#for bipoc reader

disclaimers: the fic is bipoc friendly. i am bipoc myself, and this series is very self-indulgent and well for me. while all descriptors will be vague/neutral, i write mainly for me (screaming into the void lol) and i write what i wish i could read more of (aka with a tanner/darker complexion in mind). also this is my very first attempt at a one-shot/multi-part series, or at writing x reader, so feedback and critiques are welcome, especially for my prose, but don't be mean about it.

timeline to consider: takes place in 221 AC; daeron is 31 (not confirmed exactly when he was born, but I'm going with 190 AC); daenora is 7 (not confirmed when she was born, but I'm going with 214 AC)

word count: 3.4k

inspo: L'arte della gioia (2025),, Nosferatu (2024)

VOLUME ONE: i dreamed of you

Daenora had not yet parted with her mourning blacks since the death of her sister the year prior. She had told you the Stranger had marked her family for death, that He was coming for them all with a calculated patience; one by one down a list. 

It was better, she’d said, if He found her prepared then. 

You had not refuted her, had not explained the unpredictability of death and the fleetingness of life. Some lessons could not be taught with scripture alone, nor could they be softened by the words of the Faith.

She had wept into your arms all night until her breath broke, and you only held her, that was all you could do. You had tried not to cry yourself when she listed off everyone who had already died. Baelor. Valarr. Grandsire Daeron (whom she’d been named after). Father. Mother. Aelor. Aelora. An account of all her dead.

 “I will be lonely all my life, Septa,” she hiccuped and tried at composure. She had wiped her eyes and straightened herself with a dignity not meant for a girl so young. “I’ve no mother…no father.”

The words struck you in a place that had not quite healed over the years, and you found yourself mirrored in her: orphaned and at the mercy of your uncle. Though Daenora’s uncle at least had the decency to be more discreet with his intentions and had not delivered her to a motherhouse.

“You have me, sweetling,” you said. It came more fierce than you had intended and that caught you off guard. 

That had soothed her some, enough for her to reach for your hand and curl her small pinky around yours.

“Promise.” It had not been a question.

Your face warmed as she smiled, a small thing that took more effort than she would ever admit to. But you tightened your hold on her finger, “promise.”

“Always and forever, or Maegor’s ghost will come and haunt you for lying,” she whispered, a mischievous grin tugging her lips wide. She’d always smiled like that when you let her have her way, or in most cases, made her think she’d bested you.

And that promise was what would bring you to Summerhall.

Though it had not been so simple to keep you with her at first. Maekar had been opposed to Daenora’s wishes initially.

Daenora had screamed until she turned purple when Maekar had refused her pleading to have you with her.

“They’ve good septas in Summerhall, Daenora,” he’d said it without room for brokering a compromise.

“The septas there are dull!” Daenora howled. “They do not speak many languages like mine, they would not know how to make the numbers make sense in my head the way my septa does!” The tears rolled from her eyes, fat and sorrowful. “They would yell at me when I fail to tell the Norvoshi currency from the Pentoshi!”

You’d stood hidden in the shadows of the hall through it all; meek and pretending like your hearing failed you. But heat had rushed up your throat and settled in your face. Still you did not look up. 

You had to be modest, let all praise wash over you. That is what the Faith rewarded, propriety and humility, no matter that what the child said was true. They would not find another like you, no matter how far they searched.

Even if they searched heaven and hell, you thought. But you stood as still as the stone statues whose marble feet you prayed at as the King and his Hand continued discussing.

“She’s lost enough already,” Lord Brynden explained. “Granting her this small whim may turn fruitful if you still wish for Aerion to have her.” He looked upon you then. 

“I will go where she goes. I’ll stay here too!” Daenora screeched, thumping her foot against the stone like an angry rabbit.

“Leave her here and other lords will have her for their sons. Press her claim when she bears them children.” Lord Brynden continued.

You could feel the heaviness of those red eyes that you avoided. It is not that you believed the rumors about the Lord, that he could kill with intent alone, but you never tested that theory.

You were never in the same room as him for longer than a moment, but you could always feel his gaze trailing you whenever you were instructing Daenora.

The memory of the first and only time he’d ever spoken directly to you rose in your mind unbidden. 

He’d overheard you teaching the girl High Valyrian and Rhoynish in the same lesson. She mastered her House’s tongue by five and was able to hold secret conversations with you in Rhoynish by six.

Soon you were moving onto teaching her Lhazareen, but the Hand had stopped those lessons.

“Do you mean to have the Princess speaking dothraki too before she turns ten?” He’d asked, no humor in his tone.

“Only if she wishes it, my lord,” you’d replied, head bowed, always bowed in deference. 

Daenora looked him straight in the face with a small grin, “she will teach me the Old Tongue, too.”

“Hmm,” he hummed and took one step closer to where you two sat. “Who is your lord father?”

“I have none, Ser. Gone days before my birth.” You said simply.

“Your mother?” He pressed.

You suspected he would keep pressing until he knew the last drop of information about you. That would not do. “I have no mother either. I am an orphan.” You hoped that would settle the matter.

“You were not born an orphan, girl.” He spat, “surely the holy women told you who your mother was!”

“They gave me no names, My Lord.”

“Bisa hunnane iksis issare qopsa,” (this donkey is being difficult) Daenora giggled. 

You put your hand over the girl’s and gave her a stern look which snuffed her giddiness. She returned to the tome before her, quill in hand for scribbling any musings or questions.

Luckily, the man did not speak High Valyrian, or if he did, he said nothing about Daenora’s quip.

Now, in the hall with him, with a crying Daenora, he seemed less rigid than he had then. There was something like pity when he looked at the girl. 

“Let her keep the septa,” Brynden continued.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “Aerion is not a gentle man, best if she’s prepared for that. A soft mind would not survive him.” 

Maekar’s jaw tightened and he flexed his fingers at his side. “No, it would not.”

The King turned his gaze upon you, and sighed. “It is done then. You will see to Princess Daenora while she remains in Summerhall, instruct her well.”

You dipped your head, “Your Grace,” and took your leave with a beaming Daenora following close to your skirts.

“By the Mother’s mercy!” She cried out.

Or rather Lord Brynden’s, you thought but held your tongue. Daenora might hear you and she had a habit of parroting everything you said.

The travel to Summerhall passed in a blur of Daenora’s restlessness and the insistent call of a bird you swore had followed you from King’s Landing.

An honor guard awaited you; you went from the guardianship of one set of Targaryen men, to a new one.

Their banners snapped lazily in the breeze with the same rhythm as your skirts.

When they greeted you, the bird sang too, an ugly sound that sounded almost like garbled words. The song sent a shiver through your body and tiny goose pimples rose across your arms.

Had the wind not carried the sound sooner, you might have made meaning of it. But it was of no consequence now.

Daenora clung to you with one hand and kept the other close to her chest to keep her mantle from flying off her shoulders. 

The men flanked you and the girl, leaving the rest of Daenora’s household to follow (handmaidens mostly). 

No one else had come to greet you, not Daenora’s cousins, nor anyone from their court. 

You walked the rest of the path to Summerhall and blessed whichever thoughtful soul had fashioned the road and decided on flagstones instead of simply beating the earth flat.

Summerhall was nestled behind a belt of trees nearly as tall as the palace itself, long sentries that kept quiet watch.

It was a beast of ochre brick, tall windows, and horseshoe arches. 

From afar, it had the same architecture you remembered from Dorne, from the Water Gardens you visited only once on your journey toward Oldtown and the motherhouse.

It had been a dream. Warmth, the sweetness of the blood oranges on your tongue, and laughter. It was a vision you clung to even now, long after memories of your homeland had faded.

The closer you came, the more the Targaryen heraldry revealed itself. Dragon statues, dragons imprinted into the very stone you walked upon. Even the braziers were in the shape of a dragon, wings cradling the embers.

But the sun and spear of Martell was carved into the palace too, etched into pillars and latticework, in the doorframes and the shapes of the patches of shrubbery.

There was a tower near the west side and it too had the claim of House Martell, a large bronze bell etched with sun and spear. The wind was strong enough that the clapper clanged against the bell sending a hollow sound across the courtyard.

Daeron II had taken good care to honor his union with Myriah. It was romantic in a way, to have stone remember love in a manner that would outlive them for generations.

You felt a tug at your hand and looked down at Daenora.

“Is it empty? Will it only be you and me here?” She asked, suddenly shy. “I think I would like that.”

“No,” you said gently. “Your cousins reside here too.”

“The drunk one,” she muttered.

You gave her a warning look, she knew better than to speak so of others. 

“That is what they call him, septa, ‘The Drunken’.”

“You mustn't repeat everything you hear, Daenora,” you whispered.

She clapped a hand to her mouth, “Will Maegor’s ghost come for me for misbehaving?”

You nodded your head with convincing solemnity. 

“I will not call him so to his face, I promise!”

“That would be very wise.”

There was no curtain wall surrounding the palace, but guards paced the open courtyard,and you could see shadows lingering near the great arched windows.

At the very center of the courtyard was a large reflective pool, deep enough to cover you up to your knees if you stepped into it. Lily pads with blooming water lilies above them floated over the surface of the pool in a scatter. Beneath them, cream and red colored carp swam in slow movement, turning gold then carmine whenever the sunlight caught their scales.

“Daenora!” You called out to her when she reached into the pool sending the fish into a startled frenzy.

“They’re too fast for me,” she giggled and it sounded like the gentle tinkling of bells. “Do you think they are for eating?”

“No child,” you pat her hand dry with a linen square you kept in your skirt pockets. “They’re for decoration…or for looking at, not for eating. They’re poisonous.”

She looked at you with frightened eyes. “Can fish be poisonous? I didn’t know that, septa?”

“Yes, they can be,” you folded the square and slipped it back into your skirts. “There’s one with tiny spikes all over its body that puffs when frightened.”

Daenora puffed her cheeks and pointed to them, “like this?”

You tossed your head back and laughed, “yes that’s right! Daenora the puffer fish!”

She giggled at the nickname and pressed herself closer to your side, burying her face into the fabric of your robes. A soft sigh left her lips and she muttered something you didn't quite catch.

The palace’s steward approached when you reached the steps that lead into Summerhall. He was old and bowed at his waist. He welcomed Daenora on her cousin’s behalf. A cluster of servants came out from the shaded arches and made for the wheelhouse to bring your belongings in.

“This way,” he signaled for both of you to follow.

He walked fast, too fast for you to stop to admire the details of the castle. It all passed you in a blur: the painted ceiling, the intricate tapestries, and the stained glass of the windows. 

You would glut yourself on the beauty of Summerhall in due time.

The man guided you through brisk corridors and open galleries and then he stopped before a set of heavy wooden doors. 

His mouth was set in a line when he turned to you, “these are the princess’s apartments. Your chamber is adjoined to hers.” He pushed the doors and held them open for you. 

You ventured inside and Daenora pushed past you to one of the large windows in the antechamber. The ceiling here was vaulted and painted too. 

You squinted to make out the patterns; more dragons and more spear-pierced suns. You walked over to one of the windows and the sight stole your breath. It overlooked the gardens just below and the rolling grasslands and green hillocks beyond the palace.

“Supper won’t be set for some hours yet,” he explained. “You are welcome to make yourself at home meanwhile, rest if you must.”

You thanked him and began making your way to the door that would open to your chambers, but Daenora had other plans.

She waited until the door closed after the steward before tugging at your sleeve. 

“Let us go see the gardens, please,” she asked.

You did not decline her request for you too wished to see the gardens.

The princess’s apartments were on the second floor, and the princess took the stairs to the ground floor two at a time and you scurried after her trying to keep pace. You found yourself giggling when you reached the foot of the stairs. There was a headiness in letting yourself indulge in small pleasures.

Wind rushed to meet you, kissing your face and making the hem of your robes flutter about your ankles.

You stood at the edge of the courtyard and saw that at the center of it, beside the reflective pool, a dragon had been impressed into the flagstones, crowned with a sun and spewing a spiral flame that extended outward.

Further toward the west side of the palace there were smaller pools and cisterns, and smaller gardens.

Daenora followed you in that direction.

“There's a portrait here of Myriah from when she was a girl, before she wrinkled like a raisin.” Daenora commented offhandedly, as if she'd only just remembered it. Her eyes turned to you and her lips formed a sheepish smile. “I meant to say before she became old.” 

You tsked lightly, an attempt to hide that you found her remark amusing, and guided her toward the sept that rose between a maze of sorts made of wild flowers.

The sept at Summerhall was modest in size, large enough to fit near twenty souls at once. It had been built into the western tower, seven-sided with windows that reached high into the ceiling and down nearly six feet off the ground, each window a different shade of stained glass and each depicting a different face of the Seven.

This too was a wonderful place.

Your feet moved you toward the front of the sept from where you were able to take in the whole thing. There were benches lined against the walls and you and Daenora took the one beneath the window of the Mother.

The wind carried the warm breeze from Dorne and the cooler gusts from the stormlands in waves. There was a rhythm to it. A pulse that was enough to lull Daenora until she was half-asleep and slumped against your shoulder.

You hummed something half-remembered from your youth, something you had heard the Orphans sing whenever a healer came to your father’s house and tended to his consumption.

In the end, their treatment only eased his pain before he succumbed to the illness. The image still haunted you, the slack jaw, sunken eyes, the thin man who had once been tall and large and joyous.

What came after would haunt you even more. Every choice had been ripped from you before you even knew you might want something. But want you did, you wanted so much. To live, to see…to love.

Sunlight poured through the painted glass, sending fractured beams of color that danced across the sept and over you.

Daenora played idly with your fingers, then shifted away to get a better look at you. “Septa?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re an orphan like me,” she began. “But I know who my parents are,” she offered you a sympathetic smile, similar to the one you had given her when her Aelor had died. A smile that you’d hoped conveyed things words could not. “Do you truly not know yours?”

“I was given their names once,” you answered calmly and quickly. “But I have forgotten them.”

“Septaaa,” she teased in a singsong voice. “Years ago, you told Lord Brynden the good women of the Starry Sept had not told you who they were. I remember it, I remember!” She giggled at your slip, proud that she had some imagined leverage over you now.

 “You are before the Gods, you must speak true. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Do you think the Gods compel septas to speak whenever children demand it?”

“I do!”

She was too clever for her own good, but you did not argue. “I will tell you when you come of age.”

She frowned hard enough that her brows knit deeply, and pouted. “Are you afraid I will speak their names to someone. I won’t, I have no one but you anyway.”

You huffed out a breath and rose to your feet, “come, the supper table must be nearly set now.”

She took your hand without complaint and began to lead the way out the sept.

You walked the gardens slowly, taking in the beauty of the place, the flowers and the fruit trees.

Daenora had slipped from yours and she dashed ahead to the reflective pool, bracing her hands on the edge and staring at the fish darting from one side to the other.

“We should name them all,” she suggested in half-jest when you came to stand beside her.

You braced yourself over the pool as well and looked in. The carp were large and fast. They moved easily through the roots of the lily flowers and occasionally surfaced.

You had been so caught up tracing the movement of the fish that you had not noticed the figure moving behind you two. You only turned when Daenora gripped your hand and pressed herself against your arm. 

The man stood some feet away only looking at you two, lips parted as if the words refused to leave him. He was in a disarray, his hair looked as if it had been pulled out of its tie. His doublet had been loosened at the collar and the linen shirt beneath it stained red with what you presumed was wine.

You could not say who this was upon first glance. But the dragon head stitched to his collar marked him as a Targaryen man, and only one prince was famed for being in this state perpetually.

The drunk one, you remembered Daenora’s words.

“Ser–” he interrupted you before you could say more.

“We’ve met before,” he said softly, just loud enough for the words to carry over to you.

Your brows furrowed and Daenora clutched you tighter. “I do not recall, Your Grace.” It was true, the only time he had been in the capital had been when Maekar had been crowned. You were away with Daenora in Oldtown to celebrate Maiden’s Day festivities.

“You were here, walking these gardens,” he looked around as if recalling this imagined meeting. “You were wearing a storm with the Seven dragging from your waist and you were drowning them in this same pool.” His eyes were red rimmed and feverish and he took a few steps forward, perhaps willing you to remember you had been here before.

But that had never happened.

“I have been waiting for you,” he shook his head, hair falling into his eyes. “I dreamed of you,” he said helplessly.

And a bird called out from some unseen branch, a terrible sound to your ears.

Thank you for reading!!