sometimes in a vase. Whether he touched them or not, there would be room for more the next morning.
Anytime they would start to wither, they would be removed from the room. The servants worked around them, moving them if they needed. It wasn't until the second week of it did Daeron find out it was her, his betrothed.
She would wake up early each morning and pick them with her handmaidens. They would deliver them to his room with her and sneak out before he returned.
It was consistent. Red roses one day, pink carnations the next.
It became less of a nice gesture and more of a question of where his betrothed was finding these flowers. Summerhall had many but she went out of her way to find more than that.
As the days passed and Daeron's room started to smell more and more of floral arrangements, there were more gifts.
She would leave herbs for headaches as well, ribbons, small things. Small enough to be easy to find and transport.
He did not deserve this girl, no, he was a drunk. He buried himself in his wine and his goblet just as often as she picked flowers. She deserved a just man, one who could fully appreciate the gifts. Perhaps a young knight would do, one with a title and land.
Upon seeing another bouquet of white clovers and red chrysanthemums, he decided to go speak with her. After fetching the maester for some concoction of herbs for his headache, he went off.
She was in the gardens, of course. Where else would this flower obsessed woman be?
She sat with her handmaidens picking more of the flowers. It wasn't the greatest idea; those bushes were taken care of by very passionate servants.
Upon seeing her in her element, he grew nervous. What could she see in a drunk like him? He could not provide what she needed.
He started to approach. Her handmaidens noticed before she did.
"My prince," The pair of them greeted him, bringing attention to his presence. His betrothed turned from the bouquet she was making.
"It's nice to see you moving about." She turned back to the bouquet, tying to off with a light blue ribbon.
He stood up straight. "Yes, well I decided I had to speak with you."
His betrothed turned to her handmaidens, excusing them. Once they were gone, she spoke again. "You should sit. I have no doubt that you have a headache. You should relax for now."
And so he did. He sat for a while before saying anything. Summerhall was beautiful in the mornings. His sisters playing, Aegon sometimes as well. The weather this time of the year was lovely, not too rainy and not to bright. The sun shone just enough on them, on the flowers.
"A great tragedy you are betrothed to me." He finally spoke.
She looked down at the bouquet, this own full of red roses, pink camellia, and pansy. She had leaves in this one, filling the extra space. She placed it in his lap. "I wish you would understand."
The flowers were beautiful. She always picked the best ones, she seemed particular with them.
Some maidens sewed, some embroidered, and some found their enjoyment in looms or books. She found flowers.
"If I wanted to leave, I'd have made my own scheme and fled." She admitted. "I want to be here."
The thought of it worried him. She should flee. Highgarden would make her happy.
"You want to be here? You truly want to marry a drunk instead of a better man?"
She met his gaze head on this time. "I'm sure you have a story behind those eyes and your goblet. I enjoy stories." She stood, brushing off her gown. "Find me when you're ready to share it."
The flowers would not stop, even after that day. But now, they came with letters. The flowers now always featured at least one purple color. The letters always detailed her thoughts on it, on the chosen flowers and the colors. She picked certain shades of purple because they reminded her of his eyes.
The drinking did not stop, in fact it worsened. Daeron Targaryen found himself not wanting to return home out of guilt. The eldest son, the failure of his house, that's who he was.
His betrothed was far too kind and generous to him. She wanted his story. He didn't want to burden her with his dreams, his nightmares more accurately. The curse of foresight was just that, a curse. Daenys the dreamer saved the Targaryens and their dragons but now there were no dragons and plenty of dreams.
Occasionally, the letters would feature a dried flower with no explanation as to why. Those Daeron kept. He placed them in a safe place in his chambers, a place that few would find them.
On a whim, he decided to leave her letters. Now, each morning she would drop off a fresh bouquet and letter to be met with a letter from him.
They were written while drunk mostly, short and brief. Daeron only started it to give back to her, invite her into his mind as broken or unbroken it may be.
Then, despite them being in the same castle, they spoke through the letters. Daeron found it much easier to write his thoughts down, drunk or sober, than to speak them.
He was a broken man, one who preferred taverns and brothels to the warmth of his own bed. But she started to change that.
He found himself preferring to stay at Summerhall instead of find the nearest tavern. He would drink himself asleep all the same, but the letter would be written and the flowers placed.
It gave him hope for a better future.
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