#little plot

They had been good enough, at some point in both of your lives.

You'd been his anchor, his safest, sweetest haven; his dear sister, stroking his sandy hair after a nightmare had left him shaking, in tears. You, cupping his cheeks and whispering that 'it'll be alright, brother. I'm here, with you. I always will be, as long you want me to.'

One could say that you tenfold more fond of Daeron than your own, monstrous twin — and they'd be right.

It had always been that way. Daeron was good to you. Well, as good as he could be, when his mind was haunted from so much wine and misery and he was on the verge of passing out on the floor. But, good, nonetheless.

He never leered at you the way Aerion did, nor did he feel the need to constantly mention that you belonged to him, unlike a certain someone.

When it was all too much to handle, he'd simply throw on his cloak*, sneak past the guards , and knock on the familiar door of your bedchambers.

You'd let him in, of course, because how could you refuse? How could you refuse, when he looked so helpless, so utterly *spent, as he stood there in your doorway? When he stared at you with those glistening, beautiful eyes of his?

Those violet eyes, red with too much wine and underlined by dark circles, from his many sleepless nights — they never failed to crumble all of your resolve. Especially when he showed up at the most unexpected of times. At the crack of dawn, or the wolf's hour..

You'd always frown, at first — shake your head, or even scold him for drinking him too much ...only to give into his mumbled apologies and let him lay his head on your lap anyway and find solace in your sweet whispers, the way you held him close.

The way you never called him a drunken slob or a failure like Maekar, or made fun of his prophecies like Aerion.

The way you were one of the few lovely things this broken man had left in his world. His only achor that kept him from slipping into madness or drowning himself in wine.

Had you not been there to talk to him, to ask about and even try to understand his dreams,..he might've done both of those.

. But he couldn't bring himself to disappoint you, even when he was teetering on the brink of his sanity.

You, who, fretted over him like no one else. You , who asked of his wellbeing — never questioned why he wasn't doing this and that, who kissed him, on the top of his head and you, who, he'd figured, somehow loved him.

Why you'd waste your time with a stupid drunkard like him; it was baffling. You were going out of your way to make time for his antics, putting in effort and tremendous patience.

Nobody had asked you to do this, to love your fool of a brother without condition or cause.

You did it anyway.

That was the kind of person you were, he supposed, a person who one couldn't help but fall in love with, even if they tried and fought tooth and nail against their own heart not to — because they'd never be good enough, see, only drag you down to a hell where you didn't belong, not one bit.

. They were a bit too obvious, sometimes — his true, unabashed feelings for you.

..He never presumed to touch you, not like that, anyway. ...but you did notice. You weren't blind after all.

Brotherly gratitude and sheer, unbridled yearning were two separate things — but the line between them was often more blurred than not.

Sometimes, during the blue moons when he was sobered up and brushed a strand of your hair or smiled that wry, faint — almost shy — smile of his, you swore there was something in his expression you couldn't name, not under the dingy light of your bedchambers.

You remembered a strange, painful sort of heat in his violet eyes. From the way he sometimes fluttered them shut, whenever you touched his cheek or embraced him. It reminded you of a cat purring .

But it was almost though he was relishing the feel of your skin on his, burning it into his memory for later, as something almost sacred. Taking whatever you gave him with salvation or perhaps...

No. That couldn't be it.

You were only overthinking.

You, infact, tended to; while needling at a piece of patchwork for the past hour. The crackle of the hearth made for no good company and the quiet does make people feel the impossible and believe the absurd. Does it not?

Daeron held nothing of that sort towards you. It was almost laughable to think he — teary, broken, sweet Daeron — could think of you in any way but as his sister.

Sure, sometimes his eyes lingered on you too long while passing you by in the hallway. Sure, his gaze often did flicker to your lips — before he shook his head, as though coaxing himself out from a dream he could never reach.

And, yes, he did look stumped whenever you spoke too kindly to Aerion. But that was nothing. You were spinning nonsense from the norm, right?

Perhaps he was only admiring you, in a fond way, as siblings do.

A flimsy excuse, for a flimsy idea.

Denial can only go on for so long.

Every visit to your chambers, every pleading look, only shattered it more. Day by day, night by night, you began to understand the weight of your veiled emotions, how much you'd turned a blind eye to, just to fit your own, fragile perception of your relationship with Daeron.

How many looks had you brushed past, how many times had you excused the vanishing of a glove or hairpin after his visit? How many times had you not realised that he had been trying to tell you — without words, because, words were shit — that he loved you?

But, as fate is a cruel mistress — before you could even consider it, he just...stopped.

Stopped coming to your chambers, stopped confiding in you, laughing with you in the moments he wasn't entirely tormented by prophecy.

Your room felt empty, your bed unfinished no matter how many you made it or installed softer sheets.

Daeron was never at Summerhall much after that night. That night, where he showed up at the foot bed of your, as always — and you, climbing off your sheets, ready to talk to him, were shocked to hear what he had to.

His lips quivered, as he took your hand in his. All Daeron said was one, single whisper, against your knuckles; "I'm sorry." He took a deep breath. "I really am, sister."

*I'm sorry?*. You'd been confused then, by what he meant and remained silent for a while. The explanation never came. He only stared up at you, with those puppy-like eyes and a most wounded look. Was he expecting you to forgive him, when you didn't even what, in the gods' names, he was apologising for?

"For what, Daeron?" Your brows furrowed in concern, at this sudden apologising. *Has he done something?*

"You'll see. You'll know," Daeron murmured, with a bitter, knowing smile. "And then you'll need to forgive me once you do."

What the fuck was he rambling about?

"Speak plainly." You had no time for his riddles. But his tone filled you with a jolt of panic, anyway. More often than not, his drunken mumblings did come to fruition. "What do you mean?"

He did not answer — only gathered himself and left with one, single, pointed glance at you.

Daeron shut the door behind him, with a thud — in a matter of seconds and a glimpse of his black cloak disappearing into the hallways. Before you could even. protest. Before he could see the sheer hurt and confusion in your eyes and be infinitely compelled to change his mind.

There was no other word to describe it. You were bamboozled.

And, gods, you did pray that he just drunk and blurting nonsense, that it was nothing. Whatever it was, this thing you were supposed to find out, you hoped that it was trivial or just some jape.

In some deep part of your heart, it was plain to you that something was indeed wrong, even if you chose to gloss over it and dawdle in optimism instead.

Sulking by the hearth, almost tearing apart your patchwork — you told yourself that the night, the exhaustion was catching up to. That's why you were thinking these things, right?

Surely, your brother would come again, tommrow. And everything would fall into measured softness, as it always had and should. .

*

But, as you had the foreboding instinct of, he didn't.

Daeron was nowhere to found — not even in the castle, itself, much less your chambers.

You considered the choices, the possibilities over a solemn breakfast. Aerion 's words, beside you, of course; that's where he always sat, mooshed into a distant, grating echo in your head, as you stared at your serving of lamb — and could only bring yourself to stab at it, but not bring it to your lips.

Thunder rolled out rain and wetness outside and you swore you were convinced that the skies themselves were mocking you, laughing at the whole mess.

Had you been a fool, this whole time? Had you been insensitive or failed to understand something he said or..

"—And...are you even listening?"

Your haze of thoughts and worries was quickly cleared past — by Aerion's classic scowl, directed at you.

Of course, he chose the worst of times to speak to you.

Of course, he likely knew you were concerned about Daeron and just had to rub it in your face.

You blinked.. "I... I was...just worried."

"Worried?" Aerion bemused, in that sweet voice of his that made you gag — leaning in, close enough to warm your shoulders with his breath, but not enough to warrant the attention of anyone else at the table.

"That seems rather a plain word to describe your turmoil, sister. You look positively.. *devastated." *He lingered on the last word, in a mocking lilt. "Tell me — who died?"

Now, that was rude. You whipped your head up to glare at him. "No one died, Aerion," you hissed.."You know that perfectly well."

"Yes, nobody died, but—" Aerion smiled with his teeth. He leaned in closer, just enough to whisper in your ear; a low, venomous sound that almost made you flinch. "You're worried about him, aren't you?"

It wasn't an question. You didn't dignify him with an answer, only stared straight down at your untouched plate.

He took it as further fuel and, being the asshole he was, continued — "He's probably lying unconscious in the mud, sister. Or on the floor of some brothel." It was a jagged insult meant for you, not Daeron himself.

"It's not my business." Now that was a clear, white lie and even Aerion could see it.

It was clearly your business. You minded more than you let on — or wanted to, atleast. Your own words rung hollow in your ear and the way Aerion squinted his eyes, and looked at you ; as if he'd finally finished some troubling puzzle and put the pieces together, in dawning realization, before shrugging. "It's obvious, you know." He remarked, after a pause.

"What's obvious?"

"Well," he drawled, relishing the alarm in your eyes. "Daeron wants you. It's as clear as the summer sky."

You burned up at that.

Aerion tended to spew vitriolic nonsense most of the time, but you couldn't help but feel — underneath the veil of your pride — that he had gotten it..vaguely, vaguely, right this time, hooked the nail somewhere near the latch. And, by, the gods, did it itch to have your doubts and sentiment be trampled on so carelessly.

You snickered, furrowing your brows, as though he had spoken in some language you couldn't speak. "..What makes you think that?" The words felt empty, somehow, on your tongue.

Not a yell of anger or accusation..but an question instead. Were you trying to gauge how damn obvious his feelings were — and fuck — how many other people knew about them? That wasn't an answer you could give yourself.

Aerion grimaced. "Many things. Such as him buzzing around you like a fly, for once."

You wonder if he's amused, envious or disgusted. Perhaps all three?.."And, gods, the way he looks at you sometimes...it makes me want to puke my guts out. Sentimental sot, that man. Don't tell me you didn't realise it until now?"

★ —

The hallway was quiet enough to hear the rustles of a single cloak, empty, save for the dimly-lit lanterns on the walls. You could hear your every footstep, every intake of breath, as you crouched past one winding corridor after the other.

It wasn't as though this was some safe haven, though. Not even this late.

The Red Keep had eyes and ears everytime of the day, no matter where you were. It was best to tread slowly inside the castle — even if you'd been sure that you weren't being watched over or heard by passing maid or perhaps someone more malicious, like a turncloak.

Especially, because of where you were going.

It was a stupid, reckless decision you had taken in the heat of the moment, still reeling from Aerion's mocking words, which only echoed again and again, everytime you tried to focus on your lessons or some other topic, in your mind, until you were driven mad enough to look for Daeron yourself. *Clear as the summer sky, *he'd said.

If there was some merit for being a liar, Aerion would've been it's champion. And yet — the thrill of curiosity had stolen your sleep and solace — you took those statements to heart and sought out to confirm them on your own. Was it prove to him that he was wrong or maybe to console some part of you that wanted it to be true?

Well, whatever would happen would happen, anyway. There was no thought in sweating over the matter when you'd already made way for Flea Bottom.

Never in your life, of being cooped up in castles and molded into something 'ladylike', did you imagine that you'd be sneaking off into the night, much less standing infront of this creaky, dingy establishment in the sinks and gutters of King's Landing.

By the sour scent of wine — you recognised it despite yourself , Daeron tended to smell like that — and the raucous chatter that filled your senses from the wooden doors and what might've lied beyond them..it was, of course, a tavern.

The mud felt too clammy beneath your feet. You snapped and skittered aside from any passerby who got too close.

It was laughable.

Someone like you, someone who's life had been draped in silk and silver, trying to smush through these stinking, wet alleyways without scaring the piss out of yourself, or worse; screaming in terror at a cat because you were sure that it had been a shadow only moments before.

Better to tiptoe in, find your brother and haul him off for the answers you wanted, as quick as you could.

So you did, then.

You should've, at least, prepared yourself.

The second you creaked the old door open — you were stunned — no, *abashed * — by the assault on your senses.

You found yourself inside a dimly-lit place, filled to the brink with people here and there, cramped in the corners or going up the woody stairs.

There were so many strangers that your eyes could not adjust to, and, in the noisy chatter and clinking plates, you didn't know how to navigate, where to go and what to do.

The pungent, sour smell of wine and fresh bread wafted through the counter. You tugged on the soft wool of your — well, his — cloak, tightening it around yourself.

*Where is he? *

Squinting your eyes, — you felt like a fish out of water, truly —you skimmed your gaze over many figures, itching to even glimpse a sight of that sandy hair you knew so well.

To see the inevitable picture that had haunted you since breakfast; Him, lost in his cups, slumped against some table, and wrecked with horrors of fire and deaths that you could never understand, no matter how many times he'd spilled them out to you, no matter how much you wished to empathize. Not really, anyway.

...You wouldn't ever get it, of course.

Your life was a smooth sail when compared to his turbulent storms — but you could, at least, try, even if you couldn't take away all the pain yourself. You were trying, right now, excusing yourself past burly men and stout women, trying to find, to see, to...

There he was. Your heart lurched.

Daeron, your Daeron, slumped against the counter. His tousled hair stuck to his temple and his bloodshot, wet eyes peered out from beneath the locks as though they'd seen the end of the world (They had. Literally) — utterly wrecked and, of course, drunk to the hells and back, judging by the way he sagged against his stool.

..And yet. He still looked like something out of a painting, even then. Beautiful.

It made you frown, made you want to rush up to him and kiss the salt off his tears. To hold his face and demand the answers you rightly deserved, even if it meant scaring him.

The uproar of the tavern dwindled into a distant hum, then — you were engrossed in Daeron.

Transfixed by that broken man and how he only stared aimlessly up at the ceiling, perhaps hoping it might've held all the secrets of the world, among the ones that told him why he'd been struck with a curse so terrible.

He deserved so much more. More than he knew. More than you did, even.

You did lose your patience with him, sometimes; too often, if you were to be honest. Scolded him with a severe "You are killing yourself! I reckon you'll be dead long before those cursed prophecies of yours can even happen, Daeron!" *or a *"I hate to care so much for you, Daeron.."

His face tended to crumple then...but he always remained silent..

This. This was the state in which he strolled into your chambers. Shaking, smelling of Dornish Red and terrified in a way you couldn't put into words.

It was the inevitability of knowing that something horrible would happen, you reckoned, and not being able to do shit about it, while watching everything go downhill infront of your very own eyes — the eyes that had known, all along, and lifted not a single finger to stop it .

A meagre guess, likely. It was worse in his head than yours.

Was this why he'd stopped? Was this why he scrambled off whenever he passed you by, as though scalded?

You tiptoed, with the little courage you had, and creeped up right behind his slouching form.

At first, when you slipped into the seat beside him, he didn't even seem to notice your presence. Daeron continued to stare off into nothingness*, through that pained expression...until he *didn't.

He — in spite the bleariness of wine — whipped his head around and looked right at you and blinked, in disbelief that you were literally there, in the flesh and blood, sitting next to him in this....

His eyes impossibly widened, mouth parting as though to say something. You saw him pinch his own wrists. *Did he think he was dreaming, again?*

"*You," *he whispered, holding onto the word. Daeron's eyes trailed over you for a moment, obviously taking in the damned cloak, head to toe.

He shook his head, with a bitter chuckle.."What exactly are you doing here, sister?" His words tumbled out a bit slurred — but you heard the accusation, the shock in his rasp anyway. "How did you even...?." He gestured at your clothes.

"Snuck out," you quipped back. There was a faint glint in your eyes, as you continued. "As for this," you tugged at your sleeves. "You left your cloak behind, from last time. It wasn't likely you'd ask for it again.""

"No," he agreed. "I wouldn't have."

Daeron faced you entirely, then — with furrowed brows, as though trying to comprehend why in gods' names you were here, in this putrid tavern, infront of him...and then it occured to him, judging by the way you were looking at him with such a wistful frown, as clear as a summer sky.

"Why..why did you come?" The answer hung over both of your heads. Neither would look at it.

"You know why." You murmured, watching the surprise in his eyes twist into something brittle. "You know very well why I came here, Daeron. You've been avoiding me, ignoring me, shunning me—" Your voice rose more than it should've. "— like I'm the damned plague or something. I don't understand what I did. What i did to upset you so badly. "

A pause. "But what I do understand is that I won't let you go on like this. You will tell me."

Daeron snorted. "No," he rose from the stool, in a jagged movement. "I won't. Go.. go back home, sister."

Your mouth opened and closed — but no words could quite slip out of it.

He really had the gall to say that, didn't he? After acting all week as though you were invisible to him. That, whatever precious bond you might've had before, had, spontaneously combusted — without preamble and you simply had to just deal with it.

You wouldn't , of course. You were yourself.

Daeron turned on his heel — whipping around towards the door.

Before he could even push part the crowd, you dashed at him, in an instant and gripped by the wrist.

His eyes widened — falling on the way you glared so fiercely at him, with that stubborn set of your jaw and then, finally, at the way your fingers twirled around his in a tight, white-knuckled grip. Daeron swallowed hard.

He felt the way your skin warmed his, in a pleasant rush, more than any wine ever could, even now, even when you were furious at him...

"I'll haunt you until you tell me what I did wrong," you hissed. "So, it's best to stop being so childish, brother."

Having creeped through dirt and grime, there was no way you'd turn back now. You felt it within your rights to question Daeron for what he'd done; somehow, his distance hurt you more than you'd expected it to, enough, perhaps, to put in the effort of sneaking out.

You'd known he wouldn't answer, that he might make flimsy excuses to deflect...and, yet, the urge to go hadn't receded one bit, making you wonder if you really did just want to see him — properly — after so long.

"Tell me." You croaked out, again — softer this time. "What were you apologising for?"

Daeron shook his head, with a scoff. You never did quite relent once you'd stuck to a idea, did you? Then, he paused, as if measuring his next words with care. "...Just a dream," he rasped. "A stupid dream. It doesn't matter.."

A *dream. Of *course.

It struck you like a familiar chord, that very word, for he'd used it many times; mostly as the root of his miseries, though. What else had you expected?

It couldn't have been very 'stupid' from the look of it, not when it drove him away from you and especially not when he had that pained gleam in his eye. There was something there. Worse, he was veiling it from you, dodging around the subject itself.

"Never mind that," You released his hand, at last, realising how tightly you'd been clutching it. "What did you see, brother?" The words tasted stale on your tongue, for you'd said, exactly, them a thousand times before — only for different reasons.

Daeron stiffened, staring at you as if you'd struck him with a bow — before fluttering his eyes shut and, taking in a deep breath.

That reaction told you that it was far graver than you'd initially thought.

You sometimes felt as though he was bound by the curse of prophecy on every side, with it being tight enough to break him apart. It wasn't fathomable what sort of nightmares had pranced through his head and made him incapable of seeking you out again.

He turned on his heel towards the door, and for a brief flicker of a second, you thought he was going to leave after all, — that is, until he gestured for you to follow.

The alley was grimey, black — narrow enough that one had to squeeze their way through, not to mention, sludgy with mud and puddles that squelched and stank beneath your feet.

You leaned against the brick of the wall, the rattle still faintly audible, even outside. The air was cool on your cheeks, so you couldn't help breathing in the fresh, earthy sweetness — from the morning rain, no doubt.

Only now it was mingled with a gross, meaty *stink *that made you crinkle your nose. This was Flea Bottom, nonetheless, so what had you expected?

Daeron hadn't looked at you, not since exiting the tavern — but you could still see the apology in his diverted eyes, anyway, for dragging you into a place where you stuck out like a sore, skittish thumb.

The night wind danced around your parted lips, as you struggled for the right words..which, never did come to you.

It was as though your mind was fishing around for the right phrase, the safest quip, perhaps a little hastily, too, because his knitted brows and cross expression were wearing you thinner than ever.

Say something. You hunted him down, pulled the confession out of him, did it all the way through. So, say something, now. You have to.

But, what would you say?

That you'd sobbed into your pillow last night? That you'd even given into Aerion's insidious theories, out of sheer ache? That you had paced around for three hours, thinking, poking, and plodding at every possible reason that could've turned him away?

That you wanted him to be yours, again, as though comfort somehow gave you a reign of claim over him?. That you, gods forbid—

"Did you ask to come here, just so you could stare at the stars, Daeron?" You asked, suddenly. "I don't recall wanting to gawk endlessly with you."

It was soft enough — measured — to not be mocking. Your heart warmed a bit, for you'd done the grisly part over and spoken out loud. Now you just had to fray your nerves a little bit more, a little bit longer and wait for his slurred retort.

He raised a brow. The response — well, It came quick enough, in a hushed voice — was more brittle than you'd hoped.

"Would you prefer it," Daeron turned to face you, finally, with an queer, empty expression. That somehow disappointed something in you. "—that i stared at you, instead?" The corners of his mouth almost twitched upwards, as he continued. "...It's almost a better sight, you know, than the stars."

..Your skin felt hotter than it had before and, you swore you could feel the flush creep behind your ears, as it often did, when you lost your cool.

It didn't last very long, of course, because it didn't take very long for you to remember that he was drunk as a pig. Blurting nonsense. Lying. Stupid. Comparing you to the stars.

"Shut up," you hissed. "—and just fucking tell me what you saw, you drunken fool!" That wasn't nearly as harsh as you'd meant it to be, though, likely because you were blushing to the hells and back.

Daeron raised a brow, but, finally, protested no more. He looked at you with a strange, bleary glint, making you wonder if you'd said anything bizarre.

"..I saw a sept." He, then blurted, rolling over the words with a frown. "And...it was a full moon." Daeron added, almost hesitant. For a moment, you were sure he was calling your bluff with these mundane details and wasn't going to confess with such ease, after all ..until he cleared his throat.

When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse, almost fervent in it's tremble;"I saw you there, sister, in the flesh, standing as stubbornly as you are now. " His breath audibly hitched.

"Only, then you were dressed in a wedding cloak. It made me want to tear my hair out, the sight. The way the moonlight shone on your hair, the way you.." He trailed off, with a faint, savored pause. "—looked at my own self in the dream. I didn't look half as drunk then, standing infront of you."

You reeled. "A wedding," A soft, breathy whisper. "Between us?" Your voice was full of wonder, confusion and perhaps even the faintest tint of, dare I say, relief, though it was too early to even make such a conclusion.

"I would imagine, yes," Daeron murmured, with a shy sort of smile passing over his lips. Before he smoothened it away, of course, and grew, suddenly, very interested in looking at the floor. "It's a possibility. But I might've not said or done anything, if the dream had just ended then and there."

Oh. Well...at least, he wasn't opposed to the idea of marrying you, now, was he?( There was a different reason for this impulsive distance, then, there had to be — which had nothing to do with weddings or love or septs. Not at all..( This turned out to be an idea that gave you profound relief, though you couldn't say why. )

But you remained silent, wide-eyed and lips slightly parted — still spinning from the impact of that word, *wedding, *and what it meant for you.

You'd marry him. You'd bind yourself to Daeron, for life and death, for better and worse, infront of the gods and the men.

"But, then," You snapped at the sound of his voice, grim now. "— I knew there would be something wrong with it Things are hardly as good as they look. I was, right, because the sept faded away into dust infront of my eyes and I instead found myself staring at you, in a dark room, — only this time you lied on a bed, impossibly serene and still, until you weren't...Gods, i can't.." He shuddered, voice cracking on the last word, eyes wide open as though still registering the shock from what he'd seen

. "...There was a fire," Daeron rasped, chest heaving. "—and it swallowed you whole. I couldn't tell from where or how or who...but I did have to hear your screams."

Your breath grew short yourself; for the sorrow in his violet eyes was palpable and stupidly contagious.

"Can you imagine it," he whispered. "—having to watch your sister be burned alive, while you can't do anything?" Daeron buried his face between his hands. "Seven hells...the sounds..they pierced right through me, I can still hear your cries and shrieks of agony, the sizzle of the fire.." He was utterly wrecked, now, in the clouds of his nightmare — rambling, shuddering, like this. You felt yourself sway through his words too, and tried to envision what he wanted you to see.

"I was so close to paradise," He muttered under his breath, after a lingering pause. "So, so close..." Daeron clung onto that word, clung into the vague sweetness of what could've been "— but the gods wouldn't have it. They either want me madder than I am right now or, better yet, dead. Death would be the perfect oblivion." He laughed, without mirth, at himself, at his fate or perhaps both.

It took you many minutes to even utter a single sound out of your mouth, that wasn't a choked gasp or sigh and even more expectant looks from Daeron — who seemed frantic for an answer.

He wanted to know if you'd finally given up on him, if you'd never resolve to search for him again, if this was the last time.

Again, you were yourself, after all. So, you didn't back away or scrunch your nose in disgust — you took a step closer, to both your own and his surprise.

"So, we were wed,... and then I died? Is that what you're saying?" You shot out ; It wasn't a particularly sharp question, but it made Daeron clamp up regardless.

"..Well," you tried again, softening your voice; "Did someone kill me?"

That was the nail in the coffin. His eyes shot wide open, completely pulled out of the miserable reverie, now.

Daeron blinked — and then with a laugh that sounded more like a cough. "If I knew, I would've warned you, wouldn't i?"

"It makes no sense."

"Dreams don't tend to."

You snickered, drawing yourself close enough to smell the bitter stench of wine and sweat that always permeated him. He swallowed on thin air. "I *know*" You jabbed a finger at him. "—that you have a particular person in mind. Tell me. Now."

He furrowed his brows. "You can guess yourself."

The truth was that you could, of course. But you didn't want to.

There was one, specific suspect that your mind could pin down.

Infact, there could only be one person who'd have such easy access to the Red Keep.

One person who'd be mad enough to use fire, for any assassin might've done with poison or a dagger, instead. One, familiar person who'd also have good reason to hate your union with a passion so deep that it made him commit a crime.

"And gods, the way he looks at you, sometimes. It makes me want to puke my guts out..."

Aerion. Your own twin.

Insufferable, insane and unsated. You could see it in your head, as vividly as Daeron had — the picture of him gritting his teeth while you exchanged vows. How he would pace and seethe in his chambers late at night, devising a perfect little plan.

The measured footsteps, the slight unlatching of the door..and the inevitable and damned smirk on his face, as he peered down at you, between the heat of the flames. The details were blurry — you were no dreamer — but the idea remained firm, visceral.

Your twin was perfectly — almost unnervingly — capable of manslaughter. He always did gloat about how you two shared a womb, and what it might entail. What it meant.

As if that misfortunate coincidence somehow gave him the right to rule over you or, expect you to be his sweet and subservient sister, then, inevitably his wife. Aerion had the notion that being born together meant that you would have to die together.

It had always seemed to you as if he was waiting for something.

Awaiting, with hidden malice, for the crop of his longing to bear fruit. Aerion always let you off too easily, allowed you your share of barbs and ignorance, without his classic retorts, because he thought he knew more than you did.

He was convinced that you were his, only that you'd discover it..just a bit later than he did. That was his level of mind.

Having dragged yourself into Daeron's shoes and realised that you'd been right in always avoiding Aerion, after all, you could not help the ache still. You couldn't help it, really, that careless, stupid toss of words —

"You're punishing me for a crime I didn't commit." You declared, glaring at Daeron's feverish form. The last of your patience had been wrought thin — and now it had snapped, like a band stretched too taut and wide.

He shook his head. He didn't look at you. "I'm saving your life."

"I hardly need a drunkard's protection. Aerion could kill me now, for all it matters." You urged. If you saw your face then, you would've been horrified by how much it resembled Aerion's, in it's scowl and fury.

Your hands found the collar of his doublet, fingers tugging around at the soft fabric — as though you'd never touched anything at all before. It really was obvious; he flushed up at once.

"I wouldn't like to take any risks," he managed, through trembling, slick lips. "My selfishness could be the death of you."

"It...could be, yes." Your eyes stuck to the way his pulse quickened, at the base of his throat, even as you tried being reasonable.

"Go home," Daeron pleaded, as soft as he could. "Please. Leave, then." He didn't trust himself or you, for that matter, especially not when you were so close, looking at him like that, saying things like that.

"Daeron," you whispered, now close enough to feel the hitch in his breath, the warmth blooming on his pretty face. "Do you think Aerion could, possibly find out, if we did, perhaps , choose to be a little selfish here, right now, in this alleyway?

His mouth opened as though to say something — but not words could quite come out.

*No,* His gasp seemed to say, however, as you reached up on your tiptoes and, finally, finally did what you should've , many years ago.

With your trembling hands cupping his face, you pressed your mouth on his, hesitantly, seeking permission — in that lovely release of a lifetime's longing, only ever the sweeter, for all the pain it had to trudge through, for the long, long time it had burned underneath and veiled.

You planned to make tonight feel even longer.

*

If someone had told Daeron that he would be here, now, whimpering and shuddering at the feel of your lips closing in around his cock, as you knelt for him in the muddy gutters of Flea Bottom, perhaps only a moon ago — he would've been utterly, completely, dazed and drunk, not on wine, but on pure thrill and anticipation.

But, here he was, now, doing exactly that. He was reaping the fruits of yearning; and apprehension had it's wicked way of creeping in, even, into the heat of your sweet, soft mouth, even as the pleasant euphoria buzzed and hummed underneath his skin, in the sweat trickling down his temple and the way he closed his eyes — relishing, savoring, as he always had. He shivered.

Your mouth had worked despite yourself. It was easy to, pull Daeron in by his collar after that one chaste kiss, and draw him in without words. There was nothing you both wanted more...but you still had to talk your way through his protests and insistence that he be the one kneeling first, with a deft unlacing of his breeches.

The rest of it went was sticky and smooth as pulp on one's tongue — you'd shut him up before he could drone on about *how unworthy he was* , a testament to how well you knew him. Now that you had him, like this, you weren't going to relent until he was putty beneath your fingers.

In your fantasies, it had always him above you; Daeron, hesitant and adoring in a way he was too abashed to be in reality, leaving soft, wet kisses across your clavicle. You'd believed that you'd simply close your eyes and bask in the caresses of love. That he'd be the one to guide you and tell you what to do every step along the way, as an elder brother should.

That was the way you knew, the way you'd been taught about intercourse. A vague, warm, sort of inevitability they spoke of in hushes and condemned nonethless. You knew of it between a man and his wife and had been told it was 'an act to sire children, which every woman must endure'.

By the time, you were on your knees, in the thick, foul mud — your usual idea of sex had been washed away with the fresh thrum of lust.

A need to devour, most like. To watch those gorgeous eyes glisten of tears and roll back with pleasure. To hear those sweet, faint hitches in his breath he tried so hard to muffle. To watch him lose his cool and come undone; well, almost. You wouldn't let him. You wanted to consume him with mere sensation.

It would've sounded completely mad — cruel, even — to you in another setting. You would've been appalled at such thoughts, such wonders sprouting in your head, one after the other, as you dipped your head along his cock, and yet they seemed rather normal in the moment.

He'd offered to do all the work himself, while you could just lie back and relish.

Being a maiden, you had little knowledge of the matter, surely...but you wouldn't have it, anyway. Daeron was doubting just how quickly you could take to something and learn it — all while staggering against the wall, himself.

"You're too drunk to even walk properly, brother." You had quipped, with a decisive little snort. You could see the faint tremors in his legs . "I'd rather not have you pass out during my first time."

"I'll pass out anyway." Daeron had scoffed back — at himself, yes — before looking at you with a strange clarity. "But, i do agree," he had murmured, looking at the stain of wine on his own doublet. "— and must you really call me brother, right now?" He crinkled his nose, gesturing to the alleyway encompassing you. "Here? While we're.."

"We're Targaryens." You snapped back, busying yourself with getting those damn breeches off him. "Or did you forget?"

Daeron's eyes had locked onto the deft workings of your fingers..but he furrowed his brows and looked up anyway. Forced himself to, perhaps. "You sound like him." Neither of you needed to ask who him referred to — the venom in his voice told the story.

"I suppose I do," You sunk to your knees. His eyes widened — that is, if they could widen any further. "Aerion is my twin, after all."

Daeron let out a ragged breath that you — or he, himself — didn't know he was holding. His pupils dilated as he observed you, never once gazing away. You, his sweet sister, who had always been his anchor in the world, who had given him comfort (albeit, in less vulgar ways than this) in times of sorrow, being in such a position, in such a place, saying such things....should he be thrilled or guilty? Or perhaps: both?

"Lovely, that you're going to mention that bastard" he rasped out, sweat beading his temple. "—while you're tormenting me. I fear I might puke," Daeron's voice broke into a slight, ragged whimper — gods, where did you learn that? — "And not just from the wine.."

"I won't," you chortled, voice muffled against him. "You could never quite finish, if i kept talking about him. Or, could you? We might test it."

Daeron rolled his eyes - though you could tell that he was biting back a particularly pathetic noise, by the way sweat beaded down his temple. "You're absolutely insufferable."

You chuckled - a sound that buzzed against his flesh. "That's why you love me, you fool."

Well. He certainly could not argue against that.

And so, there it was; you'd gotten what you could only dream of in the most shameful of nights.

And he had finally achieved the act of just shutting up and taking what you gave him , without muttering some excuse here and there - in many, more ways than one, that, warm, perfect night, where even the stink had given away - to the feeling of your skin against his, slick and flushed, the exquisite sounds of his ragged breathing, and the stars that watched over you.

Even if the future, inevitably, would burn everything to ashes; at least, you both could exist in your own cocoon, tonight, together.

Even if the first time had to be the last time, too. Even if you had to blink back tears, as you lay against him, utterly content...and in mourning for something that had never even had a chance to blossom.