#wyle manderly

Little Aegon was determined not to lose any sort of meal he ate while they traveled except that he was hardly able to stomach putting anything in his mouth while they were heading upstream. Instead the youngest of their party was firmly in the tiny quarters they left him in, doing his best to emulate his favorite elder brother and sleep away the queasy stomach plaguing. Given the suffering and his age, Maekar had relented and let little Eggy do as he pleased, so long as he was up and well by the time they needed to mount the horses.

Horses would get him well enough. The little rascal loved them well.

Even his perfect princely cousin was miserable and ill with the roughness of the ride, more so than his wife, which was saying something. Daeron did feel pity for Valarr in that respect. It could not be easy.

He nearly jolts out of his musings when a hand thumps him right on the back, and there is Ser Wyle, grinning from ear to ear. Daeron had taken refuge towards the center of their barge and was leaving against the edge, watching the waves as they cut through the rapids. “You are handling this better than I would have thought, my friend,” he cheerly announced. The damn knight looked even positively gleeful at the fact.

Maybe it was all of those nights and days he had been out of his mind, filled to the brim with drink and bad decisions, but unlike the others he had dealt with unsteady feet and spinning heads on a regular basis, especially when heading back to either the Red Keep or Summerhall. Handling a rocky ride while sober was rather easy compared to that.

“Practice.”

“Of sailing northern rapids?”

“Of spinning rooms and walking on surfaces that wobble. Perhaps I shall run away and be a sailor.”

Mercifully, the knight does not question him on that particular statement, though seemed hopeful instead. Rather there is something being pressed in his hands and he looks down to see a satchel, the merman sigil on the fabric standing out against the dark cloth. Along with that a snort of laughter and a friendly grin.

“Ginger candy. For your family. Tis only a few more days but this will help with the queasy feeling and settle any stomachs.”

Daeron grimaces as memory of the recent complaints floods his mind. “No doubt little Egg will enjoy being able to eat,” he remarks dryly, thinking of his poor brother all bundled up under blankets as he tries to block out the swaying of the ship. It earns yet another bark of laughter from Wyle and another friendly pat on his shoulder.

It is easy to speak to this young man, far more than most of his traveling party.

He turns out to let his gaze drift, eyes not focused on anything in particular. They stand next to one another, comfortable in silent companionship. A friend, Wyle had said.

Friends could be trusted, yes?

A thought crosses his head again, the image of a dream he had the night before.

A direwolf guarding dragon eggs from a large red dragon. A sandy colored dragon swooping in and claiming all the eggs and the direwolf as his own.

A dragon the same color as his hair. Is he the dragon here? And the direwolf, his betrothed? The eggs, their children?

Would he be able to trust Wyle to guard them if he could not do so himself? When he inevitably would fail at his duty?

Gods above, he dreams of them now when he sleeps. It was hardly a terror to behold but he wanted to know with certainty. If they were not surrounded by that awful green fire, of melting walls, but of the dragon version of himself, did that mean he was able to stop the horrors before they began? When he had never been able to do so before?

Or was it a false prophecy and the gods were merely cruel?

Dangle something that he might cherish just to rip it away from his grasp.

He swallows thickly. And when he speaks, it is with a soft, serious tone, so out of place on his person that one might think him just a tad bit possessed.

“Do you think dreams could show us the future? That someone could dream the future and it comes to fruition? Such as… Daenys the Dreamer? When she saw the destruction of Valyaria in her dreams?”

Wyle, may the seven bless him, does not laugh in his face. Instead the look he gets in return is thoughtful, as if someone is taking him seriously for once. Brows knit together and Wyle leans over the edge as well, arms crossed. Sunlight causes the deep, dark green tint in his hair to shimmer.

A green unlike the toxic colour of wildfire flames.

“Valyrians aren’t the only ones with magic in their blood. There is magic in the North, old magic, in the very ground beneath our feet, the rivers we drink from, the stone we built our keeps out of,” Wyle starts, fiddling with the cuff of his glove. “Old stories tell us of green dreams and greensight, those who saw the prophecy in their dreams before Valyrians even bound dragons to their blood. Before the Age of Heroes, before Bran the Builder raised the Wall, and before the First Men came to Westeros, there were the Children of the Forest. Greenseers, they had, and saw things through the faces and eyes of a Heart Tree. And skinchangers who could take the skin of any animal, and make them do their bidding. Somehow that magic, the First Men learn to channel it too.”

Cold creeps into his spine. It snakes its way as Wyle talks and he listens, feeling the chill take root. A bone deep chill he has only ever felt once more.

“Something to speak about with Lady Alysanne when you meet her. She loves that sort of thing, histories and lore, magic and tales. You can woo her with tales of Valyrian magic and history and dragons, and she can tell you all about the North’s own myths.”

A tiny spark of hope blooms inside of him. If the lady were fond of magic and myths, then perhaps he might find someone who would understand the terrors that plagued him. If only for practical purposes.

It would be a shame to tell the lady why her new husband screamed in his sleep, if she were not to understand the possibility of just what was wrong with him.

“House Manderly was from the Reach, originally, as you know. But the Starks, well, they are the North, if one were to argue,” Wyle continues, not stopping the lesson even as Daeron is silently gazing out at waters, “And there’s something of magic in the old families, even if they never speak of it, I’d gather.”

Daeron would be hard pressed to disagree.

Rummaging through the bag, he pulls out a piece of that ginger candy, and pops it into his mouth, not expecting the flavor to have been so strong, and yet, here he is, wincing lightly. But a good wince, and there’s a quirk of a smile.

“We were dragonlords, once upon a time, and we destroyed them with our greed, our jealousy, our own desires. For the crown, for recognition, for something. They used to say Targaryens were closer to gods than men, for we controlled and rode those great beasts when there was no one left after The Doom. Perhaps we believed it too, to be above those we were sworn to protect, better for having creatures of fire, flame, and magic bound to our blood and our blood alone, and the gods themselves paid for that hubris, for no one should think themselves their equal to the gods.” He turns to face Wyle, eyes wide and clear.

“What do you say, Wyle? Were those beasts our salvation or our damnation? Magic in our blood still in our veins or a curse that took away the one thing that made us special?”

And there, he can see it, the turning of his words over and over in Wyle’s mind, the careful thought and consideration in his answer. The better option; to either best satisfy a prince or tell the truth to a man that may be a new friend?

“I’d say only the gods would be able to answer that. Perhaps there is a fine line between madness and greatness. Or that men were never meant to bind such powerful beasts and they might have been alive today. Perhaps they should have been left to roam free and men were to be men, not gods amongst the rest of the world.”

Shoulders relax at that answer and he looks away from the Manderley knight, eyes back on the waves. A hand is on his shoulder, a warm squeeze and he looks to see Wyle’s dark eyes, searching for something on his own. For what exactly, he is unsure of.

“You, Daeron, hide a wickedly clever mind more than  anyone, even your own father, realizes. Save your littlest brother and myself of course.”

And with that the dragon lets out a bark of laughter, and drags his newfound friend down below the decks to find the littlest brother in question and give some relief to his seasick family.

~~~

He would never claim to be an exemplary horseman. At best, passable, if not forced into participating in a joust. Leisurely rides are the extent of his skills, and he would much prefer a wheelhouse to horseback any day.

A person could easily nap in a wheelhouse. They could eat and drink to their heart’s content in a wheelhouse. And even fucking in a wheelhouse, though he will admit not to doing that particular act yet, if only because there was no need to take one to a brothel. But oh, how a wheelhouse would be lovely right about now. Blankets and pillows and warmth would be in a wheelhouse.

The point was Daeron was not only painfully sober, utterly ill prepared for the cold of the North, but also spending a significant amount of time in the saddle, and by the end of this there would better be a long, hot soak in a proper bath when they reach Winterfell or he was calling this whole damn wedding off.

Aegon having the time of his life on top of his stead, well, which made the whole journey a tiny bit better. Sort of. Let him revel in riding his own pony, sent by the Starks ahead of time.

In fact they had not only lent out their own hardy horses for travel, creatures built and breed that were used to the harsh climate,  but supplied thick, heavy furs for the royal party to keep not only for their journey to Winterfell, but down to King’s Landing after the wedding. “A gift,” Wyle had explained after Daeron had taken the heavy winter cloak and fur-lined gloves. “During winter, one needs to take care of those around them, and now that will include yourself and your family.”

The gods seemed to favor them though as the weather did hold out as they traveled up towards their destination. With the final leg of the journey nearing the end and the party making excellent time, they had shaved off nearly a week, as everyone had proven themselves capable of staying in the saddle long enough to make it from scattered camps already set up along the path.

A featherbed, he was nearly dreaming of sleeping in an actual featherbed, with pillows and blankets, and real rugs to put bare feet on; Daeron could almost see it.

Actually, if he was squinting right, he could see something. A town? Well, it looked a bit like a town, on the horizon, and the tops of a large keep.

Sweet salvation. Warmth was within reach. Even better, a chance to escape his father’s ever watchful eyes and perhaps finally get some privacy from both uncle and father.

And even better, there would be wine and cider and ale and all manner of drinks, he was sure of it.

Once again, he would thank the gods, old or new at this rate, for keeping the dragon dreams at bay. The need to block out the nightmares had been muted by this point, and he thought back to the conversation he had with Wyle on the nature of magic in the North. of how even dragons were not able to cross The Wall, their powerful beings repealed by whatever Bran the Builder had done with the Children of the Forest?

Did the old gods eclipse the new? Or perhaps they were soundly ensuring whatever valyrian magic that was in his blood was no longer able to torment him so long as he was on their soil, wedding one of their faithful.

“We’ll be going through the great main gates, as befitting your station. Two walls, with a moat between them, are before the keep proper. And even then, we’ll head through winter town, where you’ll see the smallfolk gathering to greet you all. No doubt they’ve gotten to celebrating one of their liege lord’s daughters becoming royalty.”

Wyle had kept up a steady stream of conversation during this day, if only to keep Daeron from making a run from the party as they grew closer to the final destination. That or he seemed to understand Daeron would die if he escaped the impending marriage. He seemed to have taken on the role of minder out of some newfound friendship and Daeron would be grateful if he was not daydreaming of blissful cocoons of blankets at the moment and only half listening to what was being said.

“After the introductions there’s bread and salt in the Great Hall. Make sure you observe the guest right to the letter. I shan’t be able to be there with you all the time to help you out so if you think any action might offend or hurt, just don’t do it, whatever it may be.”

Daeron blinks then, head cocked to the side. A sandy blond eye brow is raised at that, and he is somewhat confused about the lecture. “Even drunks and fools do not violate guest right. Thankfully I am both a drunk and a fool, as well as a prince,” he quipped back, a wiry grin on his face. “No worries, Wyle, I already promised the king himself I would be on my best behavior.”

That only got him a hearty laugh in return and a shake of the other man’s head, green-tinted dark curls shining in the sun.

And just as the sun was passing the high point in the sky, they were, in fact, passing through what Wyle had called ‘winter town’, smallfolk lining along the road to catch a glimpse of the travelers heading towards their lord’s castle. Names were being called out, for both Targaryen and Stark. Bright cheer, as their liege’s younger daughter would soon be a princess.

By then Wyle had gone to join the rest of his kin behind the Targaryen group, and Daeron took up a post behind his uncle and next to his father. Even though Valarr, as second in line, would normally be taking a spot behind his father, as it was Daeron’s wedding he would have that honor along with Maekar as the father of the groom and royal prince in his own right.

Aegon was between his cousin and his wife, carefully being watched and guarded, else he attempted to catch up with his elder brother.

“Sit up straight and do not slouch. You have height so use it to your advantage,” came the gruff comment out of nowhere, low enough so only he could hear. It caused Daeron to tilt his head just enough to see his father’s gaze land on him and he followed through, spine slowly straightening up and his head rising to rest squarely on his shoulders.

Just for a moment he could have sworn he saw a gaze that looked almost like approval from his father.

“I might have married your mother for love, but your grandfather married for duty. Courtship, companionship, friendship, love, all of that came later but it was to bring Dorne into the fold that your namesake did his duty first.”

And just as before, he looks this time to meet his father’s eyes. Something about them, less harsher than before, eyes that looked at him as if he were a small child again and could do no wrong in his father’s eyes. In this moment, it had been so long since they had looked upon one another like this that Daeron was speechless.

Maekar had taken that silence for understanding, the lack of protest or snark an agreement. “You follow in his footsteps, bringing the North back from its isolation, and in doing so become a man.”

It was as close to pride as he ever heard from his father. 

The part in him that was still that little boy who wanted to make his father proud, who would swear on the Seven do no wrong and be the best prince there ever was, even if he was terrified of the dreams that haunted him, or could barely figure his footing in the training groups, it is that boy who bubbled to the surface in that moment.

~~~

Maekar remembered the little boy Daeron had been. Happy. Delightful. His firstborn son, his first child, the child that he and Dyanna had made together, in the blush of their youth and reveling in their love. It was not duty that had led him to Dyanna, but love, a deep bond that they shared from their first moments together that was still present to this very day. Masking it well, but truly, he wished he were in Summerhall with her than anywhere else in the world. And Daeron had been the first born of that love.

But something had happened to his boy. Something twisted him up inside and sought to ruin him.

Dreams. Visions. Nightmares that would have a child screaming in their sleep. Scenes in a child’s mind that only grown men would create.

Maekar knew of Daenys, of dragon dreams, but there were no more dragons. Only eggs turned to stone. And even if Daeron had been given that gift, he should have been able to tame it. He had tried to help in the only ways he knew. Training yard spars. Riding lessons. Sending the boy to squire. Make him a man so that his heir could be fit. So no taint of so-called Targareyn madness would infect his son.

Yet that same son had drowned himself in wine and debauchery, the only things he claimed truly muffled the terrors that haunted him; those same vices claiming him time after time till there was nothing but a shell of the child he had once held so proudly.

Seeing Daeron on that ship, curled up in pain, calling out in desperation for salvation, while the only thing he could do was push cool rags on feverish skin, it made Maekar briefly question if this had been his doing. His son’s slow poisoning of himself, was it because of him or because of those dreams?

Or was it of Daeron’s own choosing?

But watching Daeron now, away from court, away from the temptations of drink and vice, sleeping soundly when the nights had been usually dark and full of terrors for his son, even as they crossed the barren, frigid, death trap of a land, it was seeing that little boy come alive again for the first time in what felt like a lifetime.

As they ride in silence through this tiny town, heading towards the main gates of Winterfell, he watches with a careful gaze. No doubt his brother is aware of the change too. They had briefly spoken of Daeron’s behavior and the way that there seemed to be a lightness in the boy that had long been snuffed out. Baelor had pointed out the lack of escape attempts, the way every day hands shook less and less, the clarity in Maekar’s eldest’s eyes. How he held conversations with another and kept a watchful eye on Aegon's antics.

Perhaps this is what he needed after all. You softened when Dyanna came into your life, if only for her. Jena, my pillar I draw strength upon. And no doubt father relies on mother in ways no other can provide.

As much as he wanted to believe his brother, there was still the nagging voice in the back of his head. That this would all collapse, that somehow, someway, something would attach itself to Daeron and find a way to ruin his son once again. If Daeron let it. If the girl was not able to help him, the task being far too great in the end.

Everyone who has met her, seen her, spoke to her, said she is rather beautiful. Intelligent, dutiful, loyal, and faithful to the Old Gods, seems to be what most of them speak of. That Lord Stark raised his children to be proper northern nobility, if in the ways of the old Kings of Winter. Perhaps that is what Daeron needs, Maekar, not someone who is a snake in silks, like we see so often in court.

Perhaps his brother was right. Baelor often was.

Then there was the Manderley knight by Daeron’s side. Not a barkeep to support his habits, a fellow drunkard to cheer him on, or a whore to take his coin; a knight, even if that knight was a northern man, and one around his age as well. A friend.

Daeron never had many friends, he realizes as they finally make their way through the gates, and the few he did deserted him when it became apparent the young man was a mess of a royal rather than a true prince like his cousin.

A northern wife. A northern friend. Some semblance of peace in his son, with the little bits and pieces of the boy he had once held in his arms showing through.

Maekar could only hope that this might last long enough till the marriage was complete.

He could only dream it would last after the vows were said; long after the pair wedded and bedded.

Damn them all if it didn’t.

~~~

It was two long, low horn blasts that heralded their arrival. Not the fanfare often in court, or the ornate trumpeting noble houses would do to announce royalty arrived. Something low and ancient, like this very place, and Daeron felt it in his bones that something lay on the grounds of Winterfell the moment the horses stepped through the second gate.

The belly of the beast. Middle of the North. A place where old kings resided, conquerors who brutally fought in the harshest of all the Seven Kingdoms, and laid claim to a place that was as deadly in truth as the songs said they were. He had been filled in on just how truly bloody the Starks could be. Wyle had given him some prime examples of the brutality of the former Kings of Winter.

Beron is the second son but more dangerous than his elder brother Rodwell was. A hunter, a wolf in a man’s skin, when he feels the need to be. I’ve seen him hold their Valryian steel greatsword, Ice, and if there was ever a man who it looked at home with, it would be him.

Everyone had dismounted by then, and Daeron was pleased to note he did not trip or fall, his legs steady. Even Aegon had managed to do so without any aid, much to the pride of their father.

Good, let that put Maekar in a better mood.

Baelor stepped forward, an easy smile on his face. A mask of pleasantries, no doubt, as Daeron was assuming he too would like respite from the cold. Yet duty demanded this.

“My Lord Stark, I am Prince Baelor of House Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, and Hand of the King. We thank you, and House Manderly, for the escort to Winterfell, and for the honor you have given my house. May I present my party; Prince Valarr, my eldest, and his wife Kiera of Tyrosh. My brother, Prince Maekar, Prince of Summerhall, and his sons; Prince Aegon his youngest son, and finally Prince Daeron, heir to Summerhall, prince of the realm, and your daughter’s intended husband".

He knew beforehand that he would be announced last. An honor, his uncle had said, as this was his time to shine. A duty. A responsibility. Daeron breaths in and steps forward, hands clasped tightly behind his back. No shakes today, not from the cold. Maekar's words about his height rang in his head and he straightened up, mindful of the eyes now on him. With his hair tied back, the rich furs, and the black and red of his house on display, for the first time in a while he knew he looked the part of a prince of the realm. 

A man stepped forward, dark of hair, long face, a thick bread that was neatly trimmed speckled with greys, the only hint besides the wrinkles of his forehead sharing the truth of his age. Grey eyes scanned them, judging them, and he found those eyes to be nearly as cold as the snows they had traveled through. A hint of warmth bleed though, when they fell on Aegon, and curiosity when the man’s gaze reached his own.

Daeron looked right back, trying to find the steel in his own spine.

One breath in. And out. He bows deeply then, making sure to give this attention to the Lord of Winterfell, deference to the man who would be his goodfather, and looks up, meeting those eyes and searching for something, anything. Approval. Resignation. Something. Anything.

“Lord Stark, I am Prince Daeron of House Targaryen, and I am here to honor the Pact of Ice and Fire, bringing honor to both your house and mine, and tie our houses together in the bonds of marriage,” he says, voice as clear as the air they were breathing. He straightens up then, slowly and waits.

And waits some more.

Skies start to darken with clouds, and moments tick by as snow starts to fall slowly on them all.

And then a voice, deep and echoing across for all in the yard to hear.

“My honored guests. Be welcome beneath my roof, and at my table, for you have the  protection of Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, Beron of House Stark. Bread and salt await you all in the warmth of the Great Hall.”

And if practiced, a woman steps forward, curtsey respectful towards the royal party, even if her eyes were like ice chips. “My lady wife, Lorra, formally of House Royce,” he says then, and the rest of the family is slowly introduced. A large family, seven in total, and while Lord Stark does not go beyond his own children and their respective wives and husband, he does point out the children that stand further back.

They bow and curtsey in respect, deference and respectful. But even it is clear that this is not exactly what anyone expected, for a dragon prince from the South to come up to the North.

Yet Lord Stark stands tall. Does his duty. Daeron thinks he would make a fine King of Winter solely by presence alone. It clicks into place just why his grandfather agreed easily to the match. Something about Beron Stark made him a king in all but name.

If the Starks and the North wanted independence, it was quite possible they could do it under this man's guidance. And there would be no dragons to worry about this time should Beron Stark go forward with that desire.

Daeron files away that thought though, when the last introduction is made.

Just like with Daeron, the bride-to-be is saved for last.

“Finally, may I present my youngest daughter, Lady Alysanne of House Stark, as your future wife.”

The girl in question steps forth. Dark hair bound in a long, thick braid that runs down her back. Pale skin, full rosy lips, and a face that holds a similar long face to that of her fathers, if only softened slightly in the cheeks, and a nose straight and narrow. Clad in furs that wrap around narrow shoulders, and a cloak that covers her up, a snarl wolf clasp holding them together. As she curtseys, low towards him, he can see the embroidery on the back of the cloak, a snarling direwolf in silver thread across her back. 

He has seen that before. He knows he has.

A dream, so long ago, when the horrors were too much, and he wished for something more, something better. When he woke up and his breath showed despite the warmth of the room.

Time stands still as he looks upon Alysanne Stark, and his breath is caught in his throat.

A maiden kneeling before a heart tree, snowflakes melting in her hair. Wolf girl, my direwolf bride, and howling mingles with dragon screeches in the distance.

Dragons and direwolves guarding eggs.

A child’s cry as a dragon lays its head on a direwolf’s belly.

Daeron slowly remembers how to breathe, uncaring of the others around them. His world narrows down to just the two, the lady before him and himself, and he holds out his hand, sure and steady. He speaks before thinking, uncaring if anyone knows or hears.

“I have dreamed of you, my lady. Have you dreamt of me as well?”

And Alysanne of House Stark lays her bare hand on top of his, confusion mingled with recognition in those grey eyes of hers, eyes that are familiar and foreign all at once.

“Yes.”

From Winterfell to White Harbor had been easy. Despite the addition of his wife, along with Wyle Manderly and Lonnel Snow, they made excellent timing yet again by horse, and going down the rapids of the White Knife was much smoother and quicker than going up. They had not stopped this time to stay overnight in White Harbor, but rather boarded the ship as quickly as possible. Alysanne’s own personal items had been sent ahead several weeks ago by her father, and would be waiting for her at Summerhall, with a single trunk the exception that was to the Red Keep. That alone shaved off a chunk of time.

Daeron had been perfectly fine at that point, where they had even turned a blind eye to his consuming of a glass or two of wine, ale, or cider at meals. As long as he was not slurring his speech, stumbling around, and content to bed his new wife on a regular basis, everyone else seemed secure enough to let him have his drinks. Even that madman uncle of Alysanne’s had nothing to say.

Once they sailed past The Neck, that was when things had gone wrong. Or returned to his version of normal to some degree, much to his own terrible fate.

He had dreamed of Summerhall and the green flames first, woken up choking on nothing but air, and shaking as if he was going through drying out yet again. That he shared a cabin with his wife did nothing to change the stumbling out of the narrow bed, and searched for something to drink. At that point Alysanne had woken too, given him water, and proceeded to spend an hour ensuring that yes, she was real, yes he was alive, and no, Summerhall was fine, his family was fine, everyone was alive, they were on a ship headed to King’s Landing now.

He had admitted then and there just how far he had gone to manage the dreams, all the dirty little secrets kept hidden, calling himself a whore and a drunk and fool, a terrible husband, and that she deserved better, he would only drag her down to the dirt he laid in.

From now till the end, husband. I promised you that. You share your burdens with me, I will share mine, and we will go forward together.

He had laid his head on her chest then, soft and warm and wrapped his arms around her, as fingers ran through his hair and she hummed some northern tune from her childhood. At some point he did manage to fall back asleep, in black oblivion much to his comfort, and when he had woken both his wife and the wolfdog pup Shadow were curled around him. When they both had awoken, they had whispered to one another just how to manage this going forward.

Daeron would tell her when he had a dream, terrible or not, and Alysanne would do the same if it happened to her. She had admitted, eyes glazed over with deep memories, that she had struggled greatly when younger. Had it not been for the intervention of her uncle, she may not have made it, too consumed by the dark and cold that tended to torment her when it was least expected. Few things made sense in the present, she said, and that there were days when she thought she was not quite out of the dream itself.

What a fine pair we make, my darling, broken dreamers and seers, having sweet dreams of one another coming true. Said in morbid jest, but from there on they had both agreed to tell one another when they had a dream, be it good or ill.

For two weeks they shared that cabin. Time was well spent then, learning one another in ways that a married pair might, and discovering things that they each needed from one another. Daeron, in particular, tended to need to be bone tired, if not drunk, when going to sleep. Alysanne had gotten creative then, much to the displeasure of those around their cabin, figuring out just what might work best for now in the tiny space.

Aegon was more than happy to watch Shadow when that happened.

Other than more pleasurable activities, they had explored the ship from top to bottom, engaged in plans with Wyle who sought to explore more of the southern parts of Westeros now that he was out of the North, broke bread more often with Valarr and Kiera than Daeron had in the past year, and tried to ignore the obvious glances thrown their direction by his father, uncle, and her uncle. His father said nothing on the subject of children, thanks sent to the Old Gods and the New. Both elder princes were more often than not in deeper discussions, with Valarr pulled away from time to time.

He saw Lonnel Snow speaking with his uncle Baelor several times before as well, but Alysanne had said not to worry about that, and more likely her uncle was trying to figure out how quickly they would have the weirwoods planted so he could head back to the North as soon as possible. He hated large cities, she explained, and tended to stick to more rural areas aside from Winterfell and the smaller towns in the North.

Daeron was not so sure if she was correct in that respect, with the number of times he had caught Lonnel’s eyes on himself.

But now they were finally docking, the trip almost complete, and Daeron was awake, mostly coherent, and watching the sun rise while his arm was around his wife. “A star flickering in the night sky, not quite shining so brightly as it once did,” he whispered softly, the despair a weight in his words in conflict with the scenery before them. “Not yet, not quite, but soon, I fear…”

Even softer still. “My mother is from House Dayne. A white sword and falling star crossed on lilac is their coat of arms, and I worry… if she is ill, could it have been prevented?”

“Some things are unable to be changed, dragon prince, no matter how badly we want them to. The best we can do is make peace with that, and try to change what is in our control instead.”

They turn to face Lonnel, already dressed for the day as they are, in the finer traveling clothes afford to him, looking every inch the Stark his blood afforded him, despite being a Snow himself. “It will drive you mad if you continue to think every little crisis can be averted. Focus on what is in your ability now, else you may twist yourself up inside,” he explains, words deadly soft. Speaking from experience? Daeron does not ask but for him it feels like this was a lesson Lonnel had learned first hand.

“And Aly?”

“Uncle?”

An amused grin slips onto Lonnel’s face, and Daeron feels the urge to hold Alysanne just a bit closer than he had moments ago.

“If you are going to make your husband beg for release while on top of him, at least ensure you both do it softly for the sake of others behind thin walls. Or warn your poor, old, easily woken uncle so he might stuff his ears of wax and cotton beforehand.”

At which then he sauteers off, humming a cheery tune that sounds suspiciously like a dirty tavern song Daeron had heard before heading up to Winterfell.

Daeron buries his head into Alysanne’s hair to hide the flush of red on his cheeks. While no stranger to debauchery, his own escapes in brothels having made public knowledge, this goes beyond what was done there. This is his wife and somehow it seems much different to know those private moments between are now knowledge. Because they were too loud.

Oh no. Nope. Not good.

It means that of course his father, his uncle, and just about anyone who was actually near heard them.

No wonder they were getting strange looks from time to time.

“Your uncle is a menace and absolutely terrifying to us mere mortal men, Aly.”

All she can do is pat his head and give him a kiss on his cheek in return because he knows she agrees with him on that front.

~~~

King’s Landing smelt awful. It may be due to the sheer number of people packed into the city. White Harbor was a city itself, and yet it smelled mostly of the sea air and the wildness that she can come to associate with the North. In contrast, the sudden smells reminded her more like a cramped wheelhouse that had been soiled by animal dung. Cleaned but with the lasting stench  stuck within the cushions, never to truly be cleaned.

Her only hope was that the Red Keep had some fresh air she could breathe in.

At least it was only a temporary stay. After this second wedding, which she did not think needed to be done given all that had taken place, they would head to Summerhall for an extended time.

Wyle slides right up next to her as Daeron speaks with his father about travel from the docks to the Red Keep. A formal procession is being sent for them all and then they are to be welcomed in open court. “For the life of me I cannot tell if it is the harbor I smell, the city, or some sort of pit of waste,” he comments, wrinkling his nose. Like her, he is not used to this place and the stink of too many people in a small, dense space. It came from being born and raised in a place where even in a large town, fresh air was a short walk away.

Shadow had taken refuge in the large canvas bag she had somehow bartered for, curled up and resting her tiny head on the edge. The pup was more content to sleep away the discomfort of smells and Alysanne was not about to let a wolfdog puppy loose due to having no leash.

“Perhaps things will be better when we head to court and the Red Keep. One would think of all the places they would want to ensure it did not stink would be where the king and his family resides,” she answers back. Yet she is drawing out a handkerchief from a pocket sewn into her cloak and brings it up to her nose. A sleepy whine comes from the bag, and it looks like her new companion is trying to hide away from the scent in her sleep.

Wyle shakes his head and starts to laugh, only to be cut off midway by choking on the scent. 

“Thankfully we are only here for a fortnight at the most.” That would be Daeron, looking more relieved than herself at the prospect. The circles are back under his eyes, she notes, and she steps towards him to allow the outstretched arms he has to wrap around her. Giving up on the handkerchief, Alysanne buries her face into his chest and breathes in Daeron’s scent, the citrus soap he had used on the ship, the something spicy like ginger, and one other she cannot place at the moment. 

Wyle looks about ready to laugh again, but at the last moment switches tactics and goes to steal the handkerchief for himself, unafraid to look foolish holding it up to cover his nose. Alysanne would stick her tongue out in jest except it stinks too badly to do so, and instead is contemplating burying her face in Daeron’s chest.

“We are to ride to the Red Keep on horseback rather than open air wheelhouse,” Daeron adds as he leans his whole body on top of her and rests his head over her own. She is now tucked in and holding onto him for dear life. “A short ride, but both Uncle Baelor and my father insist we show off in triumphant return.”

Alysanne hears the edge to his voice. While she is not horrible in the saddle by virtue of having grown up in a rural area, Daeron had said he had no love for being on horseback and that the creatures were off putting to him. Mildly put. Given the terrible night he had, she would assume part of the problem is that he wished to close his eyes for a bit but now cannot unless he wishes to fall from his horse. Yet that means she too will have her own stead and be unable to avoid the horrible smell.

Old Gods save her, all she wishes is to just snuggle close to Daeron and use him to block out the terrible, horrible, headaching-inducing smells. “Would I give anything to ride on the same horse as you,” she manages to say, muffled from keeping her face still smushed against his body. How long do they need to stay here till there is some relief?

“Ride on the same horse, or ride him, Aly?” asks Wyle, keeping his tone like. From behind her a loud yelp sounds and she is sure that Daeron had none-to-gently given a shove to Wyle for that comment, even if it was technically true.

It seems they do not need to wait long, as gentle orders are given from Prince Baelor as horses are brought over. Woefully she is forced away from Daeron, stealing back her handkerchief and wincing when the onslaught of scents hits once more. Someone everyone manages to get upon their horses. She and Lady Kiera are to sidesaddle rather than astride, as it is a formal occasion. It takes a few minutes before they are lined up, the eldest princes giving up positions of honor at the front of the column for her and Daeron. Yet the bag stays on her still, for she is not about to lose Shadow to this place.

Their marriage, a celebration, and she does have to admit it was a smart move on Prince Baelor’s part. Not ideal as now she cannot hide her face behind cloth to muffle the stench, but still smart.

There is the sound of a single loud horn, and the standards are raised. A booming yell from Prince Maekar, her new goodfather, and they are off.

When they make it past the harbor entrance, there are loud cheers and hollering for the royal party. Blessings sent by the smallfolk who have come out to see the show. Daeron looks a bit uneasy at this, a hand reaching down for a wineskin that is not there, and the way his shoulders are tensing, it is obvious he is not particularly fond of this display. “A short ride, and it will be over soon,” she reminds him, and the strained smile she gets in return does nothing to smooth over worries.

They call out names. The Hammer and the Anvil, for the elder princes, and the Young Prince for Valarr. Daeron has his own name called out, and more than once she hears her own. A mask, she needs a mask, and lets her face slip into something pleasant, a smile that she would wear when dealing with her elder sister works well enough, and hides her own discomfort with all these strangers’ eyes on her. Shadow pops her furry head out every now and then, and Alysanne does her best to have one hand on the reins and the other idly scratching soft fluffy ears. Perhaps she could have let the wolfdog pup ride with Daeron.

They manage the procession, and as they get closer to the Red Keep, the air seems cleaner, much to her relief. Everything else is a daze while she follows the black and red standards ahead, not truly seeing where they are going.

Running. Howling. Fog is around her. The scent of blood heavy in the air. Someone is screaming, and she looks down to see her paws a sticky red.

The smile she has is slowly slipping, gaze half lost in empty space ahead of them, half elsewhere in a dream, and there is a buzzing in her ears.

“Alysanne.”

Her head snaps to the side, and brows knit together in confusion. A yard, they are in a yard of some sort, and there is a stool for her to use next to her horse. Shadow whines from the bag, head poking out and a cold wet nose is bumping against her head. She looks down to see Daeron by the stool, already off his own steed, hand outstretched.

There are eyes upon them.

Understanding mingles with worry in his gaze. Similar experiences, her mind supplies. She swallows thickly and puts a hand into his own, taking the offered help to get down. The last part of the ride is barely remembered. Somehow they had gone through the gates without her even noticing.

The air is, in fact, cleaner here. Good. She can focus on that and how his hand feels on her own.

“We are to be presented before court, officially,” he explains softly, pulling her closely without care for propriety’s sake even though they really should be more vigilant. Even Shadow seems to understand that this is no longer the safe haven of their cabin. Or even worse, no longer the North, and she wonders if the pup feels as out of sorts as she does now. Sadly she has to hand over the bag with Shadow in it, her uncle coming over and arms stretched out to retrieve the little creature.

Gods she feels naked without the pup now. Strange, and it has only been less than a moon’s turn. “You’ll get her back, niece, no worries. And we will have someone fashion a fine collar and I shall teach you how to train her so you need not worry,” her uncle says. Lonnel is being too gentle. Concern flashes in his eyes as well, and she wonders what exactly she had said or done to have him act like. It had been so long since he had.

A child, she had been a small little child, and sudden cold washes over her.

“Not here,” he whispers, and he locks eyes with Daeron, a mutual understanding of what might have happened.

Still in half a daze she lets herself be lead, arm now looped with Daeron’s own. Alysanne swallows again, trying to pull up the mask she had let herself use while they rode in, and feels the gentle pressure that Daeron is using to keep her mind in the present. “We will go last,” he says, voice purposely low, “And then the king will make some announcement about the ceremony in the Great Sept, with all pomp and circumstance, and we can escape court soon after before meeting my family for dinner.” 

There is no bread and salt here. Not yet. Where is the bread and salt?

Eyes dart quickly around, but there is no one, nothing, not even a pageboy with a tray, and she looks at Daeron, confused at the lack of such items. He seems perplexed now, and frowns. “Aly?”

“Bread and salt.”

Comprehension blooms. A quirk of his lips just up. “Later. Evening meal, and your uncle and Wyle shall be invited too.”

Prince Baelor’s voice cuts over the chaos in the yard, and Prince Maekar’s gruff response has them all heading inside. Wyle and her uncle are led to a separate location, and she meets her uncle’s eyes. All she earns is a small nod before he is gone with Shadow by his side. Wyle gives them both a lasting, lingering look, full of worry, and she puts the nagging feeling into the back of her head.

Everything seems so different. Stiff, formal, and Daeron holds her arm tightly. They say nothing, the silence a companion to them both, but she can tell he is breathing in through his nose, out through his mouth, and holding his breath in between every so often.

Just as nervous as she is.

They are at the edge of something, they both feel it in their bones, and Alysanne looks up at him.

“His highness, Prince Baelor of House Targaryen, Crown Prince, heir to the Iron Throne, and Hand of the King.”

They all watch as the man moves, easy, charming, and every inch the heir. Cheers erupt for his return.

“His highness, Prince Valarr of House Tarygaryen, the Young Prince, heir to Prince Baelor, and his lady wife, the Lady Kiera of Tyrosh.”

Both the prince and his wife give a pair of encouraging smiles, and Alysanne resolves to invite Kiera to tea or hawking or something that ladies do here. Kinship, of sorts, of their situations. Far from their homelands, in a court that is like to whisper about them no matter what.

“His highness, Prince Maekar of House Targaryen, Prince of Summerhall, and his son, his highness Prince Aegon of House Targaryen.”

Little Aegon looks oddly composed, at odds with the lively boy that had spent so much of his time with her nieces and nephews, who had peppered her with questions about her life and living in the North, who played with Shadow on the deck of the ship.

Yet it is the last look Prince Maekar gives them both that stays. Something akin to pride, it seems, though twinged with worry. He had not missed what had gone on during the ride from the harbor to the Red Keep. How could he not? But then she sees the slight nod he gives to Daeron and herself, and he is gone.

“Do not go where I cannot follow,” she finds herself whispering as they take their place by the entrance.

“I promise, Alysanne, I truly promise.”

Daeron leans over, using his height to slightly cover her, and breaths in deeply.

“His highness, Prince Daeron of House Targaryen, heir to the Prince of Summerhall and his lady wife, the Lady Alysanne of House Stark.”

They step forward, and enter the hall.

I am a Stark of Winterfell. I can be brave. Do not let them see your fear.

Daeron leads them both down, arm carefully looped and holding her. His back is straight, his eyes clear despite the lingering circles underneath, and he is neatly put together. She thinks he looks every inch the prince he was supposed to be, and perhaps this is what court truly is; a place to play the roles society has attempted to force him into a role at odds with what plagues him.

So many eyes. Thousands of eyes. Pairs of them looming over, and the hushed whispers are white noise as they continue to walk. So many whispers, and she cannot get over the feeling of the eyes ever watching.

Somehow they make it down the hall and stop before the Iron Throne. Targaryens a plenty surround it, standing in ceremonial finery, and at the center, seated uneasily, is the king.

No northern sword was taken for that monstrosity. The voice sounds like her father’s. 

Alysanne drops into a deep curtsey before King Daeron II, before the Iron Throne, and holds utterly still as Daeron, her Daeron, does a deep bow before his kingly grandsire. A thousand eyes’ gazes are burning on them as they stay low, respectful, and wait till they are given leave to straighten up.

“Arise, Prince Daeron, Lady Alysanne, and be welcome to the Red Keep.”

They both move slowly to stand up straight, steel in their spines. In a break with protocol, her husband goes to take her hand and keep her close to him, announcing to all just whose protection she is under. There can be no question. Daeron turns them both around so that they are facing a sea of strangers.

So many eyes.

“House Targaryen congratulates you both on your marriage in the tradition of the North, before the Old Gods. Yet the North is far from King’s Landing and the Southern kingdoms, and in a show of gratitude for House Stark parting with their most precious daughter, we will be holding a ceremony in the Grand Sept of Baelor, in the light of the Seven two days henceforth, and a large feast to be followed. We invite all here to help my house in celebrating the match made between two fine young people, and the future of both House Targaryen and House Stark.”

The applause and cheers are quite loud. Perhaps it is the numbers of those assembled.

Alysanne cannot help but judge though, from the sea of faces, it looks more like disbelief than anything else, and the polite clapping and cheers seem less enthusiastic than what had been heard in the North.

Her head turns again to the side, and she tilts it up to look at Daeron, looking down back at her. It’s a tired smile, a worried smile, and she nods. He brings her hand up to his lips to give it a reassuring kiss.

Together. They can do this. They will not fail.

Simply put, they cannot be allowed to.

~~~

Daeron takes her to the godswood, leading them both’ beneath the ancient oak that passes for a heart tree. Compared to the one in Winterfell, there is something less wild about this particular godswood. More orderly. Contained. Winterfell’s godswood like the old gods were watching down on the ones who came to worship. Here parts of it felt more like a garden and less like a sacred space, though he supposes it may change with the addition of an actual weirdwood.

Along the journey Shadow had been retrieved from Lonnel, and despite the lack of words said, the understanding he had was nevertheless felt. Shadow, now out of the bag and content to just walk alongside, seemed utterly intune to her mistress’ mood, and kept pace with both himself and Aly.

He says nothing when he sits down on the ground next to her, and leans back against the hard trunk of the tree. A hand goes to lace her fingers with his own and he gives a gentle squeeze to remind her that he is there, in the present besides her, but says nothing. Silence, he thinks, is appropriate now. Silence for her worship and silence to quiet both their minds. The furball of a creature takes a spot up next to him, her head resting on his thigh, and he runs the free hand over soft fur.

Daeron knows first hand what it is to be tortured by your own mind. He would not begrudge her the silence needed in order to settle herself. So he sits and holds her hand, following her gaze with his own up to the stars, and lets the quiet settle in his head as well.

They stay like that for some time, in the godswood, not speaking, merely sitting and watching as the day shifts from a sunny afternoon to the reddish pinks of twilight.

And then Alysanne moves, her body twisting so that she is on top of him, legs straddling his own and staring at him with wide grey eyes. Her free hand comes up to gently touch his face, running fingers reverently along his cheek and chin, before pressing her forehead against his own and closing her eyes. When she finally speaks, her eyes are still closed, and voice so soft he can barely make out the words himself.

“A wolf with bloody paws, on a foggy meadow, howling. Not here, but… somewhere. I don’t know. Pain but the wolf was not the one hurt. I think. Or maybe it was.”

From there he gently maneuvers her body so that she is curled on top of him, tucked carefully into his arms and laying her head against his shoulder. This much he can do. Hold her in his arms now as she held him back in that cabin.

“I will show you the archery yard tomorrow,” he murmurs softly into her head, and rocks her back and forth, praying for an easy night for them both. He wishes they could both just stay there but other obligations and as much as he despised responsibility being a price his blood thrust upon him, he knew that for her sake they both would need to move soon.

“Until then… I’m sorry, sweetling, but we need to go. They will expect us for dinner, the family.” A kiss to the top of her head again, and he sighs, looking at both his wife and the creature peering up at him from his side. “And yes, you too, sweet pup, we will find a hearty meal for you. I daresay you will be rather spoiled by most of my siblings as well as your mistress and I, in the next fortnight."

A soft laugh is muffled by his body, and he kisses her again, humming that tavern song he heard this morning.

~~~

Maekar is bone tired. After the frivolous prompt from court, the announcement his father had made, and subsequent dismissal of the rest of the courtiers, he and Baelor had been summoned to their father’s private chambers to brief the king on how everything had gone.

Baelor talked, mostly, with the occasional side comment from Maekar. He had done an admirable job of whittling down every interaction with Beron Stark, the family, and most importantly the girl herself, and even offered up suitable explanations for the two men that had tagged alongside them. The wolfdog pup had her own little story, which led to his father shaking his head. Nevertheless, all of them would be staying until Daeron and Alysanne would depart to Summerhall.

“He seems taken with her. Deeply taken with her, and vice versa,” was what their father replied, and neither himself nor Baelor could disagree with that assessment. That little display, the sweeping and in sync curtsey and bow, the closeness of their stances, Daeron kissing the girl’s hand as he held it and how he led her away after everyone had been dismissed; none of it had missed.

“And Lord Stark is appeased?”

“He is. We should have no issues with the North in the near future and if the marriage proves fruitful, then possibly a reciprocal match between one of their daughters and a future Lord Stark would continue this alliance,” Baelor added, taking a long sip of water aftwards.

“Are the weirwoods planted yet?” Maekar surprises even himself by asking that question, but no one has brought it up yet.

His father and brother look at him, matching inquisitive expressions, and if he were a lesser man he would flush under their stares. “The girl keeps the Old Gods, and it could be a problem if they were not. Summerhall needs a proper godswood anyway.”

Ah, there it is again, the stare. Fuck him, he does have a brain, it should not be so surprising he use it and speak up from time to time on such matters. Soft politics may not be his strength but he does know a thing or two. “The one for here will arrive by the end of the week, and be planted as soon as possible. For Summerhall, it should be there by the time the pair settle in.”

His father waves a hand to dismiss them both, content with how every plan seems to fall into place.

“And Maekar?”

“Father?”

“You are dining with your family, Baelor’s, and the two northern guests, yes?”

“Yes father.”

“Give my best to Dyanna and the girls then.”

“Of course.”

Well, that was easy.

Fuck him, he does not want to perside over this idea of family meal, as much as he does wish to gather them all in one place, but not when spending nearly three weeks traveling, and when he had hardly slept last night. He would not complain about the noise knowing that he himself had gotten up to such mischievous activities when first married, but it did give him such a headache. Punishment, perhaps, for the gallavanting he and Dyanna got up to.

Oh Dyanna. Sweet, blessed, daring Dyanna.

They have some time to wash and change before the meal, and he manages to make it to his rooms without any run-ins with other family members. Either his other two brothers, who he did love dearly, or any of his various bastard aunts and uncles.

By the time he makes it through the door, closing it with a thud, the tension in his head is slowly morphing into yet another headache. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Quiet. He needs quiet and his wife, that is all he needs, and perhaps a bed too.

He manages to kick off his boots, and picks them up so he might lay them next to the bed. A firm bed, with solid pillows, thick blankets, and his wife. That is what he wants. Boots drop with a thud as well and he finds the blessed bed, sitting slowly and then fully laying his body down. Head propped up by that firm pillow, thick blankets beneath him, the warmth of the sun warming the keep, he can nearly doze off.

Weight shifts next to him and he smells the lemony citrus scent of her perfume.

Ah, Dyanna.

An eye cracks open and he turns to see the only woman he has ever loved, the only woman that truly understood him, the love of his life and beyond, and lets out a small, secretive smile he has just for her.

Dyanna, with her sandy golden locks loose over her shoulders, her purple eyes meeting his own lighter lilac ones, and tanned skin glowing in the midafternoon sunlight; Dyanna with her considerable height and ample curves he so loves to grip. Dyanna with her laugh like music, her grace, her charm. Dyanna, his goddess amongst all, his dream, his lovely one, his wife.

She climbs on top of him, staring down with that smile of hers, eyes twinkling, and he reaches out to place a heavy hand on her hip. Just to hold her again after the long trek North and back, to have her in his arms, he will savor this.

After all this time Maekar does not even need to say a single thing. Her hands move to his neck, slowly working tense muscles, and he lets out a low groan of relief as the tension is ebbing away under her touch. Eyes flutter closed. Strong hands for a strong woman, his Dyanna.

“Would I have had you with me, up in those cold fucking snows,” he murmurs, relaxing underneath those fingers. That gets a chuckle in return as she works him over, moving her hands to behind the base of his skull.

“You were successful even without me there,” she says softly, voice husky and he cracks open an eye, and gives her yet another small grin.

“Mmmhmm and yet I wish it all the same. Still, we are here now, and they will be sent home to Summerhall, away from this place and hopefully Daeron will finally learn some responsibility governing in my stead.” He sighs happily as she digs into a particularly painful knot, working it slowly, methodically, and he can feel his body turning soft underneath her touch.

Gods be good, this woman is the best thing that ever happened to him.

“Will you keep Aerion here with you? Aegon, the girls?”

“Mmm I think so. Let them have some privacy. Perhaps we may have a grandchild within the year, if the gods bless them as they did us.”

Ah, that earns a laugh, and he opens his eyes to take in his wife. The way laughter lines crinkle around her eyes. How there are a smattering of dark freckles along her chest, easily seen in the gauzy gown she wears. The way little slivers of silver are starting to creep into her golden sandy tresses. “You think him ready for such responsibility?”

Maekar sighs, and pulls her close to his chest, letting her rest her body on top of his own. Solid, whole, and ever present Dyanna. “I think,” he says, carefully weighing the outcomes, “He has it in him. But the damn drinking, the nightmares… He dried out on the ship, and did not touch any wine until the wedding feast. Even then, the boy kept his cups down to three.” His hand goes to softly stroke his wife’s hair, and he presses a kiss to her temple.

“And the girl?”

“... do not ask her about northern practices of fucking blood rituals in the Age of Heroes and beyond.”

Oh another chuckle. Well it gets him to slowly laugh too, and he holds Dyanna close, enjoying the peace of his own chambers. The quiet of it.

“Really, though, how is she?”

Maekar huffs again, thinking carefully on the choice of wife for his eldest son. His heir. A future Prince of Summerhall.

“Brilliant and beautiful and everything a Stark should be. Dutiful. Loyal. Wolfblooded, is the term I was told, when it matters. They avoided a bedded ceremony by staging a spectacle and were late to the morning meal afterwards.”

Yet he holds back the few other thoughts he has on the match. Even now, his Dyanna can tell when he keeps his words to himself, unsure if they will be met with serious consideration or played off a joke.

“... when they first met, they stared at one another, as if they had seen one another before, a lifetime ago. Daeron… it was unnerving and I am not a man easily frightened.”

The nightmares. The torments. If they were real dreams or just figments of a mind slowly devouring himself. He had seen what had happened when they rode through the streets of King’s Land, the way Alysanne Stark had stared off into nothing, expression seeing through something no one else could see. He had seen it happen before.

To Daeron.

His son.

“Perhaps it is for the best. Others fucking take me, they kept us up half the voyage down when we all were trying to sleep.”

He leans back on the pillows, his Dyanna in his arms, and keeps her close.

And then the cough.

Not loud. But wet, and it lasts eerily too long for his liking.

“Are you ill, starlight?”

Dyanna, lovely, wonderful, brilliant, blessed Dyanna, gives him a shining smile in return.

“Just a cough, Maekar, just a small cough.”

~~~

Dinner is a pleasant, if strange affair, at first. Daeron is oddly mellow at the moment.

They are all gathered in some of the smaller rooms used for hosting. By the number of their party it is too great for any meal to be broken in one’s solar without moving around tables and chairs, and but they are at same time too small for any of the larger spaces. His grandfather and grandmother do not attend, taking their own meal in their private chambers, along with his uncles Aerys and Rhaegel and their respective families.

Yet Uncle Baelor is there with Valarr and Kiera to his right. Aly’s uncle is present, sitting across from Baelor and next to Wyle, who technically is not of any blood relation but neither himself nor Aly would see him left out. His father and lady mother are on his uncle’s right, and his siblings, baring Aerion, and Matarys have their own spots at the opposite end of the long table. Aegon is regaling them all with his time in the North, taking a bit of leeway with more than a few of the stories.

As predicted, despite having her own bowl of ground raw meats and vegetables, Shadow has been let loose and sneaks away from Aly every now and then to feast on the offerings all the younger children have snuck from their plates. A few gentle warnings from Lonnel Snow has limited most of the unhealthy bits, thankfully, and in lieu the pup gets scratches and belly rubs.

Spoiled little thing.

He wonders how big and vicious she will become when fully grown.

Daeron and Alysanne found themselves with the adults, along with Aerion, and he is seated next to his wife, but Wyle is on the other side of the table. Aerion is across from him as well, and is surprisingly calm, for whatever passes for calm these days.

His brother is looking at him with the oddest expression, and Daeron thinks perhaps he may have something on his shirt.

Uncle Baelor even had the cooks bring up fresh bread and salt, and all three northerns had partaken. Daeron had seen how some of the pent up tension around Alysanne had shifted then, with at least that one ritual out of the way. Not for herself, but her uncle and their friend.

His mother, thankfully, arranged for several dishes to be made. Roasted chickens and vegetables with herbs and spices brought over from Starfall, his father’s favorite. A thick onion soup topped with melted cheese. Fish simply stuffed with fresh herbs and pan fried, a lemon sauce over it. Fresh bread, a bit of softened goat cheese to spread. There was honeyed milk for the children, and for the adults several bottles of Dornish reds, a mix of both sweet and sour bottles.

There are no pages or servants in the room. Just themselves. They serve and help themselves in a casual manner, at odds with what normally occurs when in a gathering like this.

Daeron himself pours a cup of wine and hands it off to Alysanne. “This is the sweet one, a Dornish red, since you said you preferred the sweeter taste,” he says, as he pours one for Wyle as well, and himself. As he does that, Aly is putting some bits of chicken and vegetables on his plate, and Wyle is tearing off pieces of bread for all three. He even offers Aerion a piece, who politely declines in favor of staring some more.

His father is mercifully occupied with his mother, listening to what had gone on in Summerhall while he was away, their hands always touching one another, and Baelor is still having a conversation with both Valarr and Lonnel Snow at the same time as Kiera listens. About horses, apparently, and breeding practices. The man is distinctly less terrifying here than he is anywhere else, and in this setting can be seen as almost normal.

Daeron is calm. He has his wife, good food, and a good drink that he is slowly sipping alongside his cup of water, and is mellow in a way that he had only thought he would be up in the North. He is listening to a debate between Wyle and Alys over the identity of just who the Thirteenth Commander of the Night’s Watch was, which family, and interjecting his own thoughts every now and then, much to the joy of both of them.

“Only a Bolton would do such a thing. You know that. They flayed people! They still do, Aly. Who is to say they would not have dabbled with an Other?”

“If it were a Bolton, his name would be known. The Breaker would have not gone to such trouble to strip away his identity if it were anything but a Stark.” Alysanne seemed very much of the opinion, no matter how bloody, it was the truth of the tale.

“She has a point,” Daeron pipes up, wrapping an arm around his wife, slowly grinning. “As much shame as it was, if it were a Stark, then his brother would have wanted to shield the name from the damage done to the house’s reputation. Why go through all the trouble to do so in the first place?”

Ah, his Aly looks mighty pleased, and Wyle snorts, shaking his head. “You, my friend, are only hearing the one version she learned from her uncle. And she has bribed you to believe her.”

“The true one.”

“How has she bribed me, Wyle?”

“One of many.” At that he points his finger at Daeron. “A song twisted over time, and you know very well how she could bribe you, you kept us all up with such feats.”

“But still, I think she has the right of the legend. A Stark forsaking his vows and binding others to his and his queen’s bidding? There’s power in blood magic and the fact it took both a Stark and the King-Beyond-the-Wall to break it?” And yes, he is blushing now, and taking a sip from his cup, savoring the taste of the Dornish red, thick on his tongue. It is still the first cup, and he paces himself.

He promised he would try, so he is trying.

When the cup goes down, Aerion is looking at him, unashamed, confused, and if he were looking at a stranger. “How do you know about Northern tales?” he asks, and Daeron makes a face at that. While there are no stupid questions, this one is more than a bit obvious.

“Aerion, I just spent nearly two moons traveling to the North, Winterfell, and back. My wife is a Stark, and my friend Wyle is a Manderly from White Harbor. I would think the answer quite obvious, little brother,” he drawls.

“You only had one cup of wine and not even finished it yet.”

Daeron looks down at his cup. Almost done but not quite.

“Is that a problem?”

At this point he is aware of the others watching the interaction. His mother and father, his uncle and cousins, Aly’s uncle.

“And you have had your arms around your wife nearly most of the night. You even served others wine and food, rather than-”

“Rather than what, Aerion?”

It comes out harder than Daeron would have liked but he is starting to see where his younger brother is going. At only two years apart, it is not much of a difference in age, and it is close enough that Aerion had allowed himself to be able to judge Daeron in the manner in which he judged most people these days. Either not worth his time, or something to play with for his amusement. A shame, because Aerion was a sweet boy once.

Aerion closes his mouth.

“Do finish your sentence, brother, because there is nothing you can say here that others have not heard. Family and friends alike,” he adds, voice dry. A tone of a man completely done with this conversation.  “And yes, I have told my wife everything. She is well aware of the man I am, or was, and the man I am trying to be.”

Something in Aerion’s expression, the way it hardens, turns his stomach.

A hand touches his arm, and he sees it is Aly’s hand, and looks at her now rather than his brother’s face. A smile curls on his lips, and he puts a gentle kiss on her forehead, just because, before turning back to the others.

“You seemed surprised.” Aly’s voice. Crystal clear and lacking none of the aching from before. “That he would have his arms around me, his wife, and think it odd. When your own lady mother and lord father have done the same several times this evening. When your cousin and his wife have behaved similarly as well.”

Daeron lets his smile go hard then. “Though I do not wish to share all the details, little brother, rest assured, I am as much a husband to my wife as much as father is to our mother. Perhaps even one day you will understand this as well.”

Well that should help Aerion keep his mouth shut the rest of the evening.

But while his brother is not commenting on the state of his new marriage, he is very well aware of his parents’ eyes on him and Aly. 

In the end, after they are served sweet cakes and warm cups of tea, he begs off for the rest of the evening, Aly in his arms and Shadow at their heels. An invitation from his mother to luncheon is given to the both of them, though at separate times, as they both are to be visited by the tailors for new outfits at different times tomorrow. Still, he does look forward to seeing her, if only to put the dream to bed.

Maekar would fight for his son, for all of his children, that was a given. Yet he was forcing Daeron as well, who despite his recent improvements was never to be quite the accomplished knight his brother was. This was no archery contest, as he well knew that his eldest nephew was more than adequate with a bow these days thanks to his wife, and it seemed Maekar was aware of that fact. Perhaps to give Ser Duncan a chance. Another far better knight might be found to replace Daeron if he refused. Or more likely it was to have Aerion grateful for his brother’s support.

All three Kingsguard were compelled to fight by their duty to the Crown. And Aerion had said he was certain to have his seventh by dawn.

Which left Ser Duncan with no one save Ser Wyle Manderly, who had come in person to tell Baelor he would be at the hedge knight’s side, as a favor to both Daeron and to Aegon. Baelor had known that Wyle was accomplished enough, having done more in the North than in southern tourneys. Wilding raids and threats from reapers along the coast, as well as time spent warding in Winterfell had given the young man a decent reputation, and his travels down in the South, sometimes offering his services as a knight and others as a son of House Manderly, only ensured that the skills he learned were kept up to par.

“Truthfully, your grace, we both know that Daeron should not be riding, and is doing so only because his lord father bade him to. And while I know I cannot hope to compete against the Kingsguard or Prince Maekar, I am more than capable of knocking whoever it is Prince Aerion will get for his seventh and the prince himself right onto their arses.”

The door to the borrowed chambers creaked open. It was far too early for any pages or maids to be attending to him, and Baelor knew only a few would dare disturbed him this early.

“Aegon found four more knights to stand by Ser Duncan’s side, father. Ser Stephen Fossoway, Ser Humfrey Hardyng, Ser Robyn Rhysling, and Lord Lyonel Baratheon. Ser Humfrey Beesburry was to join them but Wyle had convinced him to stay out due to his leg. Too much a risk.”

Valarr had found out, just as he knew his son would, and brought him what he needed to know.

Baelor looked down, calculating the risk. Wyle would ride against Daeron, ensuring they both would make it out alive, and none of the Kingsguard would go too hard against him given the friendship between the prince and knight. Hardyng would ride for his goodbrother’s honor and was a decent knight to boot. As for Fossoway, there was little he could do, even if he was distinguished enough though he thought the man was a little too prideful to be of any help. Rhysling was good and could hold his own. Insane, but good.

Lord Lyonel though was a wildcard. He was not too surprised the man jumped at the chance to fight against the Crown and Targaryens given the recent issues, but was also unaware Ser Duncan had known him. The man was strong, skilled, and dangerous. The Laughing Storm.

Ser Duncan was still short a knight.

He looks at the letter again to try and find some meaning in the words written

That place. I have dreamt of that place, of a muddy meadow, and the sound of horses’ hooves against the ground. Knights charging in battle and yet I cannot make out their sigils through the mist and fog. A lingering sense of dread. Stench of rotting carcases.

Burning. I always smell the burning of human flesh.

Ashford Meadow holds something dangerous. Be careful, dragon king-to-be. The realm needs you for what is to come.

And I am willing to admit I may wish to see you seated on the Iron Throne, if only for my amusement to have a king on his knees for me later on. Perhaps this time I may go to my knees for a change should my king command me?

Valarr’s voice brings him back to the present.

“I intend to be the seventh.”

Baelor looked up from his desk, staring at his son’s face.

In this light Valarr looked like Jena. Steadfast. Devoted. A keen sense of right and wrong. Soft in ways that might hurt rather than help.

In this light Valarr looked like Baelor himself. Doing a duty that no one else would wish for. Putting the realm, the crown, their house’s reputation above himself.

In this light Valarr looked like himself. Young. Good, but not great. Unsteady. Untested. But determined. A future ahead of him. He does this not truly for Ser Duncan, but because this is what House Targaryen demands. To be honorable and good, to show the smallfolk they do still care about them.

Aerion would kill him given half the chance, even if Maekar remembered to pull his punches out of love for Baelor and his family.

And yet if his brother would forget himself in the heat of the moment...

Maekar loved Valarr, a beloved nephew, a piece of Baelor that was cherished, and would stand by Valarr when it came time for his son to take the throne.

But Maekar also was defending his own son. Men forgot themselves in the heat of battle.

There was only one other man, one other knight, who could stand against his brother blow for blow.

“No.”

He put down Lonnel’s letter, an attempt at trying to find meaning from the turmoil that had been bubbling around his head since this whole badly played situation unfolded. Valarr is good. Valarr is young. Valarr might not be able to hold his own and that is entirely Baelor’s fault. He had shielded his son from true battle out of concern.

Out of the fear and terrible experiences at Redgrass, at fighting forces who were supporting a man who was supposed to be kin.

Valarr did not know of the stink of blood or how it dried a rusted brown on armour. He did not know what it meant to slit a man’s throat with a sword or use a spear to gut an opponent. He did not know the need to weigh the cost of life against potential victory.

That was Baelor’s fault.

“Father, you must-”

“I said no.”

He understands why his son does this. To show not all Targaryens are as temperamental as his cousin. To show that they support the smallfolk as much as they do the nobility. That honor, chivalry, justice are things the family stands for. Not a cruel dictatorship, for all they were royalty. Not out of any loyalty towards Ser Duncan, but because it is what the moment demands.

The problem, at the end of the day, was that his family, their history, their legacy,  his own legacy was a cruel one. The reasons men stood with his half-uncle were not unfounded. Targaryens burned their way through history till they had no more dragons. And dragons were what made them kings in the first place. Without them, they were just like everyone else.

Not exceptional. Merely men and no longer just below the gods.

No one was above the law.

Not smallfolk.

Not nobles.

Not princes.

Not even kings.

The realm needs you for what is to come.

“I have need for your armour.”

~~~

It almost makes sense. Clouds that linger overhead, the mist and fog rolling in.

Neither of them had slept much when Daeron had come back, a bruise on his neck, but talking very little about how it had gone with Ser Duncan. He had told her they had spoken, that he relayed the truth of his dream, and then laid down next to her in the dark of their room, burying his head into her neck and did not bother in holding back his sobs. That this whole mess had been seen, that he had known something would happen, and they had tried so hard to avoid it from even starting in the first place. After that they had merely held on to another close, her fingers running through his hair gently, as he did his best to curl his own body around her. At some point they both had drifted off to an uneasy sleep, to be woken by a gentle knock on the door several hours later.

A message was sent. Eat and then dress accordingly. A tray was brought for their comfort and when a maid stepped inside to help with her clothing, she had waved the girl away with the excuse of being able to do this for herself. All done while the weight of prophecy hung over them both.

A dragon would fall dead from the sky. Or one would lay its head on the belly of a wolf. Perhaps it would be both.

Someone would be dead by the end of this. Just who, only the gods knew.

There had been a boy sent to squire for Daeron in lieu of little Aegon’s absence. She could understand why the Egg went to his hedge knight and stood by him. Something about Ser Duncan stuck with him. Be it good or bad or indifferent, there was something there. A true knight he had talked about, defending the innocent, keeping to the vows that were sworn; an ideal in a world where everyone around him tried to crush the ideal.

Damn Aerion to the deepest, darkest, more painful seven hells there was for this.

Such fools, she and Daeron both, for thinking this could be changed.

They both are dressed. Daeron in the tunic and breeches that would be underneath the padding and his armour, heavy boots already on his feet. She is in a gown of black and red, and a circlet of battered bronze on her head, at the request of Prince Baelor. Something is familiar about it, a half-remembered memory, and she pushes away that thought to continue helping the borrowed squire dress Daeron, armour and all, for the Trial.

They walk down with the boy, who starts to help Daeron with his armour. Unlike his brother and father, or even his cousin, he had something entirely different from his family, save the helmet. Perhaps it was simply his choice to keep the armour simple. Or perhaps he had just told Wyle to choose for him. Either way she helps the borrowed squire, much to the curiosity of the other knights slowly making their ways to the stables and armoury near the entrance of the field.

The boy is sent away to ensure the horse is properly cared for towards the end. “I will tend to the straps,” she had said, and when they had been left alone in their tent, it had been her working her hands over the tightening of armour, the careful tuck of straps, and a kiss gently placed wherever her hands had been.

“Come back to me,” she whispers softly, once he is fully dressed and armoured. She takes a gloved hand and presses it against her stomach. “Come back to us.”

Is this what it feels like when a woman sends her husband to war? Damn Aerion for everything, and damn Maekar for not putting his foot down when he should have. Damn the gods for this moment.

His hands shake. Or her own shake. Perhaps they both are shaking, because neither of them want this to be happening, not when there is a very real chance something terrible will happen.

“Rule three. I suppose my reward shall be you, and our child, and perhaps some wine, a fireplace, and a warm bed. That is all I truly want,” he admits softly, a sad chuckle. And she lets out a broken laugh, leaning her own body against his. His face is pressed against her head, and she feels how his body shakes against her as arms are gripping tightly. “I am so very scared, dear one, so very scared.”

All that she can do now is hold him just as tightly back and pray that the old gods will spare him. 

~~~

He is a coward and a fool and a disappointment and a drunk. He would admit it, not even pressed for it, and as he lets go of his wife and mounts his horse, he thinks on this moment, on those things, those failings, and wonders how anyone managed to see something in him that might make them think he could be anything but.

But Daeron is also a husband, a prince, and hopefully will live long enough to become a father. That his wife sees something in him, his friend, his cousin, his littlest brother, his sisters, they see something, and he knows that he has to at least try to keep to his promise.

There had been a request from his wife, one that he knows he should heed, and does so with terrifying faithfulness. A quiver filled to the brim with arrows and a bow, in addition to his sword. He thanks the boy tending to him, and sends him off as he climbs on top of the horse, only truly settled when he runs his fingers over the bow.

Aly was dutiful with her practice, even when they were Red Keep those few times and it was considered unseemly. And he, in this, was her faithful student. When no one would notice either of them, it was down to the training yards. As far as nearly every other soul knew, this was nothing but whispers and gossip.

More than once he would swear he saw Bloodraven watching when they were there.

It was easier in Summerhall, and when they would travel there they often had the archery yard to themselves, save the household guards from time to time. The Red Keep was worse. Most men would scoff and joke about how poor a knight he was if his wife felt the need to defend herself and not rely on her husband. Daeron had let them laugh, shrugging, because truthfully he was, in his opinion, horrid with a lance unless he took actual care, not barely above a squire’s skill with a sword unless he actually put effort into it, and would rather have his wife ride him than he himself ride a horse. Oh he had gotten better, yes, mostly because he was forced into it and mostly bribed into it, but he would never be his father’s or Aerion’s level.

But the archery lessons, well, he could say he was a decent shot, leagues better than where he was before he was married, and a halfway decent archer.

Again, a good student, when the reward was right and one he desired.

Oh, how his wife knew him. A small smile forms.

Not even his father knew about how good he truly had gotten, after practicing.

So when he trots out, seeing his father and brother in their armour, he manages to get his horse to obey and stops in front of them both, the smile dropping from his face. His hands shake, not from drink, not from withdrawal, but terror at the idea that he might leave his pregnant wife a widow. He ignores his brother and that ridiculous helm he fiddles with, and locks eyes with his father.

“You knew Aly is with child and yet you insist upon this course of action. I will not die here for Aerion’s foolery, especially when I am finally to be a father. You could stop this if you wished, honor be damned.”

Surprise blooms his father’s eyes at his defiance, and there, just for a moment, concern. Concern because he knows Daeron is not a strong knight, has never been, and no single good showing at a tourney would change that fact. Concern because he knows now what Daeron is risking being here, knows that his son does not wish to even take part in this farce. All because Aerion was never reigned in and left to his own devices. Aerion, who had done something horrific to an innocent woman. Over hurt pride. Over a perceived insult. 

And then he turns to the brother in question, all pent up anger and rage, wanting nothing more than to smack Aerion off his horse and into the mud, to press him down and choke on the dirt till he cries out for air.

No, that would be kinslaying.

There are terrible sorts of curses in the world, and being a kinslayer brings them down on a man and his line. He would not do that, not to the babe in Aly’s belly.

Instead he meets his brother’s gaze, eyes devoid of any affection that may have once lingered between them. Septons might command a man to love his brother, but they say nothing of a monster wearing his flesh. There could be something witty hissed through clenched teeth. He could make a quip about the armour compensating for something lacking. The impracticalities easily pointed out and he doing so, that would irk his brother to no end. About his ego being so fragile he would start a riot just to tend to it.

He had loved his brother once.

He loved the boy who was a glad child, a happy child, a child who had enjoyed fishing and games and playing pretend.

Some part of him still does love his brother, or at least the memory of the boy his brother was.

Instead Daeron gives him a once over, disdain heavy in his gaze, and trots off to take his position on the field. Wyle, atop his own steed, gives a nod in the distance, riding for Ser Duncan at Daeron’s request.

Waiting.

Counting.

Ser Duncan only has six knights.

Damn it. Damn everything to the seven hells. Damn Aerion. Damn himself, for being distracted by the horrors and letting Aegon run off, damn this gods forsaken tourney.

That honorable fool, that good, honorable, true knight was going to die.

Daeron swallowed thickly and…

A rider enters. The black of their house. The dragon on the armour. Valarr’s armour.

No.

“Gods be good, Others fucking take me now,” he whispers.

Valarr? Baelor let…

No, no, gods no.

The helmet is off now, and he wants to throw up.

That is Baelor, in Valarr’s armour. Slightly ill-fitting, and he is certain there will be issues with the helmet given the fit and trouble he had when removing it from his head, but that is his uncle, no doubt. The only man who was a match for his father. The best of House Targaryen. A most honorable knight. The Hammer to his father’s Anvil.

“A great beast with wings so large they could cover this meadow,” he whispers. For who was the greatest dragon here other than Prince Baelor? His father? Perhaps, but no one loomed such a large shadow as the heir to the Iron Throne. They all stood underneath his shadow at the end of things. His father. Himself. Aerion. Aegon. Valarr. They all here were underneath the greatest of their family, and the shadow that Baelor cast was so large that it seems ridiculous that he did not realize it sooner.

Clarity always came after the fact.

Daeron cannot make out what words are being said between his father and uncle, but no doubt that his father is very displeased with this turn of events. Little can he do now, not when they are to take their positions on the field.

The septon says his words.

The horn blares.

Then it is chaos.

Horses charge. Lances are lowered. Wyle is coming at him and he knows that it will hurt, when the impact happens. Not too much, though Daeron does lower his lance if only to ensure the shield is hit rather than Wyle. He feels it, in a sort of detached way, the lance to his chest, the momentum of being knocked down, and he falls with the motion as his horse moves forward but he does not.

Like he promised he lays there, if only to catch his breath and gather his bearings. Bow, yes. Quiver, still there. Sword, yes, not in his hand, but it is there, and in a daze he only manages to just avoid being stomped on by rolling to the side.

"I dreamed of you and a dead dragon, you see. A great beast, huge, with wings so large they could cover this meadow. It had fallen on top of you, but you were alive and the dragon was dead.”

The prophecy. Baelor. A dead dragon.

Gods, he is so afraid.

He could lay there, in the mud. He could just stick to his promise and do nothing. He could let fate handle this all, let it come to pass. He could be a coward and just do as he always had done, because that was the only thing he could do. There was no fighting fate.

The realm would mourn.

His father would mourn.

Valarr would mourn.

So many would mourn.

A dead dragon.

But the guilt would be there. A terrible, awful guilt, and he remembers how badly he wanted his mother to live, how he knew that he should have done more, should have written, should have begged her to do something sooner, if only so that there might have been the smallest of chances.

Daenys had saved her family, saved Targaryens, saved dragons..

Who could he save?

Aly, with her smile, with her laugh, with her dreams, with her warm hands, with her grey eyes.

His wolfblooded girl.

His courageous wolfblood girl, who stood tall in that tent, who held him in her arms, who dared to push him to at least try to be better.

Daeron stands.

Slowly. Not surely. But he stands, and he swallows his fears and doubts and tries not to shake when he takes a familiar stance, pulls an arrow from his quiver, and takes aim at the chaos ahead of him. Breathes in as he pulls the string back, and exhales as the arrow flies.

Again.

And again.

To keep as many away from Baelor.

The problem, he realizes in his daze, is that arrows run out. And sooner rather than later he has no more, which leads him to the choice now.

“The dragon was dead.”

He did not wish to die. Not today. Not here. Not now.

“The dragon was dead.”

Fossoways fight on another. A Kingsguard down. Wyle against a White Cloak. Another knight against Hardyng, who looks to be injured. The third against Rhysling. Aerion and Ser Duncan. His father had thrown Baratheon off his horse.

His father thrown off his horse by his uncle.

The Hammer and the Anvil, fighting against one another.

“The dragon was dead.”

“No. No, please, no.”

“The dragon was dead.”

Daeron closes his eyes.

“The dragon was dead.”

Daenys saved her family.

“The dragon was dead.”

Fuck fate. Fuck the gods. Fuck everything about this.

Daeron runs.

It is chaos and bloody and messy and he is not sure how he does this, but there is yelling, and he thinks someone is yelling his name, shouting at him to stay back, to stay away, that he has lost his damn mind. But he still runs.

“The dragon was dead.”

“You were a dragon. Your scales were the color of your hair and you were flying, with a direwolf running through grass, by your side.”

The first words she ever spoke to him. He has a smile on his face. His father, he sees his father, he sees the mace, he sees his uncle in Valarr’s armour, the helmet too small for his head.

“A wolf with bloody paws, on a foggy meadow, howling. Not here, but… somewhere. I don’t know. Pain but the wolf was not the one hurt. I think. Or maybe it was.”

He remembers. He remembers her words, he remembers how shaken she was.

“Do not go where I cannot follow.”

“I promise, Alysanne, I truly promise.

He is scared, so very scared, and there is his father and his uncle, and he is running and running, and pushing Baelor away because he sees the mace, hears his father screaming in panic and fear and knows that the blow will not held back, and he is so sorry, so very sorry, he did not want this to happened, please gods, old gods new gods please please pleasepleasepleaseAlypleasesorryAlyAlyAlyAly-

~~~

Morning mists made it all the harder to spot the riders. But Daeron’s plume, the ridiculous green silk feather he and Wyle had picked out when they were both designing the new set of armour for Daeron, sticks out like a beacon.

Never would Aly say anything bad about that damn feather. Not when it gave her hope that her husband was still there, still alive, and among the living. Knocked off his horse, yes, but Wyle had taken some care to do it where the injury would only be bruising. Daeron had kept his promise to her, and to Ser Duncan, and stayed put.

Not lying on the ground though, which is concerning. Yet there is the bow in his hands, the one he had received when they had wed, and the quiver. Her heart beats fast and she watches as he gets up, taking a stance that she remembers teaching him.

Not perfect. But the amour is in the way and they never practiced with it in the first place. When they returned to Summerhall she would demand he learn to shoot with the armour, no arguing at all. Thankfully she is able to somewhat see, it seems, and it does the trick and there are arrows being let loose on the field to keep most of the others away from Baelor.

But he only has so many and now he is getting fully up. Running, why is he running? Where is he…

No, no, no, the dragon, that cannot be Baelor and…

Aerion is beat. But there is fighting going on still, and there’s a mace, and Maekar is screaming, and there’s that stupid green feather, why is Daeron running, why is he tackling Baelor, why is he…

“No, gods please, no, do not do this, please,” she whispers.

He promised he would stay down. That Wyle would knock him off the horse and give a good thump to his head and let him stay out of the thickest fighting. Shoot all the damn arrows he had, just he would stay away. He promised her he would live.

White noise buzzes in her ear. Somewhere someone is calling her name but Alysanne ignores every warning and takes off in a run, down to the stairs, down and away. Away from the lords, the guards, and pushes past the smallfolk watching with keen eyes, never one taking her gaze from the field.

They part for her. It may be the wolfdog at her side. It may be because she had done a kindness to the puppeteers the evening prior, had denounced what had happened, had done that in her name and Daeron’s in an attempt to show that yes, they still cared. Perhaps the will of the gods they part. But she forces her body to climb over the barricades with the strength of a woman possessed and jumps down into the muddly field.

Skirts lifted, legs break into a run, uncaring of the scratches for her to leave, that this is no woman’s place. That she is in danger as horses run wild.

Aerion had yielded. It should have been over.

Someone is shouting Daeron’s name. Screaming it over and over like a prayer.

Wait.

Is that her own voice?

His helm is bloody. Why is his helm bloody?

She sinks down into the ground, pulling Daeron’s head into her lap, uncaring of the cold bloody mud.

“Daeron, Daeron, please, open your eyes my love, please, just open your eyes.”

Distantly she can hear Maekar’s own hoarse cries. Her goodfather has sunk into the mud next to her, pleading for his son to wake up, to say something, anything. Begging for forgiveness, begging the gods to take him, and that he never meant to hurt him, his boy, his oldest, his first born, and Daeron is not moving.

His hair should be a sandy blond. Not muddy and red and brown, but sandy blond, and why is it so bloody?

“You promised me, you swore you would stay safe, my love. Daeron, please, I cannot do this without you. Open your eyes. Say something. Anything, please. Wake up.”

A twitch. A groan. Her name whispered on lips barely moving, but his eyes were closed, and she leaned to take a gloved hand in his own and squeezed hard.

“Daeron, please, I am begging you, wake up, wake up now, wake up, you promised me Daeron, you promised me and our child you would not die.”

“B-b-bael.. liv..”

Words slip out as his eyes flutter open, glassy and unseeing, and tears slip down her face.

“Yes, yes, he does, he lives, you saved him, my love, but you must stay awake for me.”

“Ba-ba-be?”

“Yes, a babe, we will have a babe, and you will be there and hold them, and sing to them, and tell them of all your dreams, the good and the bad, and we will… Daeron, no, please, open your eyes, Daeron? Daeron, please, do not go where I…”

The maesters are taking him away and someone is tugging at her arm, is it Wyle? Maybe the Fossoway boy? Someone is yelling at her to move, and she turns to see the reason behind this madness.

Aerion. On his knees. Bloody. Bruised. Beaten. Breathing.

Alive.

Alive while Daeron is dying.

Aerion is alive while Daeron is dying, because Aerion does not know when he has crossed the line, when he has treaded into madness that spills and ruins everything, and she hates him more than anyone else in the world now.

“If he dies, there is nowhere you will hide,” she hisses, hands shaking, and she grabs Daeron's fallen bow, and nocking an arrow, taking aim right at the source of all this pain and suffering.

There is a circlet of battered bronze on her head. Her dress is black and red, rich in cloth, simple in cut. Her hands are bloody yet they hold a bow in one hand, an arrow in another.

She had dreamed this once upon a time.

“I will hunt you down.”

One step closer.

“You will beg and plead for mercy. None will be granted.”

Two steps closer.

The tip now is at his throat. Still and solid.

“You will be slit from navel to neck, and your entrails hung from the branches of a weirwood tree so that you may finally be of some use for the first time in your wretched existence.”

The arrow presses closer, and from the fog, her Shadow emerges, teeth barred and growling softly.

“Wolves will feast on your bones and there will be nothing left to burn. Cursed to the deepest pits of your seven hells. You will suffer and I will grant you no absolution.”

Aerion sinks to his knees, and she turns, taking aim at the fallen shield he had carried, and letting the arrow lose. It hits dead center, and she turns back, eyes cold as ice, to give one last look at Aerion Brightflame before he is dragged off.

A hand is on her shoulder, and she stills, the buzzing in her ears.

“Alysanne.”

She turns to face her uncle, travel-worn and weary, the oldest she has ever seen him, and feels the hot pinpricks of tears in her eyes. “You are late,” she chokes out, doing the best she possibly can to stay present in the moment. Something warm is running down her cheeks and a hand touches her face, only to pull back and see the red of fresh blood mingling with the hot tears that fall freely.

No one speaks. No one cheers.

The trial is over.

But what of the cost?

~~~

Lonnel knows he was late.

Perhaps part of that was unconsciously on purpose. Perhaps in this he was selfish. Perhaps for the first time in his gods-cursed life, he was scared. Something terrible would happen at Ashford. He knew without a doubt it would be heartbreakingly terrible. For himself. For Alysanne. For the damn Targaryens that had interwoven their lives with the ones he cared about.

Death loomed over this place.

He dreamt of a pyre.

People give him a wide berth. Perhaps it was due to his escorting his niece to where her husband lay on his sickbed, lingering, but close to death. Not one single lord had commented on his being in the castle, and not a single servant had uttered a word to him, not when he was very much allowed to touch the prince’s wife. Family, they assumed, which would be correct.

It made it easier to slip out of Daeron’s sickroom where he had left Alysanne, and head to where he knew he would be needed as well.

He would expect to hear Maekar’s voice. To hear the man shouting at the gods for what was happening. To hear him bark orders, to command them to give him his son back, that he would do what it would take to have Daeron open his eyes.

Two sons in sickbeds.

Only one was expected to make it.

What he walks into is a man broken, staring out into the void of nothingness, still clad in the armour covered in mud and blood, the weapon he used to bash his own son’s head in on the ground in front of him. Red and brown splatters on his face, his hair, his beard, and he looks older than he truly is. Sitting and staring into nothing, guilt etched into a face that looks so wrong on the Anvil, but at home on a father’s.

Baelor is there. Watching. Waiting. Still armoured.

“Alysanne is with Daeron now,” he said without any pretense. Maekar does not move. Baelor does, head tilting towards him and eyes are widening in surprise. Of course he would be.

Shamefully, relief blooms in his heart.

Baelor is alive.

Daeorn lay dying and Baelor is alive.

Gods, he was a monster in man’s skin. Terrible, truly.

“Did you know she is with child?” he asks softly, and that is what gets Maekar to finally move. A slow turn of the head, looking at Lonnel as if he were some sort of unfathomable creature. Did he know? If he did, why did he still allow Daeron to step foot on that field, knowing the young man was terrible at jousting? A terrible knight, truly, though his aim was getting better with a bow; he still had no reason being there beyond being forced to by his father. And now he would be leaving his pregnant wife a widow before the babe even quickened in her belly.

Dyanna Dayne’s death had taken something from Maekar. It had made him less than who he was before, hardened him somehow.

Lonnel wonders if Daeron’s will shatter the man completely.

He watches as the man stands abruptly, tearing out of the room as if ghosts haunt Maekar’s back, leaving him alone with Baelor. Quietly he closes the door, leaving no question as to if someone could spy on either of them in this room, and Lonnel lets his hand hover over the lock for just a moment before ensuring no one will come inside. He does not turn around to look at Baelor when he speaks.

“Take off your armour.”

“Lonnel, I need-”

“No. He has to do this alone. Take off your armour.”

“You do not-”

Here is when he turns, eyes burning, hoping to burn away what shielded the other from too much harm.

“Take. Off. The. Armour.”

Here is where Baelor does not listen, and steps forward to move past Lonnel. He puts up his hand against the metal breastplate and pushes back, eyes locked onto Baelor’s, and snarls at the man. All of it, the rage, the sadness, the anger, the fear, it bubbles up and he gives a shove to the Crown Prince in desperation to get the man to stand down.

“He dreamt of your death. Daeron dreamt of it.”

That gets Baelor to still. Eyes blown wide. But the man is not moving, and Lonnel takes a deep breath, and gives another shove to get the man into a chair.

“I did not know what he meant when he spoke of a dead dragon, so large, but fell from the sky and was dead on top of a knight. We talked, or rather I interrogated and he opened up, when you all came to Winterfell. You were never mentioned by name.”

And here is where he lets out a bitter laugh. Because somehow, by some twist of fate or will of the gods, or Daeron being so fucking stupid and finding some strange sort of courage, he managed to alter fate and save the one person who should have died today. Here he drags a chair and goes to sit directly in front of Baelor, the weight of everything crashing down on them both all at once.

He can see it, when Baelor’s eyes are still wide as saucers, that he is not moving, that he is looking at Lonnel and not sure if he wants to believe or not.

“And Alysanne, she dreamt something different. Not as often, but she did. A dragon with a bloody head on a wolf’s swollen belly. She wrote to me about it.”

Here is where he finally breaks eye contact, resting his head in his hands, eyes shut tightly. He does not wish to see what happens next.

He has, in his own dreams, the flames licking the skin of a dragon.

Howling wolves.

Snow. So much snow.

His niece, broken, laying on the ground, eyes unseeing.

“There are so few people in this world that I truly do love, that I would burn the whole of existence for. Alysanne. My brother. My nephew Donnor.”

And here is where he has to open his eyes, wrapping his arm around the back of Baelor’s head. Digging into short cropped, sweaty locks, and pulling the man close so that he can smell the stink of death on his prince’s skin.

“And gods damn me, you most of all, Baelor Targaryan.”

He has seen terrible things. He has done terrible things. Blood and death. Killed men in the shape of a wolf. Taken lives as if they were of little consequence. Torn into the flesh of others with little regard to the humanity they might have possessed. Tasted the metallic taste of blood as a man and as a wolf. Manipulated and murdered and bloodied his hands so that those he loved would not have to.

“He told me that. A dead dragon. And who is the greatest dragon among you all, but you, Baelor. And seeing you here, alive, breathing… I am a horrible, awful person Baelor but I will not lie and say that if only for a moment I did not feel relief when seeing you draw breath.”

He presses his forehead against Baelor’s own, slick with sweat and mud and blood, and ignores the way something wishes to claw its way from out of his chest. Ignore the need to run and be clear of this terrible place. To drag away the heir to the Iron Throne elsewhere, somewhere, anywhere but here.

“Take off the armour. I will tend to your wounds.”

A mercy that the man stills and lets Lonnel touch him, removing piece by piece armour that is not his own, not with all ill fitted it seems to be, and he is oddly careful, at odds with how they normally are. He uses the basin of warm water left out and a piece of cloth to wipe away the grime and the mud from Baelor’s face, then forces clothes off piece by piece till he is merely in his small clothes and lacking any shirt at all.

Bruises will show in the morning. But Lonnel works with that, letting Baelor sit in silence without saying anything. Only when he gets to Baelor’s wrist and sees the band of leather around it, the same one that he has on his own, does the man finally speak.

“You dreamt of this place.”

“Yes.”

“Of death. Of a pyre and burning human flesh.”

“Yes.”

“Is that why you were late?”

Lonnel freezes, pausing his touches, and places a hand on Baelor’s throat, thumb brushing against the small bump there.

“Truthfully, I am not sure.”

A whisper of a sigh. Mismatched eyes flutter closed. Lonnel breathes in and still smells death. It is lingering now.

“Daeron is dying. In my place, he is dying, and he changed fate. What will happen now?”

A hand is on his wrist and Lonne looks at Baelor, who has opened his eyes. For the first time he shows his own fear, naked and plain, and looks more a man than he ever has.

“Only the old gods know. Let us pray they have mercy alongside their cruelty.”

~~~

Alysanne sits. Still as stone. Immovable.

Daeron’s hand is in her own, still warm, still alive, still present.

His eyes are closed. He does not move with purpose. He does not react to anything she does. He draws little breath, and his chest rises and falls, but it is slowly worsening, and he is not there, not truly.

He is somewhere she cannot follow.

He is leaving her.

“You broke your promise.”

It comes out harsher than anticipated. But she means it. Every word she speaks, she means, and she sits there, holding his hand, and pulling it towards her stomach. Places the still-warm palm of his hand against the still-flat belly, and looks down at where her fingers lace into his. He is leaving her for somewhere she cannot go. Not yet. Not without something drastic.

“You are leaving me, alone in this existence, with your child in my belly, and going somewhere I cannot follow, not without yet another tragedy.”

There were tears. Because of course there. Because she had held it in long enough, held the anguish and the fear and the hurt just long enough to make it to this room, this horrible, dreadful room, with its dark walls and dark colors and dark paintings and dark woods and everything about it is dark, dark, dark, going to swallow them up.

Four eggs they had each seen. Four of them. Guarded by a direwolf and a dragon.

The gods had shown them that yet there is only one in her belly.

“You promised me a life. Together. You and me.”

The door creaks open and heavy footsteps echo in the quiet of the room. Yet she stays still, eyes never leaving Daeron’s still form, never letting go of the still warm hand. It matters not that she knows the sounds of armour clinking, the weight of grief and guilt pressing down suddenly. That there is someone now in the room who is partially responsible for this tragedy. Not wholly, no, that would be too kind, but there is some guilt that will never be taken away.

Maekar takes a seat across from her.

She cares not.

They sit in silence. 

Time passes. The maesters come in. They look and see, and leave, because there is nothing they can do. Not when the rising and falling of Daeron’s chest is slowing. Not when the warmth of his hand is slowly bleeding away.

They leave.

“Aerion will be punished.”

Alysanne does not bother to look at him as she speaks. A prince or not, there is nothing here that could force such obedience. Not now. Not after everything. Not after this.

“You will send him away. You will do that the very moment he will be fit for travel, and I will never breathe the same air as him ever again. I will not suffer his presence when we both know that it should be him laying here. Not Daeron.”

Maekar makes no protest. Good.

And here is where she lifts her head, forcing herself to gaze upon a man who is breaking apart at the seams. A hard man. A warrior shattered. A man who swore to cherish his children, his wife, his line, who loves so deeply but cannot show it lest he be reminded he is just a man and not a dragon.

“You will know this child. They will not be kept from you. But Aerion will never come near them and should I ever lay eyes on him again, treason be damned, I will remove him from this wretched life with my bare hands if need be.”

Gently she puts Daeron's hand back next to his body. Leans forward to brush his sandy blond hair out from his eyes. Puts a gentle kiss on his forehead, then his hips, and hovers over, as if to will him to open his eyes and proclaim it was all just a jape. That he is fine and whole and healthy and they will be going home to Summerhall, because that is where they were happy. Summerhall and Winterfell, and that is home, where he is, where they made it, and she brushes away the stray tears that fall on his unmoving face.

And slowly she moves away, standing to her full height every inch the queen Daeron would proclaim her to be.

Wolfblooded girl, queen of my heart.

 She walks slowly, deliberately, and leans next to her goodfather, to a prince of the blood, Prince of Summerhall, the Anvil from Redgrass Field, Maekar of House Targaryen, and leans down to hover the vermouth directly next to his ear.

“You may have swung the mace, and truthfully I do not think that I shall ever forgive you, but the bulk of this lies with Aerion. Do not forget that.”

Nothing. No reaction. Not even the clenching of fists, and she straightens, walking out of the room and towards the godswood of Ashford castle.

Servants blow their heads as she walks past. They look and stare and bow in respect, and when they think she is out of earshot, they whisper of the wolfgirl who had married a drunken prince, how they came to a tourney and found only heartbreak and tragedy. They whisper their words and it grows louder and louder till it leaks to the lords and she is sure by the end of this day, the whole of this wretched place will know that Daeron is dying and there is nothing that can be done.

She cannot do this. Not here. Not now.

She cannot breathe. 

She cannot…

She will not…

She wants…

Alysanne steps foot into the godswood, a tiny little thing, but there is still a weirwood at the center, and she is nearly running to the familiar white bark and red leaves.

Her legs give out, knees buckling down, and she is on the ground, knees and hands touching ancient roots, and here is where she pulls out the knife Daeron had gifted her. Not a terribly large thing, small enough to keep hidden, but long enough to do damage in the wrong hands.

“You will keep a blade on you at all times when I am not by your side.”

“You will learn. From the master-at-arms, Wyle, or even if I have to write to your uncle and drag him down here myself, but you will learn and you will know to defend yourself as dirty as possible because he thinks himself a dragon, who everyone else is meat. I will not lose you, not like that.”

“Have you-”

“No. Not yet. Pray to the gods that neither one of us have such dreams.”

In the North, there were stories about blood sacrifice. Of promises made in deep and dark woods, before heart trees, where men and Children would beg the gods and give them their own blood to sustain a promise. Cautionary tales told to the young to respect the powers of the gods, of their grip, and not seek to dabble too deep into magics beyond their control.

She presses the cool metal to her palm, barely feeling the splitting of her skin, and lets her blood drop on the white bark of the weirwood.

“Bring him back.”

Bargaining with the gods. Pleading and begging and giving the gods the life in their veins, in some desperation. Warnings of what it could bring. She does not care.

“Bring. Him. Home.”

She slips into Old Tongue, language of her people, language of her prayers, words no one else will hear save the gods themselves. Promises her devotion. Promises to raise her child with the will of the old gods, to honor and exalt them forever and day. Promises vengeance upon Aerion Brightflame. Promises to bring back magic into this world. 

If only they let him live.

If only they let Daeron come home.

Bloody red leaves rustle in the wind.

Alysanne Stark stands and turns, palms dripping blood as she walks away, through the window halls of Ashford castle, and into a room where her husband is dying.

Her dragon prince.

Her Daeron.

“Do not go where I cannot follow.”

“I promise, Alysanne, I truly promise.”

No purpose in this death. For what? Wounded pride?

Maekar is still there, at his son’s side. Still in his armour. Still unmoving. She ignores him and crawls on the bed, laying down next to Daeron’s unmoving form, the slow rise and fall of his chest the only indication that he is still there. That somehow he draws breath and still lives. Curls her form into his and takes his hand into her bloody one, and holds on tight.

People come in.

Baelor and Lonnel. Wyle. Valarr and Kiera. Aegon.

Up and down. Slower and slower.

“I drink to forget. Daeron the Drunken, they have dubbed me. A poor knight, I suspect it was merely the princely title that led to the knighthood. A coward. So I drink to numb the dreams, and the terrors they bring me. Block out the terrible endings, the death and destruction, for how can I truly be able to change those fates?”

He was not one, not a coward, not when it mattered.

Stupid and foolish and terrible to do so, to find courage like that.

“You changed fate, Daeron,” she whispers softly, as his chest rises once more. And then it goes down.

Stills.

Nothing.

~~~

Daeron Targaryan dies in the arms of his wife, surrounded by those who loved him best.

~~~

There is a pyre being built.

Targaryens are burned.

But there are no more dragons to burn them, so men must do it themselves.

~~~

He looks like he is sleeping.

An egg, a sandy colored thing with black spots on the bottom, is laid on top of him. A cradle egg, placed in his own cradle, and brought because he had felt some sort of strange need to bring it with him. Packed in one of the trunks that held their clothing, wrapped up in the very linens that clad him now. It was warm to the touch when she had lifted it up and placed it upon his body. A drop of her own blood on it, from the cut on her palm that had opened, marred the coloring. A lock of her own hair, woven throughout his fingers, so some part of her would be with him. A weirwood branch taken from the godswood in Ashford, held in his palm with the egg on top.

Aerion is not there.

Confined to his bed still, injured, but breathing. Alive when his elder brother is not.

She wonders if he were here, if she would be able to slit his throat, let the blood seep into the pyre. An offering to appease the gods. Not quite a fair trade, but Aerion was the reason Daeron was gone in the first place.

A septon says some words. White noise buzzing in her ears. There are torches, several of them, and they are handed out to the family. Maekar. Aegon. Baelor. Valarr. Kiera. Herself at the end. They all step forward. She by his head. Baelor by his feet. Aegon and Maekar to his left. Valarr and Kierra to his right.

Floating. They are floating and she is floating, and none of this seems real anymore. Is this dreaming? Is this a nightmare? A false vision or truth?

When will she wake?

“I love you… I love you.... I love you… Dracarys,” she whispers softly.

He taught her that word.

Torches move down. The pyre is lit, and they all step back, save her.

It feels so hot. Is this real?

She wishes it were not.

Daeron had hidden in Valarr’s pavilion then, waiting for his cousin to arrive. He was only half ready and still expected to go up first, as Aerion wanted to second and show off how better a warrior he was than both Daeron and Valarr, which suited Daeron perfectly well. He could be knocked off and then spend the rest of the time with Aly in the stands, or if he was going to be useful yet, searching for Aegon instead of his father. They both could go. And maybe stop for a snack along the way.

When Valarr finally entered, he rushed towards his cousin and put his hands on his shoulders.

“I require a favor, dear favorite cousin of mine.”

Valarr, bless him, does look rather suspicious but he also should be aware that Daeron had no desire to go up against more seasoned competitors, unlike both his brother and cousin. And they both know that this is less of a nameday celebration for a girl; her father is making a political statement and the Targaryens need to look like benevolent, attentive rulers.

Put on a good show, make them both look good, and then Valarr gets to be a charming heir to the throne, and Daeron gets to show everyone just how much he really does love his wife, and there, the smallfolk and nobles alike would adore it. Make his father in a better mood, his uncle in a better mood, and then he can rest.

“We will keep this light, we make a few passes, and when I do fall off my horse, because we both know you are the better jouster of us both, it will be as painless as possible. And then I can go off looking for my missing little devious squire of a brother after being nursed back to good health by Aly’s loving and tender hands, while you can be a shining example of Targaryen princeliness against Aerion’s arrogance and proclaim Kiera Queen of Love and Beauty tomorrow when you eventually win this thing.” There. A solid argument.

Valarr looks unimpressed. Very much so, and Daeron is being entirely honest, truly he is, and is also ensuring that the giant dragon he had seen is not, in fact, himself. Or Valarr. Especially not himself or Valarr, because he likes Valarr, he has bonded with his cousin, and truthfully, they are much more friendly now than they had been in the last few years.

“Furthermore, you must promise, if there is a giant hedge knight who challenges you, do not take the challenge.”

There. Done. Warned.

He was not sure who was the dragon in his dream, but he doubted it was himself, and if it were Valarr, then he would be better off with caution now. “I saw a dream, and there was a dead dragon, and you must promise me to not take the challenge.”

Daeron sees the shift immediately, and from unimpressed cousin, Valarr is now mightily concerned. “A dead dragon, be it a literal dragon or symbolic one?” Because of course his cousin asks the best questions, the right questions, and this is exactly why he likes Valarr the best out of all the Targaryens of his generation.

“Not particularly sure but Aly thinks it is symbolic and that there is another path forward. I defer to her judgement in this but consider the warning as part of a bribe to get you to agree to my request to be so kind as to allow me to lose by your hand gently. Do not hold back entirely, of course, and make it a good show. Just do not hurt me.”

Valarr, bless him, agrees.

They even shake on it.

This is why Valarr was his favorite cousin.

Which is how he finds himself, fully armoured, with his helmet tucked underneath his arm, on top of his horse that is thankfully being a sweet girl for once, and trotting towards where his uncle and Aly are seated as guests of honor. Shadow lays sprawled out at his wife’s feet, and he looks up to get a good picture of his wife looking every inch the wolfqueen of his heart in a simple gown of fine grey wool, an embroidered direwolf on her chest. Yet the direwolf is in Targaryen red, as are the weirwood leaves scattered throughout, and a ring of dragons is around her waist.

“Prince Daeron of House Targaryen, heir to the Prince of Summerhall, Prince Maekar of House Targaryen, the Anvil of Redgrass Field.”

Oh, good, they got his father’s title right this time. Perhaps that was his uncle’s doing.

Daeron dips his head towards his uncle, seated next to Aly. “Your grace, uncle, may I ask my wife for a request before I head off to battle?”

Ah, there it is, a quirk of a smile from Baelor. Good, see, Daeron can attempt soft politics when it pleases him, and when it pleases his plans.

With that blessing, he gets as close as the horse will let him towards the dais. “My wonderful, lovely, darling lady wife who I adore above all others, would you do me an honor and lend me your favor? I am a poor jouster, I know, but with your favor I aim to stay in one piece so I may be nursed back to health in your caring arms.”

And yes, the crowd may be watching, but he has a plan. Of sorts. And needs to remember the lessons he had with Wyle regarding this feat. He can hear the other man’s voice in his head, mentally checking through the list of instructions he had bribed Daeron to remember.

Step one: no drinking and jousting.

Step two: stop being afraid of the damn horse.

Step three: bribe himself with something that he actually does want, to make it to the end in one piece.

Step four: charge forward, lower the lance, and hope for the best.

Step five: stay on the damn horse as long as possible.

Step six: earn his bribe, otherwise known as alone time with his wife.

~~~

Truthfully, Alysanne does not have any real fondness for jousting, or tourneys in general. To her it seems as if the competitors are playing at battle, and while the entertainment is there, she has never gotten over the feeling it is merely little more than pompous games. Call it her northern sensibilities, but an actual battle against an enemy was nothing like a joust.

Little Gwin Ashford’s commentary on the proceedings of the tourney is a halfway decent distraction from this thought, as it is technically her birthday and this is to honor her, but anyone with half a brain knows this is more for her father’s attempts at currying favor and boosting his house’s reputation. Hence why she is sitting besides Prince Baelor in a seat of honor as befitting her station within the royal family. Kiera had only just arrived and her caravan was unloading, she herself in the castle and resting after being delayed in the journey, and her goodfather is looking for Aegon.

“Have you told my nephew yet?”

Alysanne tilts her head to the side, leaning towards Baelor to get within better earshot.

“Told him what, exactly, gooduncle?”

Baelor’s eyes flicker down to her stomach, then back to her face, an eyebrow raised. She puts a hand on her stomach in response, and smooths her face into a careful mask that had been honed when she and Daeron were in the presence of court following Lady Dyanna’s death. Of course he would know the signs, observant that he was, and he did father two sons with his late wife. Perhaps her goodfather knew as well.

“When this is over then I will. But please, do not say anything to your brother yet. I wish for Daeron to know first, and then we will tell others,” she explains softly. Confirming a suspicion was one thing. Telling Daeron was another, and she would not wish to do that on a tourney field of all places where all eyes were on them.

Perhaps this would ease Maekar’s fury when they finally did find little Egg. He was here, given everything, so it was just now a hunting game.

“You will make my brother very happy when you both share the news. He does not blame you, little direwolf, for the time spent waiting. Neither does he blame Daeron.”

Alysanne is silent at that, giving a long look at Baelor. With the use of that pet name, she wonders if Lonnel has seen the other man recently.

“Has my uncle written to you lately?”

“Mmhm. We regularly share correspondence, as you know. I find his letters particularly interesting when he writes meditations on his current predicaments, and turns it into a philosophical debate on the nature of men and beasts. Among other words."

Her uncle’s preferences are a relatively closely guarded secret within the family. No one brings it up but neither do they dissuade him to from attending to his personal matters, and she has long since suspected that given the fondness her uncle has for Baelor, or what would pass for such a thing as fondness as only Lonnel Snow does it, leans more towards a feeling of mutual acceptance and care. Of sorts.

Baelor being the Crown Prince and Hand of the King complicates matters but still, if they are happy with the arrangement they have made, then she would not say a word.

“... you know, he did write to me and say he would be here, at Ashford, and would like to travel back to Summerhall with us when the tourney is over.”

It is only a slight slip, but she can see the way Baelor’s eyes light up at that little tidbit of information.

“Perhaps you might come along with us, and Valarr and Kiera as well?”

“Perhaps I may delay returning to King’s Landing if that were the case. Thank you, little direwolf.”

“Prince Daeron of House Targaryen, heir to the Prince of Summerhall, Prince Maekar of House Targaryen, the Anvil of Redgrass Field.”

It was excellent timing for Daeron to show, not that either of them were pleased about his forced participation. But for all of that, he is being particularly showy and gallant, very much not in his cups if only due to her presence and refusal to let him even attempt this with any sort of drink in his blood. They were working on that lately. The inn had been a setback, as well as the dream, but today was a new day.

Little Gwin Ashford is squealing about how princely Daeron is, like in a song, and Alysanne has to hold back her laughter at that. The crowds are eating this up, Daeron’s performance, and she does have to give him credit for realizing just exactly why several prominent members of the royal family are attending what is, essentially, a nameday celebration for a girl of three and ten.

She fishes out the favor from her pocket, a slip of silk embroidered with direwolves and dragons running throughout it, red and black thread on grey, and stands. Shadow follows suit behind her, a living, breathing symbol of the old gods, and to anyone looking on, Alysanne is the image of a queen from one of those old tales, when she ties the ribbon to Daeron’s lance. It slides down and he takes it off, putting a kiss to the fabric, and stuffing it behind the armour.

“Come back to me in one piece, my love, for I care not if you win a tourney or fall off a horse, so long as you never go where I cannot follow,” she adds, blowing a kiss with a saucy grin.

Oh that really gets the crowds going, and there are cheers for them both.

Baelor has to be pleased with this. Good for the family’s reputation. Daeron may still have the moniker of The Drunken, but he is very much attempting to do better, and it looks fantastic with a Stark at his side. She turns back to take her seat, meeting Baelor’s gaze, and the nod of approval is just slightly tilted at her, a signal that this was well done by the both of them.

Shadow takes a seat back down at the chairs, and decides this is a perfect time to rest her massive head on top of little Lady Gwin’s lap, who is now even more delighted that the massive creature is paying her positive attention. Hands go to the ears and the spoiled beast is getting two hands scratching her ears.

She watches now as her husband goes off to pick his challenger, and is slightly surprised it is Valarr. Doubtful he would ever pick Aerion, given everything and the tension between them both lately, but Valarr can be formidable when pushed, and both of them had jousted against one another before in the training yards, ending with Daeron in the dirt nearly always. “What is he doing?” she whispers under her breath, trying to put the pieces together.

They are lining up.

And…

Horses charge. Lances are lowered. Her eyes are trained on her husband and she holds her breath, hearing the tell tale sounds of lances breaking against shields.

But neither prince falls.

They each have a second lance. Daeron is charging. Valarr is following suit.

Another impact. Neither falls from their horse.

“Do not play games, Daeron,” she whispers, heart beating fast. 

“What in the seven bloody hells?” comes from Baelor’s mouth, in as much disbelief as she is.

A third round. Eyes never leave the green of Daeron’s feathered plume, that ridiculous decoration that she had protested against when he and Wyle had decided to add something of a flourish to the armour being forced upon the prince.

They both charge, and lances are lowered, closer and the crash sounds.

Both fall off their horses, into the mud, and go still. Seconds tick by slowly with neither moving and she swears if this is some trick, she will go down there and drag the pair of them up and out of the lists herself. Finally Valarr gets up, standing and pulling off his helm, before going over to offer a hand to Daeron.

When the pair finally stand together, helms off, Alysanne lets out the breath she had been holding, and relaxes back into the chair. Besides her, Baelor does the same, and they turn to each other to share a look of disbelief at the scene they just witnessed. Daeron is yielding to his cousin, wishing him well, and doing an honorable thing Valarr takes no armour, horse, or sword from his cousin, merely patting him on the back in a show of good sportsmanship. There is a hug between them both, a show of good sportsmanship, and they wave to the crowd, smiles on their faces.

“If only my brother were here to witness,” Baelor finally says after a moment, and chuckles softly at the incredulous look on her face.

“Wife?’

Daeron, yelling out for her, and she turns, getting up and standing towards the edge of the raised dais, hands on her hips. “Yes, husband?”

“Your favor did the trick and I am in one piece. May I be nursed back to full health by your tender loving hands and soft kisses?”

She turns then, to look at Baelor. “By your leave, gooduncle?”

A gentle nod is given, and she smiles as she rushes off, careful to lift up her skirts as she walks down the stairs and through the opening gates. Shadow comes after her as well, and they both make it down quickly enough that Daeron is still standing and she is walking through mud. Thank goodness she chose to wear boots underneath her dress.

When they finally meet, still in the middle of the tilt yard, under the stares from all in attendance, he is holding out his hand, and she is pulled in close, taking care of the mud on his armour. Daeron leans down to place an eager kiss on her lips, one she returns enthusiastically, and behind them the smallfolk crowded around are cheering at the display. Shadow is howling her approval, and all three head off so that the armour can finally be taken off of Daeron and they can help his father look for the missing Aegon.

They make it to the pavilion set up for Daeron, a smaller thing given he had not wished to even participate in the first place, but it affords them just enough privacy that he is able to start stripping from his armour with the help of the borrowed squire. Alysanne takes a seat to watch this happen, fingers going into the heavy fur of Shadow. The great beast has taken a spot beside her and watches as well, head on Alysanne’s lap.

Eventually the boy is dismissed when he is out of the armour and they are left alone. Or as alone as possible with the guards out in the front but Alysanne beckons Daeron to come by her.

Ever taking the chance at some debauchery, he does come, but rather than looming over her, he instead sinks to his knees, hands moving to her hips. Shadow, sensing what Daeron is trying to do, lifts her head and trots off to take a different spot in the corner of the pavilion. While it would be a welcome change of pace from the last few days, as much as she wants to have her husband close to her, there are other pressing issues to speak on beforehand, not to mention they still have a missing Aegon to look for.

“Daeron.”

He looks up, all sad pouty eyes, and there is a bit of a lip wobble thrown in for good measure. He is resting his head on her lap now, and fiddling with the ties from the belt of her dress that clenches the fabric close enough. She knows exactly where he wants to put his head, and sighs, pushing away her own desire at the moment for a conversation that has to occur.

“I saw the maester.”

It is as something switched immediately and concern takes over his whole being. Straightening up, he may still be on his knees, looking up at her, but instead of the whimpering, pleading look, it is one of a man who remembers the last time someone he loved was ill and it ended in tragedy.

Neither of them has forgotten his mother’s death and the aftermath.

This, however, is not the same.

Instead, she takes both his hands and puts them on her stomach, with a warm smile.

Dawning realization is in his eyes as he looks at her stomach, then to her face, then back to her stomach. As if there is nothing more precious in this world. They have waited for two years for this, two long years, and though some have waited for longer, it feels like a start of something new.

“Truly?”

“After a most humbling experience with a maester and midwife, yes, truly.”

“Shall I have them sacked?”

“No, no, just… my own stubborn refusal to see the signs properly.”

Her face is red. Very, very red, and she looks at him, embarrassed for not reading more closely into the signs her own body was giving her.

But the smile he is giving her, the sheer tenderness of his touch when he gently places a large hand on her stomach, as if he cannot believe that this is happening, it makes her worries melt away. How he rests his head on her lap, pressing a kiss to her still flat tummy, and looks at it with such wonder.

“You are making your mother very ill, little one, and as your father I command you to stop,” he whispers, just loud enough for her to hear. And with such seriousness too, that it drives her to chuckle lightly. Her hand finds its home on his head, tangling her fingers in sweaty blonde locks, and there is a sigh. A bath, perhaps, before anything else. Only when he is done whispering such sweet things to her stomach.

“And here is hoping you are very much like your mother.”

“Absolutely not, Daeron. According to everyone in my family I was a little terror as a babe, and then some before I managed to calm down.”

“Mmm but you are so sweet now I do not see the problem?”

“Counterpoint, the maids and old servants say you were a sweet babe. Would that not be better?”

“But may I argue that I am not a shining example of princely behavior now? Prone to drink and excess, as well as prophetic nightmares?”

“And myself? My own dreams?”

His head is tilted up at her, wonder and fear bleeding through plain as day, and the joy that they both feel is quickly muffled by the realization that this babe is being born to a prince, will be royal by blood and birth, and perhaps one day be the Prince of Summerhall after Daeron’s own turn. That in both their blood is the blood of dreamers and greenseers, and the possibility of any child born of them might inherit such abilities.

“Perhaps I am getting ahead of myself,” he finally says after a beat, though it is clear this will weigh on his mind, and her own, after everything is said and done. Instead he crawls over to rest his head against her stomach, looking up at her and wrapping arms around her waist. “How far along?”

“Three moons, give or take a few days.”

A low hum of acknowledgement.

There will be questions. Many questions. But right now, in the quiet of this tent, with the chaos of the world outside not being let in, Alysanne will take the moment for what it is.

Theirs and theirs alone.

“Aly?”

“Mmhmm?”

“I finished a joust.”

“Yes you did.”

“And you are with child. My child. Our child.”

“Yes I am.”

She looks down, seeing a glint in his eyes, warm and wonderful, and darkening with what she can only think of as desire, because of course he is still on his knees. Again, her hand finds his hair and she tugs just slightly so, hearing the low whimper.

“Do I get my reward now?”

“Rule three?”

“Yes. Please, dear one?”

They are in a pavilion, in the middle of tourney grounds, at Ashford, and his littlest brother is somewhere here but still missing, and she is with child, his child, in this tent. And Daeron is on his knees, looking at her with those big eyes, pleading eyes, and that silly lip wobble, pouting away.

Her hand is still in his hair.

Alysanne tilts her head just so, so that she can make eye contact with Shadow, who is laying in the corner, and gives a jerk of her head. The wolfdog understands, getting up from her spot, and trotting slowly to go sit outside the tent, guarding the entrance.

Good.

Her attention refocuses back on the prince who is laying his head on her lap, one hand slipping down to the hem of her dress, and slowly going underneath her skirts to touch warm skin. Fingers rake across heated flesh, and if she licks her lips, who could blame her?

“Mouth only first. Then we shall see if there is time for more.”

~~~

As the son of a lord and of noble birth, even if he was a third son, Wyle was still afforded the honor of first challenge. Unfortunately despite his preparations, even managing to weasel his way into a bargain with Ser Roland into borrowing one of the squires he had brought with him, that was not to happen. Because clearly luck was not on his side, not when someone had to go and play dirty with a joust, leading to a knight with a broken leg, a dead horse, and the guards along with all three Kingsguard there squashing the upset of the crowd before a riot had started.

Really, for once could Aerion at least behave when his father was not around?

Wyle really wanted to knock him off his horse.

But now jousting was done for the day, he was out of his armour, but before heading back to the castle, he needed to find his friends.

It was relatively easy to deduce where the pair had gone following the match between Daeron and Valarr, and the latter had pointed out that both Daeron and Aly had yet to come out of the pavilion provided for Daeron’s use. Merely walking for a few moments, and there it was. Shadow was outside, which was odd, but so was a guard. Perhaps she just wanted fresh air.

There is a quick ear scratch to the massive beast, who seems to be side-eying him for whatever reason. Even the guard had given him the same look, shaking his head, and Wyle would ask what that was all about if he was not sorely miffed about missing his chance to knock the pompous prince off a horse.

So he slips in, intent on bemoaning the lost chance, because truly, that was why he did ride all the way here, along with seeing his friends.

“Your petty, pompous, petulant prince of a brother cheated and nearly started a- holy seven hells, others fucking take me.”

He should look away.

He really should look away.

He does not look away.

Alysanne, back arched, panting heavily, skirts of her dress partially hiked up to her waist and exposing the pale flesh of her legs. Smooth, soft, pale flesh of those legs that are being spread apart by a large hand with long fingers, gripping tight enough that surely there would be bruises. Between those legs, Daeron, pressed between them, the wet sounds nearly obscene and too lewd, moans of approval muffled coming out He’s almost certain that the other hand is wrapped around his cock, judging from how low the breeches are and the movement of his other arm.

“Here? Really?”

Daeron, bless him, turns around, hair an absolute mess thanks to the hand that has clearly found its home there, lips swollen and shiny, and a dazed grin broadly shining on his face. Purple eyes are blown wide, and clearly the prince on his knees does not seem too perturbed about being interrupted given it is Wyle interrupting. On the other hand there is a low, displeased whine from Aly, and honestly, he will apologize later.

“Jousting’s done.”

“Aly’s with child.”

Oh. Well. Ok. Good for them. Finally. A great thing to celebrate. Just the timing and location of where they are celebrating may be an issue, and really, he does not want to be the responsible one right now, even if his friends are clearly thinking less with their brains and more with… whatever it is that they are thinking with, right about now.

“Great so… I am just… going…”

“Daeron. Mouth. Now.”

He is not one bit surprised when Aly yanks Daeron back to where he previously was, caring little for property and that Wyle is here, in the tent, witnessing it all first hand.

It would not be the first time he has walked in on them.

But this was not Summerhall.

A sobering thought and he turns and marches right out of the tent, making sure that it is closed, and goes to tie the ties together so no one will do as he did. Shadow gives a low huff, and the guard just shakes his head.

Wyle could go back to the castle. He should. He definitely needs to.

Valarr is walking towards him though, and judging from the look on the other prince’s face, there is concern.

“My cousin and his-”

“No. Nope. No going inside.”

He knows he must look quite the sight. His face is warm. Clothing feels too tight. The images in his head are decidedly not appropriate for discussion, and he holds out his hand to stop Valarr from even stepping foot towards the flaps and jerkily shakes his head to warn the prince not to even think about the attempt.

“Aly is with child. They are… celebrating.”

Honestly he is impressed with how quick the prince’s face goes from confusion to realization, then to absolute judgement on the pair. Horror shoots through him when there is a contemplative look on Valarr’s face and Wyle really is wondering about his choices in life to entangle himself with this family. Royalty or not.

“Perhaps Kiera might enjoy-”

“Absolutely do not finish that thought. Prince or not, I will hit you.”

Thankfully, and it would be all of the gods, Valarr does not finish, and they both go and sit at the table and chairs waiting for them at the pavilion Prince Baelor had set up for his son. Most of the crowds are gone and many of the knights are packing up for the day. There is cider. Of course there is. A cup is poured for each of them and they drink slowly.

Neither of them speak.

Sounds of the tourney around them do enough to fill the silence and Wyle can blessedly get his own body under control while they sit.

“My father once said he caught Uncle Maekar and Aunt Dyanna entangled together one too many times in public or near public for it to be considered appropriate for their standing and perhaps Daeron gets his desires for these indulgences with Alysanne from his parents.”

“Prince Valarr?”

“Yes Ser Wyle?”

“With all due respect, and believe me there is respect there, shut up.”

~~~

Daeron leads Aly out of the tent to only be greeted by his guard and Shadow. His guard looks at him with a blank face, keeping all judgement to himself, though Shadow does not hold back her own judgement for the both of them. Rather than say anything, he smooths down any wrinkles found on his clothing, then turns to help Alysanne with her own. While those with a working brain could put the hints together, only a few brave souls would even say something to either of them. At most it would be whispered that the prince and his wife were still young, still in love, and it was to be expected.

Expected, but workable.

Without even having to be asked he holds out his arm for it to be taken, and pulls in Aly close. Several of the nobles here also attended the wedding two years prior so the disaster of a bedding ceremony would be remembered, as well as Daeron’s own reaction to it and their subsequent departure from the Red Keep ahead of schedule. He would do his best to shield her from the whispers on that, but no doubt, given how Baratheon and his lot had reacted yesterday, there would be those with long memories. Still, they stroll down arm-in-arm towards where he sees both his cousin and Wyle waiting.

A flush is automatic at this point and while he will not apologize for enjoying intimate encounters with his wife, he supposes that perhaps it was not the best location. In hindsight, of course.

Wyle does look mightily unimpressed, and Valarr more contemplative than anticipated, but they had not waited too long, he hoped.

What he does not expect is his cousin jumping to his feet and coming over to clap a hand on his shoulder and initiate a hug to both himself and Aly. A warm embrace. Brotherly, even, for all they had been pushed and compared to one another, and Daeron finds himself returning without thinking much of it.

“Wyle told me. Congratulations, truly Daeron.”

Oh, that, well, he has to let out a huff of laughter and peer over at Aly, who is blushing a bright pink as well. He had not wanted the news to spread so quickly but given it was Valarr, well, he was fine with his cousin knowing.

If his cousin knew, he would also guess his uncle might by the end of the day, as well as most of the castle, at this rate.

Which meant he would need to find his father and tell him sooner rather than later, even if Aegon was still missing.

His hand finds Valarr’s back and he gives a friendly pat right back, breaking off the hug in favor of pulling Aly close and settling her in front of him, arms lacing themselves around her. His head rests on top of his since he is rather taller than his wife, and despite his worries the smile is hard to get rid of. Even if there are terrifying possibilities of what this child is capable of, he still knows that it is a child born of love and affection, not merely just of duty to the crown and to his family.

“Perhaps you may go back to the castle and find Kiera, let her know before the rumors start and she finds out before we get a chance to tell her?” he suggests kindly. A first great-grandchild of King Daeron II, a Targaryen child, even on that is part Stark, sired by someone other than Valarr will no doubt add more pressure on the couple, on Kiera, and while he knows both Kiera and Valarr will be happy for himself and Aly, he also knows there will be hurt.

And Valarr, bless him, nods and gives one last hug, to both him and Aly, before taking his leave.

“Ahem.”

Aly tilts her head, forcing Daeron to do so as well, and they both now are looking at Wyle, who has his arms crossed, a playful frown, and also has Shadow by his side wearing a matching expression of disapproval.

“Better I walk in on you both being indisposed in your tent than anyone else. Do be careful next time,” he huffs, a flush on his own face. It would not be the first time Wyle has walked in on them, it would not be the last, but he does make a good point. Perhaps it was too public a place.

“Ah, well, yes, we will endeavor to do better.”

“You better as here comes your father.”

Which is how he turns around, still using Aly as something to prop his body up against and as partially a shield, to see his father not quite stomping, but not entirely happy to see them. No Aegon at his side, which can be causing the frustration plain on the man’s face, and Daeron knows he made a slightly wrong choice to take his reward instead of going to look for his little brother.

His father stops right in front of all three of them, looking both of them up and down, a deepening scowl, and shakes his head. His mouth is opening, most likely to chastise them, and raises his hand.

“I am with child, goodfather.”

Daeron pauses, and twists just so he can look at Aly’s face as she speaks, eyes a bit brighter than usual, and yes, there is a mark or two on her neck if anyone was looking closely and her hair shifted, but she is saying the words quickly and without any sort of flourish. Plain as day stating the facts. Just for that he puts a kiss on her cheek before turning back to face his father.

Prince Maekar, the Anvil of Redgrass, fourth son of King Daeron II, Prince of Summerhall, pauses in the just before the start of what was to be a lecture. Stunned into silence. A moment of calm seems to come over him as he just looks right at Aly, then to her stomach, back to her face, and then…

A smile.

His father is smiling.

Daeron cannot remember when he last saw an outright true, large, generally glad smile on his father’s face.

Before his mother’s death, he was sure of that.

“Some good fucking news, finally. Congratulations, dear girl, and thank you.” Maekar sounds relieved, almost generally excited, and for a singular moment this tourney and losing Aegon seems not to worry him.

At this Wyle also takes a turn to pipe in, almost gleeful. “Also, Daeron did joust today. Broke three lances with Valarr before they both got knocked off, which I would say is an improvement.”

Traitor. Absolute traitor.

His father looks, well, not as impressed with that, but it is an improvement. Daeron is still using Aly as a shield, because that news is far more important than breaking a couple of lances, really. “It was nothing, truly, not as significant as Aly being with child, your future first grandchild, and that I would think something to celebrate more so than me staying atop a horse,” he admits, giving a little shove to put Aly more front and center.

His father seems to agree because he says absolutely nothing about the joust, despite looking rather pleased to hear there is something of a change, however small, in his eldest son. Instead he takes both of Aly’s hands, looking her dead in the eye, and nodding. “It is a battlefield of its own, being with child and bringing life into this world. Risky business. But I have no doubt you will rise to the occasion.”

Perhaps if he were a braver man he might say something to his father, or ask him why the sudden change, but he is not feeling particularly brave at the moment, and would rather just let his father have this. A contentment of the situation.

No congratulations for him, but really, is it all on Aly now.

“You three, go look for your brother. I will go to the castle and deal with telling my brother the good news,” he adds, letting go of Aly’s hands and turning. A dismissal but one that is lacking expletives and general sternness that he has come to associate with his father over the years.

Daeron watches his father’s retreating figure, lighter footed than before, and daresay positively cheery for the man?

A tug is at his hair and he looks down at Aly, going to wrap her back up in his arms.

“Hungry. Can we go get some food?”

~~~

Reluctantly they split apart once situably sated with treats from the market vendors. Daeron had been extremely needy, clinging to her as a life depended on it, only letting up to gather yet another snack. Sweet pastries, a few skewers of roasted meats, and even a cup of cider. Unlike the day before there is a ravenous need for food, her appetite coming back since she had taken to nibbling on candied ginger.

Wyle had slipped away first, heading to check the furthest points of the tourney grounds, as well as the general tree line around it. Something about a possible hedge knight knowing where Aegon had gone, and maybe he might be there.

After that it had just been her, Daeron, and Shadow, and she had pointed out that Daeron did promise his sisters gifts from the tourney, as they were not given permission to attend yet. A few pokes and prods, and he had let her go to see about possibly getting some sort of doll or puppet for each of them, selling at one of the vendors of the market, but had left explicit instructions with her, their guard, and Shadow to stay put, as he and another guard went off in search of toys and possible Aegon sightings.

And truly, she would have stayed put had there not been a crowd gathering at a larger tent. A loud crowd. An unruly crowd, and she walks towards it with a sudden overwhelming feeling of urgency. Something is guiding her there, be it intuition or perhaps the gods themselves. Each footstep brings her closer to the source of the crowd.

There is chaos at a puppet show.

Alysanne thinks of her father.

Beron Stark was practical. Stern when he needed to be. Warm with those he loved. But there was stern, calculating coldness that she had learned at his heels, that all of his children had learned. Some mastered it more than others. A stance, a way of carrying himself, steel in his spine as if he were born with it. Ice in his veins. Winter come again in his words. A Lord of Winterfell who carried himself as if he were the King of Winter once more.

Whenever she misbehaved as a child, it was not merely her mother she was to show her face too.

Her father was there. Always. With all of them.

He was not Father then, but Lord Stark.

She needs that now.

A shift in posture, a straightening of the spine, and any sort of warmth bleeds out the moment her eyes lock onto Aerion within the confines of the tent. Hands are kept in front and by her side. Smallfolk give her a wide berth, and not merely due to Shadow’s hulking form. Her companion is silent. No growls. No snarls. Even the guards move as she breezes past.

A scene unfolds.

Chaos comes to stand still as she steps forward and puts a hand on a small bald headed child’s frame, knowing that the search has finally come to an end, just in time to hear Aegon threaten the livelihood of the guards with Maekar’s name. Her eyes look down to meet Aegon’s own and her displeasure bleeds through, though not at him, not quite.

“That is enough.”

 Not to them. But to Aegon. Because he has done enough and now it falls to the adults now to take charge.

Her gaze flickers back to the party, a Dornish puppeteering group it seems, and she lets her eyes scan the disaster of a tent. Damaged puppets. Broken bodies. A girl on the stage clutching her hand, fingers snapped clean. Then landing on the figure in the middle, held down by guards.

The hedge knight from the inn.

Daeron’s dream.

Damn the gods for this.

This needs to be controlled. Contained somehow. Before it spreads like wildfire and ignites something larger than what can be stopped.

If someone were to go against their prince, their king, they must have a reason for it. Figure out why, then fix the problem. A ruler who is benevolent may earn their people’s love, but at the same time must take a heavy hand against true acts of sedition. Weeding out what merits concern is a skill to learn, one you must master if you are to be a lady of a great house, a prince’s wife, Alysanne.

Her father was both feared and loved. Prince Baelor was. Maekar may not be as loved but was respected enough and ran a tight enough ship at Summerhall, governed his lands justly and fairly, and that had been enough.

These are guards she knows. Has ridden with. Has seen them patrolling the Red Keep, Summerhall, and are well known in the household. Some even dare to look embarrassed as she assesses each and every face, not bothering to hide her displeasure at having to step into the position as lady of the household at a bloody puppet show because they could not act as honorable individuals for a single evening.

With Dyanna Dayne gone, it fell onto her, as the highest ranking lady within Summerhall’s walls, upon her marriage. Her word will trump Aerion, as the heir’s wife, second only to Daeron’s word, and all of them beholden to Prince Maekar and Prince Baelor.

They know it.

She knows it.

Slowly her fingers work the ties of a coin pouch, one of the two she keeps. The plainer one, in sight, and a second, more ornate, hidden in her pockets. The ties to the plain brown pouch are undone, and once it is untied, she walks over to the stage, down to the broken girl, and nods, placing the bag in front of her. Gold dragons, enough that would last them several years if properly managed.

“For your fingers, your puppets, and any damage done to this place, your person, and your troupe’s injuries. And my personal apologies, however little comfort they may be. Myself, as well as my husband, Prince Daeron, do not condone this sort of violence in any way.”

“She is a trai-”

A low growl cuts off the protest from Maekar’s second son, and Alysanne knows she does not need to turn around to see the barred teeth on Shadow’s muzzle.

Deliberately she takes her time as she rises, turning to face the culprit. A bloodied face, mostly from the mouth. The hedge knight must have struck him hard, and knowing Aerion, he will want a pound of flesh and then some. Grey meets lilac, lighter than his brother’s. Colder and crueler. The problem now is that the hedge knight is a commoner, Aerion is a prince, and the law favors Aerion.

No matter the cause or justification, the hedge knight did something that cannot be taken back.

Damn Aerion and his superiority.

This needs to be stopped before it turns into a bloodbath in this tent.

“The hedge knight will be brought to the castle where he will be spoken to, in accordance with all laws and customs of Westeros, and not a single hair must be out of place,” she states softly, never once raising her voice, never turning her gaze away from Aerion. “You will be escorted as well, separately, to your father, along with Aegon and myself.”

And here is the push back.

Aerion steps forward, drawing himself up to his full height. It would work, perhaps, if they were not close enough in stature that his gaze and hers were nearly level. His posturing, his haughty air, the way he licks his lips, tilting her head, expecting her to roll over; it reminds her of a child being told no for the first time.

“And if I refuse, goodsister? Remind me, which one of us has royal blood in their veins?”

He speaks simply. Without any threat of violence. Almost as if he were bored. Dismissive. His blood trumping her own, as if slightly over two hundred years of rule trumps over eight thousand.

They were dragon masters once. But now there are no more dragons, and for all that Aerion thinks he is one made flesh, he is just a man.

She thinks of her father and uncle, and what they would do to Aerion Targaryen at this moment.

Beron Stark would send him out in the freezing cold of night straight to the godswood to repent. No blankets, no layers, just himself and the gods.

Lonnel Snow would set him running in the wolfswood and then set wolves upon him for such disrespect. Not to kill, not that, but would not tell him either.

Alysanne cannot do that here.

“You will follow my wife’s command, little brother, lest you be reminded of how rank and obedience works. As someone who was most undoubtedly a bright scholar, you do remember how that goes? Or have you taken such a leave from your senses that I should ask for a refresher from our father? He shall be in quite the educational mood once he hears just why you are forgetting yourself.”

 An arm slinks around her shoulder, protective and warm, and she looks up to see Daeron’s face, an easy smile plastered on his lips. Hair disheveled, his cheeks just red enough, and sweat slightly beading on his forehead, her Daeron. And yet when she looks at his eyes, his lovely, beautiful, purple and violet eyes that are always so warm, when they reach Aerion there is nothing but frosty judgement.

“He thinks himself a dragon in human flesh. Above all others save yourself, uncle, and the king. He may listen to me, but only if it suits him, and he will not follow any order given to him by my wife.”

“He will fucking obey it even if I have to beat it into him.”

Daeron kept his tone light. Conversational. As if he were speaking about the weather they found wanting, or perhaps about the food they indulged in; on purpose. But his eyes, oh how they were as cold as the snows from the North. One could expect an inferno of fury from a member of the House of the Dragon, but there is something to be said about how the cold can burn just as dangerously as the heat.

Aerion says nothing. Unsteady, he looks at Daeron, eyes raking up and down, taking in his brother's form. Not swaying. Not shaking. A steady body who is cementing his position within their family’s pecking order. Firstborn son. The heir, not the spare as Aerion is. Aerion, for all his dismissive attitude, his lackadaisy and carefree cruelty, has something behind his eyes that burns when he looks at Daeron.

Jealousy. Contempt. Desire. Want.

It is not the first time she has seen that. Most likely it will not be the last.

Daeron, for his part, stands beside her, arms still around as if proclaiming her to be his in front of all who may witness. Proclaiming his position clear. He expects his wife to be listened to with all the appropriate honors according to her station, and nothing less will do. And that would include his young brothers, both of them, within the text, as his gaze slowly slides onto Aegon, an eyebrow raised.

She then sees Wyle appearing, good humor wiped from his own face, and he steps forward to place a hand on Aegon, fingers curling around the dirty cloth of his disguise, and taking in the scene with some akin to disgust. He says nothing but lets the look linger on Aerion, and she knows the prince can feel the eyes now all falling onto him. Not just Wyle’s. Aegon’s. Daeron’s. The smallfolks’. The nobles’. All those who have gathered here are watching him and not in any way, shape, or form that he wishes.

Aerion says nothing.

What he does do, to the surprise of Alysanne, is turn and walk, several guards flanking his side. Nothing else is said. Nothing needs to be said. Not here.

Her gaze tilts back to Daeron, who has not let his eyes stray from the direction in which Aerion went. Almost without thinking he pulls her close and starts to guide her away, Shadow at her heels, and as they walk, a hand goes out of rest on Aegon’s shoulder, leading him as much as Wyle does. A message loud and clear: no more running off, no more disappearing, no sneaking away to the hedge knight.

“Will they hurt Ser Duncan?”

Aegon. Small and childish and hurt, because for all he stood strong and tall against Aerion before, the reality of the situation is falling into place. And by they, it is clear Aegon means Prince Maekar and Prince Baelor. His family.

It is not her or Wyle who answers, but Daeron. Because he would know best out of all of them, what may come of the hedge knight. “You must understand that this is likely not going to end well, Aegon, for anyone. Not Aerion, but more so for the hedge knight. A commoner laying hands on a prince, even one as far from succession as Aerion, is no small thing, even if Aerion did provoke this,” Daeron explains discreetly as they walk along the grounds, the path ahead of them being cleared by guards.

“But Wyle-”

“I am a noble, little prince, and a friend of your brother and goodsister besides. The rules are slightly different, but even I would be in trouble if I were in Ser Duncan’s place. Perhaps not as much, but very much still in trouble.”

“But-”

“Aegon, hush. Now is not the time,” comes the chiding, and she can see that Daeron does not want to speak anymore on this. Not out here in public.

Silence reigns over their walk. Some smallfolk stare. Some nobility shake their heads. A few dare mutter comments under their breath, mostly towards the prince in front and the hedge knight, and several tip their heads toward herself and Daeron.

Strange, how days ago they would deride him as a drunk.

And now they are bowing heads in respect. For taking care of a problem that they did not wish to have.

~~~

It seems for once his father’s ire is not on him. A pity that he could not spare Aegon the wrath, with the dressing down Maekar had started to give the boy upon seeing, but his littlest brother had to have known that his disappearing act would lead to this end eventually. Aegon is eventually dismissed, sooner rather than later, due to Baelor needing Maekar to help sort out just what had occurred at the puppet show and why there was a hedge knight currently sitting in a cell. Unfortunately that also includes himself and Aly being present, though Wyle is given the task of taking Aegon to a room that is for his use and making sure that the boy is properly outfitted as befitting his rank.

His father’s command, of course, which included a bath and thorough scrubbing.

And now there they were to gather in a hall, listening to the tale that Aerion had spun, of treasonous puppet shows depicting slaying dragons to represent deposing the royal family, of Aegon defending a hedge knight that kidnapped him, and of himself being attacked by the rabid giant when all he was doing was defending his family’s honor and reputation.

“You mean to tell me you think the telling of Serwyn of the Mirror Shield, a well known legend of Westerosi origin dating back to the Age of Heroes, is treason?” pipes up Aly, who cannot hold her tongue in this moment, the disbelief heavy in her words. Daeron already has a headache coming on as he clearly sees the burning anger in Aerion’s eyes, all directed towards her. “Forgive me, are we to outlaw every tale that has dragonslaying? Galladon of Morne, Crackbones, Davos the Dragonslayer? All of which were popular tales long before Targaryens even had dragons to begin with? Or what about the Dance of Dragons, your own history?”

Daeron needs a nap. And a drink. But mostly a nap, because he has to outright glare at his brother before any sort of insult or remark can be thrown at Aly’s person.

Thankfully it is then that his uncle comes in, looking far more worn and tired than Daeron has seen him in years, even when they had gone North, and his father looks more concerned for his brother than his son at this point. Annoyance at Aerion, of course, disbelief that his son would get up to such violent antics without just cause, and barely simmering rage.

Ser Duncan is brought in, eventually, and the crime is read. Of course there is an argument put forth that the altercation was justified, but as it stands the law is clear.

And then comes the request for a Trial by Combat, which he is sure that is his uncle’s doing.

And of course Aerion tries to refuse, and is told he cannot, because Aerion has seen how Ser Duncan fared against multiple guards. Surely he could just withdraw his complaint if he wished to stay in one piece. But Daeron sees the glint in his brother’s eye.

“A Trial of Seven, I believe that is my right.”

Oh fuck.

“And not merely for my honor, but for crimes committed against my brother as well. Did the hedge knight not steal Aegon away from Daeron while he slept?”

And now it is Daeron’s turn to butt in, because of course Aerion is going to twist this into something that favors himself. “Absolutely not. My honor need not be redeemed as there was no crime committed against me. Aegon went seeking the hedge knight of his own free will, as you damn well know. Do not use me for your attempt at hiding behind ancient law and practices," he replies, sulking at the attempt to drag him into this mess even more than he already is.

Yet the damage is done. It is, in fact, Aerion’s right, as his uncle explains, and no one can stop this from happening. He watches as his father yanks Aerion away, calling him an idiot in front of not just his uncle, but of their hosts and several others, and they are all dismissed.

Ser Duncan needs six knights.

Daeron can give him one, even if he is sure his father will force him to ride for Aerion’s sake.

“We need to find Wyle,” he whispers softly, and stands. He needs to find his friend, who will be with Aegon, and then perhaps Ser Duncan after that. Wyle will do this and is good enough not to get himself killed. He already knows his father will ride for Aerion, without a doubt, and most likely will get the Kingsguard on his side. That leaves one and he doubts Baelor will ride, as well as Valarr.

He takes Aly’s hand, the headache pounding in his head not from the lack of drink but mostly from the chaos that has descended upon this castle. They weave through the halls and make it to the room Aegon is in, stepping into the chambers without bothering to knock or announce.

Of course the boy is crying. And of course Wyle is there, patting him on the back, a mournful look on his face. No doubt his father was just here, telling Aegon the outcome of this mess, and what will be done.

“Dry your eyes. We have work to do, or rather you have work to do, for your hedge knight,” he commands, wishing that it was not his turn to be the responsible adult in the room. Three pairs of eyes turn to lock in on him, and he really does wish there was another way going about this.

“Wyle, I need you to ride for Ser Duncan.”

“Daeron, you sure? Your father said you were to ride for your brother.”

“Exactly. You will ride against me, and the Kingsguard will not hurt you too much. Neither will my father. And you happen to be better than Aerion and anyone he can bother finding for his seventh, so just avoid father and you will be fine.”

One down. It may be up to Aegon and Ser Duncan now, but he has to get his little brother to Ser Duncan without alerting his father, and the only way to do that is to sneak away.

“Aly, you need to provide cover and possibly an excuse. Anything believable as to why myself and Wyle might be out of the castle,” he explains, holding her hand. He pulls her close, pressing a kiss on her forehead and gives a weak smile. “I know you do not enjoy lying but you must for this to work.”

Thankfully she nods and hugs him tightly, no protest at this turn of events, heading out of the chamber. Most likely to order a bath and make her excuses for them all. He watches her retreating figure if only for a moment too long, before turning back to his brother and friend.

“Wyle, go tell my uncle you are for Ser Duncan, and meet us… where would your knight go, Aegon?”

“The Fossoway tent, I think, we can start there. Or the Baratheon pavilion.”

“Fuck, ok, we’ll try the apple men first, and if we must go to the stags, then fine, but there first and if we can avoid Lord Lyonel, the better.”

Aegon, bless him, perks up at that, scrambling to his side as Wyle leaves. The little boy looks up, a tiny grin on his face now.

Daeron does not need to be a dragon dreamer to know the next question out of his brother’s mouth.

“Did Shadow really steal Lord Lyonel’s crown off his head?”

“Yes, now focus. Who do you think may fight for Ser Duncan?”

If they can play their cards right, if Aegon can get the right men, then perhaps there might be hope for the hedge knight after all. Only, if there is hope for the hedge knight, then what does that mean for the dragon from his dreams?

Daeron knew that he was lazy. A side effect of the wine consumption, partially, and partially due to the dragon dreams that tended to plague him. He lost sleep often enough that his tiredness did shift to laziness, and that he did not see the need to perform well in the training yards when Aerion was there. On a personal note there was little to be driven about, and thus he was lazy by default. 

And yet…

He is now the master of the keep, so to speak. With his father still at the Red Keep, Daeron is now the highest ranking member of the family present within the walls. And with his mother with his father, that leaves Alysanne to be the lady of the keep as well.

He knows why his father had done this. It is a test. To sink or swim, to manage a household, to show he is now moving past the troubles of his teenage years as he grows into a young adult. He has no doubts that Maester Melaquin is sending reports to his father about how Daeron is doing. Expects it to happen, even, with the headaches that Maekar always had when dealing with him.

But he cannot say that he is unhappy. Opposite in reality. Truthfully, Daeron feels lighter than he ever has before, and it is not merely being away from the Red Keep keeping his spirits up.

The main library at Summerhall is a grand thing. Two sets of large windows with a cushioned sitting area for each against the southern facing wall. On two of the other walls are shelves upon shelves of books, tomes that carry across a plethora of topics. Double doors are on the forth, where the entrance is, with a large cabinet housing parchment, inks, quills, pens, and even several sets of linen gloves for careful handling. Several small tables are scattered throughout, with plush chairs for reading and reclining, and a large desk is in the center should one wish to work at it.

His mother chose the furnishings, from every chair to the plush rug underneath his feet, and even the cushions by the windows.

And currently at that large desk is where he is sitting. A small stack of papers sits on one side, fresh parchment and a pot full of ink and several pens and quills lay beside it. A seal, his own personal arms lay next to the pot, along with a stick of red wax and a candle.

And right now Daeron is incredibly content, sitting right across from his wife.

Alysanne has her own small pile of papers. Correspondence from her family in Winterfell and beyond, a letter from Kiera in King’s Landing, and one from her uncle who is currently somewhere in Westeros and using not a raven, but a hawk to send his letters back and forth.

As for himself, Daeron is dealing with several reports on the current planting season now that winter is finally leaving, letters from his father, uncle Baelor, and the King, two pages alone from Wyle who is in Old Town, and a letter from Valarr who is currently at Dragonstone for his father.

“Are you looking over the plans for the upcoming planting season?

“Mmhm they are seemingly fine unless you wish to take a look yourself.”

She puts down the letter she was writing and he hands over the reports gathered by Maester Melaquin, the tenants' and farmers’ plans for the coming spring, what crops they are to grow and when, new lands they will plow, and the possible figures for their future stores.

He watches as she scans the lines, scratching notes on a spare piece of parchment, and hands it back to him. Their fingers touch briefly, lingering longer than strictly necessary. “They seem not concerned with possible blight or famine. Is that usual?” she asks, and Daeron hums thoughtfully.

“We could request they take precautions with crop rotation,” he suggests, writing that down. “Planting seeds in new areas. New positions.”

It will mean another conversation with Melaquin, but that can be done later.

What is more important is how his wife’s foot is currently rubbing up against his leg, and he shifts every now and then, trying to go back to his letters. Except that the foot is now rubbing higher and higher, and yet Alysanne seems perfectly serene as his face slowly is growing warmer.

Maybe letters can wait.

“Aly?”

“Mmmhmm”

“Are you attempting to seduce me during a conversation about planting season?”

The look she gives him is the picture of innocence. Ha, unlikely. But it is not exactly flirting material, though the foot keeps moving upwards, and he puts away the papers into one neat pile.

Daeron considers the space. The large desk. The couches. The windows with the seating areas. The sunlight in the room. The fact is no one will bother them as of this moment unless it is an emergency.

“Aly… do you like this room?”

“I like the room. It is very big. And has many spaces. Open spaces. Flat spaces.”

Ah, now he understands.

“Aly.”

“Yes?”

“Do you wish to sit on the desk?”

Lips curl into a smile as his wife primly puts her own correspondence aside and slowly stands, smoothing out wrinkles on her skirts. Ever so slowly she walks around to his side of the desk. Hands brace behind her and she pushes herself up to sit on top of it. Daeron adjusts his own spot, scooting the chair closer to the edge, hands slipping underneath her skirts and parting her legs slowly. Smooth, soft skin. He lets them linger on her thighs, not quite close enough to where he is sure she wishes them to be. He smells cinnamon and he knows it must be the soaps and oils she uses when she bathes.

“Planting season, Aly?”

“Mmhmm.”

“And you think, me, a farmer?”

“You do have seed.”

Daeron cannot help the laugh, a low chuckle of amusement, and he shakes his head. Oh, hands are now in his hair, and he leans into the touch, eyes fluttering closed for a minute. Several actually. “Terrible pun, you know, dear one.”

“You have seed, you plow fertile ground, you keep it wet and moist to ensure proper plowing and growing conditions, you tend to the fertile ground most diligently as any farmer does…”

Well now it is a full blown laugh and he cannot help it, even as he continues to slowly move his own hands up her thighs and hovering directly where he knows she wishes they would be. There is a gentle tug on his hair and he looks up to see his wife, eyebrows raised in expectation.

“Now you shall tend to fertile ground, most diligently, Farmer Daeron.”

Ah with a request said so sweetly, how could he say no?

~~~

Dining during supper is a strange, formal affair, even if it is merely the two of them. The maester would join them maybe once per week, though he would seek either of them out if they were truly needed, but most times supper is only them two, alone, in a formal room, with Daeron on one end of a table and herself on the other.

Alysanne makes nearly two weeks of this arrangement before it comes to a head.

She lifts up her plate, her knife, and her cup, ignoring the stunning look from the serving girl in the corner and the page boy who is there to assist, and stands. Daeron is poking at his meal, not particularly interested in eating yet, and she shakes her head.

It takes five long strides to reach his end of the table, plop herself down to his left, and place her own plate, knife, and cup. She picks up her knife, cutting the pieces of chicken on her plate into smaller bites, then goes to rip up the bread. Easy to handle. Easy to hold between her fingers.

Daeron turns his head to her, watching, purple eyes slowly wide, and he rests his head on one of his hands, watching her as she works through her plate.

And then, she offers up a piece of bread to him, holding it out with her thumb and pointer finger, close to his lips, and raises an eyebrow.

Her husband, bless him, takes the hint, and opens up his mouth for her to put the piece of bread in. Yet she does not move her fingers quick enough, and lips wrap around them both, slowly, deliberately, gently sucking. It should not be as obscene as it is. But her face is flustered.

“You may leave us now. Thank you,” she calls out, voice breathy. The serving girl and page boy take the hint, and they make sure the door is closed when they leave. When Daeron finally lets her fingers go, she picks up a piece of chicken this time, and repeats the process. He does the same, never letting his gaze leave hers.

They make it through half their plates, feeding on another with their fingers, giggling erupting now and then, as if they are naughty children doing something they should not. By that time the sun is starting to set low and they are both flush and giggly, with other things on their minds besides the meal they have been feeding one another.

Daeron, taking initiative in this, holds her wrist in his fingers on that last bite, deliberately not removing his mouth. His gaze is on her, eyes slowly darkening with the telltale sign of just what he is thinking about doing, and Alysanne takes a deep breath in, heat rising. She does not need to say anything, as her gaze flickers over to the dining table, then back to Daeron.

The plates and cups are shoved off to the side as he suddenly stands, and grabs her, hoisted her up on the table for better access to the ties on her bodice, and starts to place heavy kisses along exposed skin, leaving marks as he nips and sucks and bites a path along and up her neck. “Dessert in our rooms, dear one,” he mumbles, and when she slides off the table, they both break into a run towards the bedchambers.

~~~

Wyle comes around a moon later, a welcome sight for them both.

It is not that he is interrupting anything. Aly’s uncle departed as soon as he saw the weirwood planted in the new godswood and left with a quip about not making him a grand-uncle too soon as he felt rather old now. Daeron had taken it in stride and even waved as the man set off to gods know where, Wyle alongside him if only to provide company up until they reached the next major holdsfast.

That Wyle is here now, alone and without any other traveling companion, is not worrying at all. Aly had mentioned it was in Lonnel’s nature to do such travels and her uncle was dangerous enough that unless his letters stopped they would not need to worry. Wyle had told them how they parted ways, spending the night at a tavern that was halfway to Blackhaven, and that Lonnel seemed rather nostalgic. He had then set out on his own, wanting to explore the Dornish Marches and see as much of it as possible, if only to satisfy his own curiosity about how things were done in the south.

And now he was back, for a week or so, to rest and catch up.

Which was how the three of them found themselves in the grassy fields just outside the walls of Summerhall, laying across several blankets and pillows, a basket of snacks and drinks beside them. Daeron was resting his head in Aly’s lap as she ran fingers through his hair. The sensation alone is nearly enough to have him drift into some strange fuzzy space, and he nearly purrs with pleasure when her nails dig into just the right spot. Her bow and quiver lay off to the side, he and Wyle having thrown apples into the air just to see if she could hit every single one with missing.

Wyle, for his part, was half sprawled on the ground and partially on Daeron, using a thigh as a pillow. In turn, Shadow has claimed Wyle’s stomach as her pillow, an honor of course. It is a comfortable weight, keeping him present as the sun shines down on them all, warming all members of their little party.

“And then I asked if there were any rooms, and of course there were, so the nice madame led me upstairs. And remember, it did not look like a brothel or a pillowhouse, but merely a quiet inn, so of course I knew none the wiser,” comes from Wyle, as he is telling a story. Something about traveling, about an inn he was staying at. Daeron is still in his hazy mindset, absently listening and drifting into how pleasant it is at the moment.

“And she leads me to a room, asks for a few silver stags, and of course I pay. So I lay on the bed, intending to get some sleep, when in comes this lady, lovely thing, truly, she asks if I am ready for her, and if she is not to my liking, she has brought her friend. Who is a young gentleman, very handsome, and they both kiss, and there I am, staring because I thought this was an inn. However it seemed rude to leave so I stayed. They were very nice to talk to.”

A snort of laughter sounds from Aly who seems not surprised at this at all and he cracks open an eye, looking at the man who has his head resting on his thigh.

“You mistook a pillowhouse for an inn and paid for not one, but two whores? Of both a woman and a man?” he asks, slightly surprised. Not that he himself is a prude of any kind, just that he did not think Wyle was the type of man to do something like that. Or actually end up staying the evening.

Wyle huffs. “It did not look like a pillowhouse! Or at least any I have been in, and how did they know to bring both sheath and sword? We had an excellent conversation and quite the time that night.” There is a flush on his face, from where Daeron can see, and it looks like he is remembering just what had happened.

“Ah, so you did bed them both.” Aly again, and she is still running her fingers through Daeron’s hair as she speaks, not stopping. If anything the strokes have gotten a bit deeper, hitting the right spots, and he leans into her touch as they continue their conversation.

“Well it would have been rude not to do so when they were very nice and indulge my need for conversation and questions.”

Daeron blinks. He was not aware Wyle fancied both men and women, which to him was not a problem, so much as it would be for others. That Aly was saying as much and teasing him was a surprise to him, and he tilted his head up. Clearly some confusion must show in his face, because she is now frowning and he hates to see her frown.

“Do not take this wrong, but I was not aware you were of such an open mind as my own is, dear one, and not minding such preferences,” he clarifies and lets a smile cross his face. Well this was good. Truthfully, he could care less about the preferences of bits one had for a partner, so long as all were of age, mind, and willing. It was more of the blood relations that tended to worry him. And for all he was a Targaryen, he also was Dornish, and his mother was Dornish too. He does not know who his uncle Rhagael could justify marrying the twins to one another, as it makes his stomach turn a bit.

“Mmm our lovely Wyle here had puppy eyes for both my sister and my brother Artos. He was in tears when Artos left for Karhold.”

“I was not in tears, merely had dust in my eyes, as you well know, and Berena may be pretty, but is a right bitch… wait, no, sorry Shadow, that is an insult to bitches.”

Both of them look at Daeron who has gone quiet, thinking over, and they look a tad bit worried. He shakes his head and lays it back down on Aly’s stomach now, and whines a bit till she starts up with the scratches. “Well did you both bed the lady or did the nice gentleman bend you over instead?” he asks, a bit curious now as to Wyle's own preferences in bedsport, if only for educational purposes. “Because that would involve stretching and oil, a bit messy and painful if one has not done it before, but is quite nice when done with the right preparations.”

The hand stops. He lets out another whine, and looks up, pouting at his wife. Greeted by a confused look, and… did she just lick her lips?

“Daeron… have you bedded a man before?”

Both northerners look at him, and this was not how he was anticipating the day, and why does his wife look like she wants to eat him alive? Very much a wolf. Actually, he finds himself enjoying that look.

“... perhaps… before marriage was ever a possibility… a few times… there were women and a few men…” And now he blushes deeply, and while he does have experience, he never thought he would ever speak of such things with his wife of all people. Perhaps maybe Wyle now, but not Aly, and it is not so much embarrassing as it is making him warmer.

“Would you like that, if I were to attempt such a thing?”

Oh. Oh dear. He does not mean to let out a choked whine, especially when her hand is in his hair, and it is tugging right where he likes it, and if he wiggling just a tad, he is trying to get the right angle to look at his wife with the biggest pleading eyes he can manage. With a lip wobble to boot. Not sure how she would try, given she very much has not the sword parts, but fingers might suffice.

Wyle, the traitor ruining his potential good time, groans at this revelation. “Lovely. Another thing to keep me up at night while you two go at it like wolves in heat or dragons mating. If we stick to house symbols. And you know very damn well, Alysanne Stark, that is not how you make a child.”

As if she agrees, Shadow lets out a woof of her own, furry head still not moving from its place on Wyle’s stomach.

~~~

The raven came scarcely two moons after they settled. Dark wings, dark words.

It takes several quiet, long seconds before she remembers how to breathe. It takes several more before her head slowly lifts from the parchment in her hands, and she looks at Maester Melaquin, doing her best to hold herself together.

“Have four of our swiftest horses ready to depart within the hour, and the two best riders of the household guards notified they are to come with Daeron and myself. Let the cook know to prepare provisions. The maids will need to pack lightly for us, all black if possible. Bedrolls as well, two tents, and what else can fit on each rider’s horse. If we ride light, hard, and fast… there should be time.”

“Of course, my lady. And Prince Daeron?”

Alysanne swallows hard, the grief being muted by duty that is now required of her.

“I will inform my husband myself. Thank you Melaquin.”

“Of course, my lady. I truly am sorry.”

He leaves her, standing there in the library, alone and with her sorrow. Eyes flutter close. Focus now. Breathing in for four, holding for four, exhaling for four. A second time. A third time. Eyes open and she springs on her heel, heading out through the doorway and towards where she knows Daeron will be this time of day.

Her husband had taken to drawing, a habit of his youth forgotten but picked up once they had come to Summerhall. At this time he would be in the gardens, out in the sunlight, at her insistence that he do something he finds pleasing and soothing other than drinking. It seemed to bring him joy and she enjoyed watching him work, the way he picked up a piece of charcoal in his fingers and how his hands would move across the canvas. For his nameday this year, she had ordered pastel sticks, a custom set with as many colors as possible.

She finds him there, in the garden.

He looks peaceful. He looks content.

This will hurt.

As absorbed as he is, Daeron does not notice her walking towards him, and only looks up when she stands in his light. His smile is a thing of beauty, something she had noticed he shared with his mother. Her coloring is his coloring. For all he had his father’s height and then some, he had his mother’s beauty, and in this moment, with serene calm in his eyes, he is so very easily a picture from a song.

This will hurt.

It must show on her face, anguish of the task now, and he puts down the sketchbook he had been working on. His mother’s face, among a field of flowers, and a figure off in the distance. Did he dream that last night?

Wordlessly she hands him the letter, and puts both her hands on his shoulders to steady him as he reads.

Breath.

In and out. 

In and out.

In and out.

Arms are snaking around her waist and she feels when he presses his head against her stomach, shaking despite the warmth of the day. Trying not to cry. Trying not to surrender to the oncoming onslaught of dread. Trying to remember that there may be time and they may make it. They must make it. No other option will suffice.

“You have already started preparations.”

“Of course. Two guards, our fastest horses, no wheelhouse. Lightly packed.”

“Ours?”

“I am riding with you.”

“... thank you, Aly.”

~~~

King's Landing, The Red Keep, 207 AC

They make the trip in a week. It should take anywhere between two or three weeks, but with the small group they are, the fastest horses, and only stopping when they absolutely need to, it still takes a week.

Daeron thought he would protest her going but Alysane had already beaten him on this. And truthfully he needed her with him. Without her, he doubted he would have even made it time, surrendering to the wineskin brought along long before they had made it even a quarter of the length needed to travel. Sleeping in a tent pitched themselves was not ideal but she never complained, only asked what she might do to help. Shadow was their guard, having gotten large enough in a short amount of time that the still growing wolfdog was able to run and keep up with the horses, and their ever vigilant guard during the night.

He would fish for their meals if they were stopped by water for a night. Catch the fish, clean the fish, cook the fish, something his father had instilled in all his sons when they were young, and it was one of the cherished memories he had of his childhood that was not marred by the heavy expectations. And while he did that, she shot down birds, mostly small game, much to the surprise of their escort. Shadow would run forward and bring back the fallen creature, and they would cook it up besides his fish.

They push themselves. Long days starting early and ending late, as much distance traveled as possible without killing their horses. Even Daeron, the poorest rider of their small ground, kept the pace with sheer determination to make it in time to the Red Keep.

They ride in without fanfare. No announcements. No cheering. Just them.

It suits the moment.

He dismounts quickly, much to the surprise of the stable boys that have running, and hands off the reins. The guards had already agreed to take care of the horses the moment they were to enter the Red Keep, and true to their word all Daeron has to do is nod and take Aly’s hand in his, walking with the instruction to take their things to his rooms. They both will change out of their travel clothes later. Time is precious enough as it is. Shadow follows at their heels, keeping up the pace with ease.

Daeron had received letters from his mother during the stay in Summerhall, and he has responded with his own concerns about her health and wellbeing, urging her to make sure to see a maester on the regular, to follow their instructions to the letter, and not to take any unnecessary risks. The dream had come back, the start that was falling, fading away from the night sky after shining so brightly, until it was merely a dull, lifeless thing.

Not yet gone. But close.

Alysanne squeezes her hand in his as they walk through the halls, keeping him in the moment rather than in his head. She was good like that, being there when his mind started to drift away.

A few courtiers and servants stare at them as they walk past, hand in hand. It could be the riding clothing, or it could be that the pair are returning after a time away. Alysanne had dressed in men’s clothing, tailored to her body to avoid any issues that might have arisen with riding in a dress. He must look quite the sight as well, wind swept and hair pulled back. Both of them dusty from travel and still in their riding boots, clicking along the clean floors. Daeron pulls her closer anyway, more for comfort than anything else. He hears the low grow emitting from the wolfdog when anyone lets their eyes linger a moment too long, and will need to remind himself to get her the largest bone in the Red Keep after supper.

“We will see your mother first, then I will go to ensure the rooms are properly prepared. And a bath for both of us. Take your time,” she says softly, while they continue at a rushed pace. Never running, but quickly walking, urgency in their step.

Daeron cannot remember the last time he felt like this. The need to see his mother, or either of his parents.

Maybe after Redgrass, when his father was returning.

But this is different.

His parents share a bed chamber, have always shared a bed chamber since before he can remember, and the rooms are where the rest of the royal family’s are. They make it and sweep past the guards, ignoring the incredulous looks thrown, and steps inside without any sort of fanfare or announcement.

“Daeron!” Ah, there is Daella and Rhae, sitting in plush chairs, and they both jump up to come rushing towards him. He bends down, landing on his knees with a thud, and holds out his arms for both of the girls to come running into the hug.

Aegon too is there, but rather than run for his eldest brother, he sees out of the corner of his eye the boy goes crashing into Alysanne’s legs, and she too sinks to the ground, holding the little boy in her arms as he quietly shakes. Shadow plops herself down in the middle of the room, seemingly aware of all that is going on, and waits to be used as a fluffy, living pillow for the youngest to snuggle close in their grief.

“You smell like horses,” is the muffled observation from Rhae and he chokes back a laugh at that, because of course he would, after a week in the saddle and nearly no way for them to get clean. It would be rivers and streams to get clean in and they had barely stopped as it was, so no time to wash up.

“I spent a week on a horse. Of course I would, silly goose,” he replies softly, knowing that dampness on his tunic is from the girls’ tears of either grief or relief.

Aegon turns his head to look at him and Daeron can see just how broken his littlest brother is already. No crying, not yet, but like the girls he is feeling something he has yet to truly process or understand. They know their mother is very sick, they know she is stuck in bed, and they know the maesters and their father are worried by the tone of their voices. But what they do not understand is just how bad things are going to get.

Daeron knows. Because he dreamt of it.

“We are going to go see your mother now, and then I will come back. Is that all right with you all?” Alysanne is keeping her voice soft and warm, a steady guiding figure while the children are slowly coming to terms with what is happening and will, in fact happen, in the coming days. “Shadow will stay and you can all snuggle up close to her. She has gotten rather big in two moons, big enough for all three of you to use her as a pillow.”

All three seem to think this is a suitable situation and let go of them both, to go sit down next to the pup. Thankfully Shadow is more than calm and lets the children rub her belly, scratch her ears, or lay their heads on next to her fur, and they are suitably distracted enough for Daeron to stand up and guide his wife upright as well. Yet there is something nagging him.

Aerion is not present. Perhaps it is for the best and yet it is their mother who is in her sick bed, their younger siblings afraid and unable to truly understand what is going on, and where is he? In Daeron’s absence he thinks his younger brother would honestly shape up just enough in front of their father. Be the dutiful son.

But he is not here, and Daeron is, and he cannot do anything about that now.

So he does what he must, and holds out his hand. Alysanne takes it, giving a squeeze to remind him that she is by his side. To go where they can follow one another. Eyes meet, and they step forward together.

Inside lies his mother, coughing into a thick cloth. Heavy and wet, and seems to shake her whole body. Her hair is braided back but strands stick to a sweat covered forehead and she seems to need considerable effort in merely forcing herself to breathe. Shrunken and without the life she normally has.

His mother is dying.

His father sits next to her, an image that reminds him of when Maekar had returned home from the field. From fighting to ensure their survival. Hair dischevel, beard no longer neatly trimmed, deep bags under his eyes, and clothing undone. Haunted and already broken, pulling himself together over and over.

Daeron slips into a short bow as Alysanne does her best to curtsey, but his father is waving a hand. “None of that fucking nonsense, just come over here,” he replies, as he takes in their appearance.

“You rode here. Both of you.”

Daeron swallows and manages to meet his father’s gaze. It looks something like approval.

“Yes.”

“It normally takes two weeks. You made it in one.”

“A small party of four and our fastest horses. We camped rather than staying at inns.”

His mother snorts in weak laughter, shaking her head, not in disbelief but in surprise. “You rode a whole week straight on a horse, Daeron?” she asks. Her voice is raspy. It must hurt to speak. His father does not add in anything, only pouring a glass of water, and handing it over to his mother, helping her tip the cup and drink deeply.

“I did. Aly will vouch for me. She was there.”

At this his wife blushes, but she lets go of his hand to pull a chair to the side of the bed, and ushers Daeron in it. “He was determined to keep the pace and get here as quickly as possible,” is what his wife adds, and Daeron catches one of her hands and puts a kiss to it softly. “You talk. I will see to our chambers and perhaps have a bath made up, and a fresh change of clothing.” Reluctantly he lets go of her hand and sighs, before turning his attention back to his mother.

Dyanna smiles. A worn, tired thing, but a true one that meets her eyes. “Tell me everything, Daeron, of your ride, and of these too few moons in Summerhall.”

When he looks back on this, in the quiet of his own rooms, laying awake in his bed and an arm around Alysanne’s sleeping body, he will think of how his mother was so surprised and looked so happy to see him there. How she took delight in knowing yes, he was making sure her favorite parts of the gardens were being tended to, no the castellan did not have the gardener remove her favorite lemon trees, that they were well tended, and of course he made sure to have her favorite tea stocked when it was time to move back.

The bit had gotten him teary but he kept his composure as best he could, especially in front of his father.

He knew, as his father did, that his mother would not be making it to go home to Summerhall.

~~~

Dyanna Dayne dies a week later in her sleep, her body finally giving out.

~~~

She had told Daeron it would not take long, that it would only be for a quick moment, and he had nodded, going to put the younger children to bed while Maekar had dealt with his own grief quietly alongside Baelor.

Dyanna Dayne might have kept the New Golds, but Alysanne follows the Old. So when she goes to pray when Dyanna finally dies, it is within the godswood she goes to seek solace. 

The old oak is an ancient thing but it feels hollow to pray before that. A weirwood, young as it is, is now planted, and she walks along the path to where it has found a new home. Red leaves and white bark, a comfort to her eyes where the old oak is not. She kneels down and stills her body. Eyes close.

In and out. In and out, breathing in and out, over and over till her racing thoughts slow down.

Alysanne prays.

For Dyanna to find her peace after fighting for so long. For Maekar to weather the storm after losing his wife. For their children, to find their way through the grief and madness that is to come. For Daeron, most of all, so his guilt will not destroy him.

The winds shift and rustle the leaves. Eyes open to watch as the shades of red, bloody and brilliant, play against the waning spring light.

“Neither of you could change this. It was always going to end this way. Unlike other roads ahead. Dyanna was always meant to die here, no matter which path was taken.”

Brynden Rivers kneels down next to her, looking up at the dancing leaves as he speaks, soft and smooth as a knife in the back. Neither one looks at each other as they sit and watch as the winds twist and turn before their eyes.

“And yet you have changed your song, Alysanne Stark, you and Daeron both, and now the path forward is muddled by what ifs and possibilities beyond anyone’s eyes, save the gods’.”

Still, she says nothing to the greenseer. What is there to say to him? To beg and plead to know what the future may hold? She has seen it in her nightmares as much as Daeron has in his, and they must find a way to live with those terrors as they break them both into little pieces. Over and over, when they rebuild themselves, always shattering.

“You have seen the Wall fall.”

Silence answers back.

“The dead marching to kill us all.”

How much does he know?

“And Daeron sees Summerhall burn, my family dead and gone.”

Alysanne turns to face Bloodraven, gaze sharp as a dragonglass blade, and yet does not speak.

“Ice and fire. A pact of ice and fire, a song of ice and fire that was not supposed to come till you both were long dead. Do you dream of dragons, Alysanne Stark? Does Daeron dream of dragons when he sleeps?”

A dragon’s bloody head resting on a direwolf’s swollen belly, a muddy, bloody field, and howling in the distance. Eggs being guarded, four splendid, brilliant, wonderful eggs. Flying and running. A dragon’s screech mingled with a direwolf’s howl.

“Why did you not help him? Why did you let him suffer?” she asks instead.

This man does not get to ask about her dreams. He does not get to ask about Daeron’s dreams. Not when it is very clear that Daeron had needlessly suffered because this one person could have helped when it was needed the most.

“Do you remember, my lord, what it is to fear your own mind? To fear what will happen when you close your eyes and rest your head upon a pillow? To be so tormented by what you see that you try to drown out the horrors with whatever means you have?” 

This is not a man who remembers. Not to her. Perhaps he never had such terrible visions. Or perhaps, for all he was blood of the dragon, he was as cold as winter itself. Or maybe he had forgotten what it was like to be a man, mortal and afraid.

Alysanne would bet on that one if she could.

“I owe you nothing, my lord. Not answers to your questions. Not what is in my dreams. But we both know you owe a debt to Daeron, and it is his choice, his alone, to decide what you will do to fulfill it,” she speaks, barely louder than the rustle of leaves. There is nothing he can do or say to make her give him what he seeks out of her.

“Your kin, your great-nephew, suffered because you were so blinded by the one interpretation of a future that may or may not come to pass, and wrote him off as nothing.” She leans in forward, uncaring, unafraid of this one. He is a dangerous man, possibly the most dangerous Targaryen there ever was, and yet she cannot bring herself to feel anything but contempt. “Only the gods truly know what will happen, and even then, they may change their minds. Who are we to truly understand their will?”

Alysanne stands, her spine straight, her head high, and turns.

“You are very much like your uncle.”

A pause. And then she walks away, leaving a parting wish.

“I would hope so, my lord.”

~~~

Daeron lost count after the fourth or fifth cup. He was not exactly sure which one it was but the fact was he did lose his count, and he was not so pleasantly numb, and he knew that he would not dream tonight. Or at the very least he would have something muted, because tonight he did not wish to dream at all.

What he wanted, when his eyes were closed, was the sweet black oblivion of nothing.

No dreams of dragons.

No dreams of green fire.

No dreams of dead stars.

His mother was gone. Starlight went away forever, a falling star that shined so brightly, turned into nothing but the memory of a woman who had loved a man as hard as stone, and gave him a family. He had dreamt of her death. He had tried to warn her of her death. And yet, she was now very much dead, despite his warnings otherwise.

He pours another cup.

He drains the cup.

He pours again.

Repeat.

He is not sure of the time of day. The sky outside the Red Keep has turned a strange mix of reds and pinks and purples. Twilight. Blending the cold light of day to the shadows of the dark night, he takes a long, slow, deep drink from the cup in his hands and stares out the window contemplating the colors that make the sky look like a painting. Another cup poured. Another drink. Another look at the window as the sky is slowly littered with stars that shine not as bright as they do at Summerhall.

He put his sisters to bed, still sniffling their cries. Aegon had stubbornly refused his presence. And now, here he was, drowning his own guilt and sorrow with the very best Dornish reds he could find.

Daeron rises. Slowly. Clumsily. Swaying.

One step to the window.

He takes a sip.

Another step. A third step. A fourth, then a fifth, and he is soon by the window.

Another sip.

The window is open. He can hear the outside, the sounds of King’s Landing moving on without a care that the brightest lady of the keep, a beloved mother and wife and woman is now gone, and Daeron was not able to save her. His own mother is gone and he dreamed about it and now he has to live with that fact for the rest of his life. 

His life.

How short or long will it be?

Daeron has never seen how he will die.

Would he want to know?

Laughter bubbles up and echoes in the silence of the room. Heavy and hollow and he laughs and laughs and laughs till tears are running down his cheeks and the laughter is now turned into sobs. The cup slips from his fingers and drops to the floor as knees give way and he follows.

He does not hear the door open or the heavy sounds of footsteps. He hardly even notices his name being called or when two pairs of arms lift him from the ground and place him into a chair far away from the window. He still sobs into his hands and ignores the pats on his back or how there are circles being rubbed, or that someone is calling for a servant to find his wife.

Someone. Valarr, yes, his cousin? Maybe. Or Wyle. Both of them?

Daeron hardly notices. He hardly cares.

He wants to drink and sleep and forget.

His hand grabs someone’s head, Valarr, yes, his cousin has a blue eye and a brown eye and he pulls the other prince close, breath reeking of the Dornish sour or sweet or both, and eyes are bloodshot and red from drink.

“Daenys, she saved… she saved our line…” His hand goes to the back of Valarr’s head and he rests his forehand against the others and tries to hold back his sobs. “I could not… not even mother, my mother… my own mother… the dreams…”  His head slides down and lands onto Valarr’s shoulder, wet tears starting to soak through the fabric of his shirt. Gods he is pathetic. A mess of a man. A terrible dreamer. The worst of his cursed lot.

What good are his dreams if he cannot change the terrible outcomes?

Damn the dreamers who came before, who heralded this as a gift, when it is nothing but a curse.

“I know… valar morghulis… but… if… my mother…”

Guilt. He feels guilt. That is what this is. Overwhelming guilt and grief and he should have been able to prevent this. Why could he have not?

“Daeron… shhh… she was ill, you are not a maester, she was very ill, and they did everything they could have, it is not your fault,” comes from his cousin, as if he were a babe and not a man now grown. Is he though? Eight and ten, he is only eight and ten, but his father was a man at six and ten, and his brother is more of a man at six and ten than he ever will be, and he cannot think that wedding and bedding his wife would make him a truly a man because a man does not cry like this.

“Did they find her yet?”

“Not sure but… oh, Aly, thank the gods.”

He smells cinnamon. Cinnamon and grass and something else he cannot place and looks up from his cousin to see his wife crossing the distance of the room with urgency that he knows he has seen before but he cannot place it. Not in a dream. No. That would be too painful. He has only ever seen his wonderful, beautiful, lovely wife in good dreams, and those perhaps may end up hurting the most.

He would hurt her. He will hurt her. When will he hurt her?

So deep into his cups now and tears are running down his cheeks. He knows he must look a mess, even when she takes Valarr’s place, and puts both her hands on his face, looking at him with those grey eyes of hers. Big and round and there are bits of green flecked in those grey eyes, Stark eyes, wolf eyes, his dire wolf bride, his Aly, and he will hurt her because Lonnel said he would, and he never wants to hurt her. Like he hurt his mother.

“I could not… Aly, I could not…”

He pushes himself out of the chair and onto his knees, wrestling himself out of her hold and instead pressing his face into her skirts. He can barely stand to face her like this, not when it is his fault. His mother is dead and it is his fault because he should have done something, anything, as he saw it all coming.

“Help me get him to bed.”

No. He does not want the bed. He does not want to sleep. He does not want any of that but there are arms around him, lifting and prying him from his wife’s legs, and he wails, begging them to let him stay down like the dog he is, to leave him to grovel for his failures. It does not matter though as he is forced onto the soft feather stuffed mattress and maneuvered so that he is now on his side, fresh sobs wracking his entire body.

Numb to this, they remove his clothing, leaving him just in his small clothes. A blanket gets wrapped around him, and he barely pays much attention to the dismissal given to the others in his rooms.

What fresh horrors will there be tonight when he closes his eyes?

Will the wine have done the trick?

“Aly,” he mumbles, half a sob, half a prayer, and he feels the bed dip. Arms are going around him from behind and he smells cinnamon once more, and feels the press of lips against his neck.

“I have you, Daeron, I have you and I will not leave you,” comes the whisper, a promise sealed with hands slowly reaching out to hold him. Twisting and turning he instead goes to face her instead, and buries his face into her chest, muffling the sounds of his sobs.

Hands are on his back now. Her hands. Calloused fingers and they make patterns on his back, rhythmically in time, as he distantly hears promises of him being safe, that she is here now, and by his side tonight, and every night thereafter. He can almost believe it. Just a tiny bit.

He will hurt her. His dreams never are good things.

And still, he is so very tired.

Eyes close.

Daeron sleeps.

Daeron, thankfully, does not dream.

~~~

They the ride slowly through the streets of King’s Landing, the procession from the Red Keep to the Great Sept of Baelor, all of them clad in mourning blacks.

A shining sun in the sky, not a single cloud, and it feels warm, too warm, for an early spring day.

Dyanna Dayne is given every honor according to her rank and station.

It does not feel like it will ever be enough.

~~~

“You will take the girls, Aegon, and Aerion back to Summerhall with you both. I will join you shortly after I am finished here.”

It makes sense, practical really. Without Dyanna there to oversee the younger children’s education, it would fall to Maekar now, or to Alysanne as Daeron’s wife. She knew it was a possibility of them all heading back to Summerhall together, and nods slowly, giving a tight squeeze of Daeron’s hand that is holding her own.

His eyes were glassy this morning. They are glassy now, and red rimmed, but Maekar seems to pay it little mind, as his own are just as red, and his voice is just as raw.

Neither of them had seen him aside from the funeral. He had locked himself away with only Baelor for company, and then emerged nearly a week later. As it was with Daeron falling apart and Aerion hiding out in the training yards most of the time, it fell to her to manage to hold everything together. The girls in their grief, fighting every order from their septa and deferring only to Alysanne and Daeron, Aegon hiding in their rooms, holding tightly onto Shadow whenever close enough, ensuring all of them were carefully watched and kept to their routines as much as possible.

Aerion though was another story.

Gossip trickled down from some of the maids, who said that the stable boys and some of the men-at-arms had seen the second son obliterate anyone who dared step foot in and challenge him. Live steel seemed to be his go-to, and any of the greener boys, the squires who would soon be knights themselves had backed off trying to spar with him after several had been dealt nasty injuries. Or so the maids had told her when she asked to have them find out where her goodbrother had spent his time.

“Daeron, you will be in charge of the keep and its lands. Alysanne, you will aid him and run the household.”

The look Maekar gives them booked no argument.

Something was missing in her goodfather. Something that had been there before when Dyanna was still alive, a spark, a warmth, some sort of softening of a man that was almost always a hard person in spirit. And now that is gone from him, life seemingly drained, and it makes her grip Daeron’s hand a little harder still.

Daeron says nothing in response at first, and out of the corner of her eye, she notices he is not quite looking at Maekar. Seeing but not seeing, looking but not looking, and his shoulders are slumping more and more.

“He will refuse, you know this.”

Alysanne lets her gaze finally truly move from Maekar over to Daeron. Seeing but not seeing. Here but not here. It is not the wine or the red eyes or the cloudiness of drink that is making him like this. But he had seen something in his sleep that he was not telling her. Or he knows his brother. Perhaps both.

“Your brother will learn his place.”

“He thinks himself a dragon in human flesh. Above all others save yourself, uncle, and the king. He may listen to me, but only if it suits him, and he will not follow any order given to him by my wife.”

A cracking sound. The quill in Maekar’s hand is now broken and he is taking slow, deep breaths, reigning in the frustration at the very truth Daeron is telling him.

She stills. Daeron gives her hand a squeeze.

Seeing but not seeing.

She wonders if he has dreamt this.

“He will fucking obey it even if I have to beat it into him.”

Besides her, Daeron stiffens.

Maekar continues, uncaring of his eldest’s reaction. Such softness is not in him at the moment and she doubts he finds anything wrong with his words. Of how he would discipline his child. Her husband’s reaction tells her all she needs to know.

“You will let me know if he refuses. Such disrespect will not be fucking tolerated in my household, by my own blood. You are both dismissed.”

They both nod in agreement, and Daeron leads her out, still stiffly moving and not quite in the present. They keep walking, not to their shared rooms, but down more halls and paths, still they are making their way out of the keep. Towards the godswood he takes her, and when they make it towards the old oak, he sits down.

Alysanne takes a seat, stretching out so that when Daeron finally lays his head on her lap, not letting go of the hand she holds him with. He says nothing, just stares up with his redden, glassy eyes, not all present, and looks at the leaves instead of her. She uses her other hand to run fingers through his hair, just how he likes it, a comfort that she can give to him now.

Daeron says nothing, merely bringing her hand to his lips, giving it a soft kiss, and placing it back down on his stomach where it rests.

Birds chirp. The sun shines. Wind rustles leaves.

“We will never beat our children. Promise me that, dear one.”

“I promise.”

~~~

Three days later, Rhae, Aegon, and Daella are packed up in a wheelhouse, a septa to keep them all company, alongside Shadow who was put in to protect the children should the worst happen.

Alysanne rides on horseback next to Daeron, both of them at the lead.

Behind them is Aerion.

Eyes are on her. She can feel them. The judgement. The burn.

The simmering contempt.

Daeron would like to think of Wyle as another brother if he did not have three already. They had met at university when Daeron had gone through a crisis and nearly dropped out from the stress of his then-major. Political science with a focus in law, and the expectation that he would either be going into the family practice and follow in his father’s footsteps or would end up running for some political office and work his way up in government, much like Valarr’s plans.

Wyle had been his roommate then, and within the first few weeks tuned into the fact that Daeron did not want anything to do with the family’s expectations, that he would much rather be sitting in most of the art classes Wyle was taking, and doing everything in his power to avoid the confrontation with his father when he went home for any breaks. He had, in one spectacularly large fit, downed at least a six pack of hard cider, one of the fancy Fossoway Green Apple Craft brands, along with a whole bottle of contraband Dornish sour, went on a thirty minute rant of the inability to even understand why Northern ancient blood laws were still relevant to today’s modern legal system, tossed his laptop out the window, and collapsed on his knees in a fit of tears, unable to speak afterwards.

Wyle, bless him, had taken it in stride, dragged Daeron’s drunk ass over to the showers, threw him in, and then turned on the hottest shower known to man to get Daeron out of his mute state. It worked.

It was the start of a friendship that would last long after they both had graduated. When Daeron had switched his major to fine arts with a focus in Studio Art, a minor in business just to have something to fall on his feet with, and endured the several lectures from his father afterwards, Wyle was there. When Daeron had spun out after hitting black ice, crashing his car into a tree over winter break his senior year, Wyle was there in the hospital the next day. When Daeron needed someone to pick him up from rehab for his drinking to mute out all the dreams, all three times might he add, and the most recent a month ago, Wyle had met him and was a rock of support. It was Wyle who let him stay in a shared two-bedroom apartment in one of the nicer areas of the small city, rooming together once again, and did not complain when Daeron woke up in a fit from a nightmare or was painting at three in the morning to get the images out of his head.

It was Wyle who had also given up alcohol in solidarity with Daeron, which he was rather touched and let it be known when he walked into his new home to find it absolutely without anything that could get him drunk.

The point was, Wyle was a brother in all but blood. Sometimes better than his own brothers by blood, and right now he was thankful for the support.

They were sitting at some cafe in White Harbor, which in addition to its merchant trading center roots, was turning into quite the up and coming art scene. There were only a few proper studios and art galleries so far, but what they were producing in terms of artist quality was gaining attention from across Westeros, as well as across the Narrow Sea. Wyle was one, making a name for himself in the photography world, while Daeron did his best to support his friend as he had been supported in the past.

 Due to this he had a cup of hot tea in front of him, while Wyle was sipping on some mocktail of cranberry and mint, getting an opinion on the matter.

“I’m not sure what he was thinking. There’s an art studio attached, all purpose, and the building is rather large.” His grandfather had done the purchasing, handing over ownership to Daeron, deed and all, and calling it an investment, but the condition was that Daeron would need to live in White Harbor for a time to get it off the ground.

Honestly he did prefer this to King’s Landing. The other situation would to be back in Summerhall once again, but his grandfather had persuaded his father to shove Daeron off to the North with the reasoning that Summerhall, with the stressors of family and expectations, as well as the temptations aplenty, would do nothing for the sobriety that Daeron was attempting for his now third time.

He’s got the newest thirty day coin in his hand, rolling it around his fingers, tangible and real, and he looks up from his tea, giving Wyle a shrug. “It might be his way of showing approval. Gods only know father doesn’t. That or he thinks I’ll fall off the wagon again if I’m in Summerhall or in King’s Landing, and doesn’t want to deal with cleaning up the mess anymore,” he adds, mostly matter-of-factly, as if he were discussing the weather instead of his current predicament.

Daeron watches as his friend’s face starts to morph. Contemplating the possible reasons for complicating the pseudo-self-imposed-exile with the challenge of starting something from almost-scratch. “You’ll need to do renovations on the space first,” he says, and pulls out a pen from a pocket and starts writing down on a spare piece of paper from one of the folders. “It’s an old building, needs to be brought up to code, and that’ll cost money. A plan on what you want to do with the studio. A few instructors if you aren’t doing the teaching yourself. Clients for the gallery. Or artists that want their work featured and sold. You can use me, of course, but need more than just one…”

Daeron listens as his friend starts making the list of things to do, trying his best to pay attention. It is a lot of work. Enough to keep him busy. His eyes linger on the list and he starts to calculate the mental and emotional cost of making a phone call home about getting some sort of loan, when a voice behind him, distinctly feminine, yanks him out of his thoughts. 

“Wyle, hide me.”

Daeron turns around to see a woman, dark hair neatly braided down her back, and grey eyes frantically scanning the area. She’s dressed rather nicely, in a sort of college professor old school academic way, but younger, more tailored to her body than most professors he’s ever had would do. Pale skin, thicker northern accent, and clearly she knows Wyle. But he could swear he’s seen her before, somewhere. Just where, that is the question.

“Aly, you’re interrupt-"

“It’s Jon Tallhart, he’s here now, and I’m pretty sure he’s been following me since the used bookshop three stores down.”

Daeron frowns. This was not how he imagined lunch today, being interrupted by a strange pretty woman who clearly knows Wyle, and goes to take a sip of his tea, mostly to avoid asking any question that might set off the clearly agitated, uninvited guest.

“Oh, well, um… Daeron take off your hoodie.”

He chokes on his tea. “What the fuck?”

Wyle, the asshole, just glares. “Hoodie. Off. Now.”

Well. Ok then. He tugs off the KLU hoodie that had been keeping him warm and hands it over to Wyle, who then passes it to the woman. Now she’s got his hoodie being pulled on, and Wyle stands, tugging up the hood to hide her hair and swapping places with her so he’s standing and she’s sitting across from Daeron.

“Stay here. Talk you two. Make it look like you’re doing something important and hide your bag Aly. I’ll handle Jon.”

Before Daeron can protest Wyle is gone, leaving him alone with this Aly person, who is wearing his hoodie, and looking like she wishes to hide underneath the bed covers and never come out.

He can relate to that.

“So… I’m Daeron,” he says a bit awkwardly. His hands fiddle with the chip again, and he realizes that it’s out in the open, in front of a relative stranger, and shoves it back into his pocket. He leans in to try and get a good look at her face, to place her from where he might know her.

“Oh, Daeron… Targaryen, right, Wyle’s Daeron, the friend from KLU. He’s told me about you. I’m Alysanne, but you can call me Aly, most do.”

She’s pretty. Well, just not pretty, rather beautiful in a Northern way, and he likes the way her lips are rosy, and the little bits of green in her large grey eyes, and the few strands of loose hair framing her face. Straight, slim nose, long face that’s sort of rounded by the cheeks. Her body is lost in his hoodie but he doesn’t mind it so much, because a good look of her face is all he needs at the moment.

“Alysanne… Stark?” he asks, trying to pull up the stories that Wyle has told him. Wyle’s aunt married a Stark, and he spent summers in his youth with her, and his aunt’s husband’s family. “You’re… wait, you’re the one who shot an apple out of her sister’s hand with an arrow after Wyle dared you and said you couldn’t.” Wyle had also said that Aly was called flat as a board, ugly as a moose, and an obnoxious brat, which in turn he had dared her to enact sweet revenge against said older sister.

Daeron’s not about to add that part. He likes his face as it is, scar going from his mangled ear to his cheek and all.

It does, however, get a snort of laughter from Aly, and a brilliant smile sent his way. Oh, he likes that smile. What he would like to do right now is paint that smile. Or sketch it out. Just because.

He’s heard it before, the laugh, it sounds like music. Seen the smile too. In his dreams, he remembers, a few times, and he shoves that away for later when the thought comes.

“Yes, well, he left out the part where he fell off a horse when we went riding, after trying to impress my sister by making his horse jump over a log, and his pain and suffering were laughed at,” she replies in between chuckles.  “And called my sister a cold-hearted bitch, which she is half the time, just to clarify.”

It’s Daeron’s turn to chuckle now. He’s heard a few of the stories, back when Wyle was doing his best making sure a drunk, half asleep, depressed college student version of himself needed cheering up and to stay awake through the night. Surprisingly he remembers a few.

“And this John Tallhart you’re running from?” Nosey but it was the catalyst for this whole meeting. Her running and hiding. He looks over her shoulder just for a moment to see Wyle a distance away, near the counter where they had ordered, talking to someone tall and built like a brick wall, dark haired, and looking like he could throw Wyle over the counter with ease. The body language his friend has though is utterly calm, no tension, but he’s watching his brown eyes darken, lips moving and closer to a snarl at something said.

“The thing you need to know is that even if we’re not kings and queens anymore, or lords, nobles, whatever it is we were when the dragons came until abdication day, the North still has the old families deeply entrenched in one another. And Jon seemed to think that it was blood and breeding alone needed to woo me, and could never imagine I would say absolutely not. Women are property, in his eyes, pretty trophies to carry on arms, and fuck in hopes of making heirs aside from his own pleasure.”

Aly’s voice brings him out of his watching and back to her. As plain as day and the explanation does paint a good picture of exactly why she would run and ride. As for finding Wyle, sheer dumb luck.

Daeron gives her a crooked grin. “I take it he’s not too bright then?”

“We were in the same masters cohort and he asked me why I thought it was a good idea to work on an extra degree when I could be living the dream as his wife. I kid you not, he said this.”

Daeron winces at that. A poor attempt at flirting. It seemed like the man did not know when to take a hint. “Breeding can’t account for brains. Or common sense. My brother Aerion is a prime example of that. I’ve got blood of the dragon, fire in my soul, blah blah blah, it gets old after a while.” Which was true. Aerion had made some questionable choices. Common sense would say move on and not take everything so personally, yet his brother seemed to think the opposite.

He tilts his head to the side, checking on Wyle and the not-wanted-anywhere-near-them Jon Tallhart. Wyle’s arms are gesturing wildly at this point and it’s not looking too good.

“How likely is Wyle to get punched in the face?”

He watches as dark eyebrows knit together in concentration, weighing the possibilities. It’s cute. He likes it and wonders if he can sketch the image later, from memory.

“Not likely. Jon will talk a big talk, but he also knows White Harbor is Manderly territory, and if it gets back to Wyle’s father that Wyle got punched in the face defending me and my choice not to sleep with him, it will also get back to mine and my uncle.”

Huh. Interesting.

“Oi, you big fucker, she said no, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Daeron winces again, because Wyle is loud and now Aly is turning around to watch as Jon Tallhart does, in fact, throw a punch at Wyle’s face. He does have to give his friend credit because there’s some sort of bright grin, a bit of madness in it, and Wyle is now throwing himself at Jon Tallhart despite being a good six inches shorter and much less muscular, and they’re both on the ground, tussling and yelling, and someone’s yelling around calling the police.

He looks back at Aly then, torn between staying put and doing something, and looks at her, big watery eyes, worry brightly shining through, and she’s swimming in his oversized hoodie, absolutely adorable. “Fuck me,” he groans, and gets up.

Daeron, as a rule, does not seek out fights. He prefers not to use violence because most of the time it makes no sense. He is, in his very core sense of self, not one to actually get involved in physical fights either. Instead he often gets dragged into them against his will, and will loudly protest at being in any physical altercation. Call him a coward, but he did not want to end up beaten to a bloody pulp over problems not his own.

Honor, well, that was something lost a long time ago, and he was not sure who had it or who wished to help him regain it, but to him pummeling another person or getting pummeled was not worth it at all.

And yet, there is Wyle fighting on the ground and losing, who is his best friend in the whole entire world, who has done more for him in the last eight years or so of their friendship than anyone else had done for Daeron, save his mother or Uncle Baelor.

So he gathers what little courage he does have, marches right over, Aly trailing behind him, and yanks Wyle up off the floor, giving a good strong kick to one Jon Tallhart as he does so. Only his leg is grabbed and now he is falling down, and Wyle is falling down after him, there’s someone yelling, fists are flying, and, ow, that’s a lot of pain.

Later, when the police have arrived, statements are taken, and it is proven that Jon Tallhart had not only followed Aly here from the used bookshop, but had also been following her for several days beforehand, and yes, she was intending on pressing stalking charges, and yes, her uncle was Lonnel Stark, wasn’t he amazing, Daeron is being given an ice pack in the safety of the shared apartment. Wyle had several in various areas of his body and was content to lie spread out on the floor.

Neither one of them had gotten into any trouble, but he thinks it’s more about Aly’s uncle’s name drop and Wyle’s father being some sort of big wig than anything else.

“Do you want to get lunch this week and talk about pre-invasion depictions of Westerosi tales in ancient paintings and the current trends in mythological tales shown through similar artwork?” she asks softly, placing the ice pack on his blackening eye.

Daeron cracks a grin, then winces. “Do you mind if there’s no alcohol?”

“That’s fine. Better to enjoy the food and conversation.”

Fostering a prince? Even if the prince was the firstborn of a fourth son, he was still a prince, and the Targaryens did not normally do fosterings save in the rare instances that it was to a family related by blood (i.e. the fostering of Prince Daeron the Daring in Oldtown by his Hightower relations and the fostering Baela Targayen in Driftmark by Princess Rhaenys her maternal grandmother, both notable examples). It was common knowledge at this point of time none of the members of the royal family were fostered away, as King Daeron wanted to keep them close. Fostering might give another family strange ideas, so the rumors had said, and he wanted to keep eyes on all of those who had dragon blood. Just in case.

But had it not been for the antics of children, then perhaps Prince Daeron would not have been sent North, becoming the first Targaryen Prince in near on eighty years to hatch a dragon egg in the process, Wyle Manderly would not have the chief architect and first commander of the great Ice Fleet and later on Master of Ships, and Alysanne Stark would not have become the first female Hand of the King in the history of the Seven Kingdoms (though given the addition of Dorne following the marriage of King Daeron II and Queen Myriah, and the Crownlands being considered its own territory, it should be worth considering several historians believe it to be more appropriate to count nine kingdoms) to a future king, who at that point had been but a child of six and considered that perhaps the sex of his choice would have no bearing, just that it would do to have a steady, reliable, fun Hand.

King Valarr I, who later successfully campaigned for and established absolute cognatic primogeniture codified throughout Westeros as merely one of his major reforms to the workings of the land, would later be recorded as saying, “You must know we were but children though the gods work in mysterious ways. Better for the realm in any case.” 

Several accounts of what occurred could be considered first-person witnesses, as recorded in diaries of various royal household members, the royal family, and their respective relations. Yet many of those accounts seem to contradict one another, painting a picture of a time that is still hotly debated to this day. What can be agreed on is that the children had, at multiple points, been left unsupervised by the adults that were to be engaged in keeping them on task, and that much of what did happen was purely for enjoyment and pleasure, with little regard to prosperity and royal customs. Lifelong bonds were cemented and a country would greatly benefit later on.

~~~

The Red Keep, King’s Landing, 194 AC

Daeron has never met someone from the North before. Not in person.

He dreamt there were wolves in the Red Keep. Not mean wolves, or scary wolves, just wolves, and there was a very little wolf pup who he played with. Then he woke up and when it was time to meet Mama and Papa for breakfast, he told them as such, and asked if he could have a pet wolf. Mama had laughed, and Papa had a smile that was like he wanted to laugh too, but all he did was ruffle Daeron’s hair and tell him wolves were not pets but he could see about a puppy from the kennels for his next nameday.

So yes, he never met a wolf from the North, but there were wolves now, in the hall where the Iron Throne is. They were just people, but a few of the guards had said Starks were wolves, and one said no, they were direwolves, and Daeron, who was running from the maester and not wanting to go to lessons and instead looking to find Valarr to play with, heard everything.

He got caught and had to go back to lessons, regardless of his arguments. They were very good arguments and Papa would be proud that he did not use the naughty word that Papa was very fond of.

So yes, now he was seeing people-wolves which were from the North, for the very first time.

It is almost exactly like his dream. Except they are people and not big wolves.

Daeron has to stand with his family as they meet the Starks from the North. Not all the Starks are there, but some of the Starks, and there are Manderlys too, and an Umber, a Bolton, and a Dustin, and someone said there was a Snow too. Uncle Baelor had made a funny face when they walked in, but then stopped when Valarr asked him if he was sick. Grandsire the King asked that everyone come welcome the people from the North because they had traveled a very long way. Uncle Brynden is there, and Aunt Shiera, even if they are Papa’s uncle and aunt, are young like Papa and Uncle Baelor and Uncle Aerys and Uncle Rhagael.  

So yes, there are wolves in the Red Keep. People-wolves.

“Mama, see, I dreamt it,” he tells her, tugging on his mother’s sleeve, and pointing to the people before his kingly grandsire.

“Daeron, they are people, not wolves.” Mama is gentle when she talks, and has a smile too, but quickly reminds him to stay quiet when his grandsire welcomes them. He is big enough he can stay, like Valarr, but little Aerion is only almost three and is in the nursery still. Valarr is giggling, and not quiet too, and getting a tap on his head from his lady mother now. Aunty Jena said something about not getting any lemoncake after supper if Valarr kept giggling, but Daeron would sneak him some so that was okay too.

He watches as they eat bread and salt, and the man with the long face, short beard, and really dark grey eyes steps forward, introducing himself as Lord Beron, brother to Lord Rodwell Stark, Warden of the North, heir to his elder brother. He has sons, the third of them with him, and he all steps forward, bowing his head. He looks very much like his lord father, big and tall and dark haired, and that must be what Starks look like.

There is another head, a little girl, and Daeron blinks, trying to find the rest of her. She is hiding behind another person’s legs, the man with very green eyes that was called Snow, and she looks familiar to him. Like he had a dream but she was not in the dream, only the wolf pup was in the dream, and they have the same eyes.

“Mama?”

“Shhhh Daeron.”

Lord Beron then introduces the girl, beckoning her to come forward, calling her Alysanne, and she is gently pushed by the green-eyed man to go towards her father. But little Alysanne shakes her head, looking at Daeron’s family, a frown on her face, as if she is looking for someone.

Then she looks at Daeron.

Daeron blinks.

Alysanne blinks. And smiles. And points at him, shaking with excitement.

Daeron does not think he is particularly interesting. He does not look like Papa who is very much a dragon prince, but like Mama who is starlight according to his Papa, which is much more beautiful. But clearly this Alysanne girl does think he is interesting because instead of walking up to her father she starts running to him along with another boy, who has dark hair that is also green but is not a Stark, and drags the boy with him, much to the horror of every adult in the room. Except the green-eyed man who is starting to laugh.

She stops in front of him, and he knows his face is red, his eyes are now very big, and this is a very strange girl. He has no girl cousins or sisters yet but she must be a strange girl, because she grabs his hand, and Mama is gasping, Papa looks funny, and there is a squeal of happiness from the girl.

“See, our dragon is real!”

“Aly, that’s a prince.”

“A dragon prince. I saw him when I slept. He’s real, like the dragon in my dream.”

The girl looks at him, uncaring that everyone is staring, there is laughter, and grabs Daeron’s hand. His face feels warm. Very warm. He looks down at the hand, then at this girl, who is now Aly and not Alysanne, and sees she has big grey eyes that have green in them, and her hair is in a very messy braid because she ran, and he looks at the other boy with green in his hair, and lets out a squeak when she tugs his hand.

“You are Daeron, the dragon prince my dream,” she says loudly, and suddenly Daeron wishes he was in the nursery with Aerion because everyone is looking at them, and he is red, and there is a girl holding his hand.

“But I’m a boy.”

“And you rode a dragon.”

“Aly you-”

“You rode a big dragon and it was the color of your hair and we were on the dragon with you and we flew, it was real, like you are real. I saw it.”

“I don’t-”

“Aly-”

“It was real and you were big and I was big and Wyle was big, and it was fun.”

Daeron is very, very red, and looking at this girl, with very pretty eyes, and then back to his Mama who looks like she is trying not to laugh, his Papa who is staring at the girl with a very funny face, and then back at the girl who is still talking about this dream, and the room is very, very warm.

“You were a wolf! In my dream! You were a wolf!”

Oh. That was him. Yelling. He was not supposed to yell. Princes do not yell at strange girls, even if they are very weird and holding his hand and talking about dreams being real.

Except, his dreams sometimes are real.

It gets Aly the weird girl to stop talking just long enough for the green-eyed man to come and scoop her up into his arms, hoisting her over his shoulder like she is a sack of potatoes, and walking away despite the multiple yells mixed in with very odd sentences about Daeron being a dragon. She’s waving from her spot on his shoulder, still talking about dragons and wolves and dreams and saying she saw Daeron in her sleep. The boy named Wyle is holding the free hand of the green-eyed man, but turns around to give Daeron a smile and a wave back with his own free hand.

Daeron is very, very confused, but waves to them both. He is a prince and must be polite.

“Mama?”

Mama looks down at him, and so does Papa, and he thinks they both are trying not to laugh at this.

“Northerners and girls are strange.”

The Next Day

“Lonnel, where is my daughter?”

“She is not with Wyle?”

“... no…”

“Shit!”

~~~

Maekar stares at the strange little northern girl, who is looking right at him with big eyes, a wobbly pout, and not supposed to be in the room where the Small Council is about to meet with the King and the northern representatives. No one else is supposed to be in this room at the moment, besides he and his brother. How in the seven hells did she manage to end up in this room? And why is she standing on the chair?

Scratch that, she is making eye contact with him, and is standing on it to be eye level, he understood that now. Wanting to be tall when you were short is something he understood when he was her age..

“May Prince Daeron come to play with me and Wyle?”

Maekar blinks. And stares.

It is not an unreasonable request.

But how did she get in?

He turns to look at Baelor, who is trying his best not to laugh, and Maekar shakes his head, before turning back to the girl. Alysanne, if he remembers correctly, still looks at him with those sad eyes, and if he were not a battle hardened warrior, he would melt instantly.

“Of course. I am sure that Prince Valarr also would like to play.”

That earns him a smile in return. Really she is an adorable thing, and it was just childish antics, no harm done. She could not be older than Daeron, and the Manderly boy would be with them as well. No harm in letting the children enjoy the company of one another.

He turns to face Baelor, who is making the strangest face right now, as if torn between letting things unfold and protesting for some strange reason. Maekar cannot help but scowl at his elder brother. Really, these are children, no matter how strange they are, they are not monsters.

“Brother, are you sure-”

“I am sure Prince Baelor would love to let his son play with his cousin and make new friends with our Northern guests.”

That shuts up Baelor, who looks a tad mortified at the sudden lack of decorum he had presented, in front of a child no less, and normally it is Maekar doing such foolish things. Oh how the tables have turned. See, he can handle soft politics now and then. He turns to look at the girl.

Delighted, that is one way to describe the look on her face, and there is a gleam in her eyes that is slowly edging on something otherworldly, which Maekar would like to put into words. Yet his mind is failing him.

“May Prince Daeron visit Winterfell?”

Uh. What?

“And may he visit the godswood?”

Something in his brain freezes.

“And may he marry me and Wyle?”

What the fuck?

“That’s a naughty word. I’m not allowed to say fuck.”

Did he say that outloud? Maekar turns to Baelor, who now looks like he is going to burst out laughing again, and clearly he said that last bit outloud. Which he normally would not do in front of children that young. Grown men, yes. Little girls of noble birth? No.

His wife would punish him.

And not in the fun way.

Dyanna was scary when angry. And he did not wish to upset his wife by accidentally cursing at a child. 

“Shit…”

“That’s also a naughty word. I’m not allowed to say shit too.”

May the Seven give him the patience and strength to deal with this child.

“There you are, little direwolf.”

Thanks are sent to the old gods and new, because Lord Beron’s bastard brother Lonnel Snow is there at the door, looking a tad bit frantic. His eyes, a strange mossy green that seem to glow, lock onto the child standing on the chair with such intensity he would think the little lady the bastard’s own daughter. Maekar watches as the man marches right up to scoop the little girl and throws her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes like he had done the previous day, shaking his head and muttering a string of words in Old Tongue that must not be for polite company.

Words that clearly the girl understands, obviously by her commentary to her uncle, admonishing the bastard in the same tone she did with Maekar.

“Papa said you can’t say those words in front of me.”

“Yes, well, your father also told you not to run off, and yet here we are.”

Lonnel Snow sighs, and Maekar has the faintest idea that this may be a common occurrence in Winterfell, not that he is judging any parenting. Lord Beron has five children and a pregnant wife, and may the gods bless that man with the patience of a saint if all his children are like his youngest daughter. He himself has no idea how he would handle such chaos, and knows that any children he and Dyanna may have after Daeron and Aerion will be exemplary little people.

“I hope my niece did not put either of you in an awkward position,” says Lonnel Snow, who is turning around to face them both, despite the protests of the little lady. Maekar pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head.

It is only when his brother does not say a single word that he frowns, and looks at Baelor, who must say something and… why is his brother going pink?

No. No, absolutely not, this is not happening.

He turns to look at Lonnel, opening his mouth, but there is the bastard, grinning like a wolf. Which makes sense given his father was the previous Lord Stark, and is the bastard making bed chamber eyes at his brother?

Wait, is his brother making bed chamber eyes back?

“Congradualtions on wedding your goddess among all women, Prince Maekar,” he says, almost absently, still eying Baelor up and down, while the child is chatting away over his shoulder about weddings, dreams, and godswoods, and why Daeron must go to Winterfell now.

“I did say we might meet again one day, Prince Baelor.”

… Maekar just stares, absently waving at the child who is waving from her uncle’s shoulder, when the man turns and leaves through the door without any sort of explanation as to what the seven hells that was all about. Part of him wants to ask what that was all about from the man leaving.

It clicks when he realizes that he has, in fact, seen this man before. Years ago, in fact.

The inn that was between Summerhall and Blackhaven. He was drinking and Baelor was there, listening to him moon over Dyanna (which to be fair was entirely justified, his wife was a goddess and he would fight anyone who told him otherwise), and Baelor had been sizing up a stranger… oh… “Fuck.”

At this he spins and points at his brother.

Baelor looks embarrassed. Good.

“Baelor… tell me the fuck you didn’t.”

“... in my defense, I was not yet married. Or officially betrothed…"

“... I need a drink…”

~~~

“Snow.”

“Rivers.”

“Valar Morghulis!”

“... why is the tiny child thrown over your shoulder saying all men must die to me in High Valyrian, Snow?”

“No idea, Rivers. Must be going. She has a play date with your princely great-nephews and her companion to get to.”

~~~

Daeron did not know what the old oak did other than exist, but strange little Aly was glaring at it. So was Wyle, but not as much as Aly, and Valarr was just as confused as he was. They were playing tag before and it was Valarr’s turn to chase Daeron, but then Wyle was there. So Wyle was the one now chasing them both, right until the green-eyed man had showed up with Aly on his shoulder, plopped her down next to the tree, and warned her not to wander off to threaten Lord Rivers again, much to the horror of the septa that was watching them all, all before he went somewhere else. At that point Aly had looked at the tree and so had Wyle.

“No weirwood.”

“Yup.”

“No face.”

“Yup.”

“Not a real heart tree.”

“Yup.”

They both are now staring at the tree, and Daeron wonders what is so interesting about the tree, because the only thing that really makes it important is that it is old and in the middle of the godswood. He is about to say as much, except now both of them are turning around and looking at him and Valarr, smiling, and he thinks something is going to happen.

But he is only five.

“I like puppies. Do you two like puppies?

He sees Valarr nod, because he likes puppies, and Daeron likes them too. “Papa said I will get a puppy for my nameday if I’m good,” he answers back, and that makes Aly smile. He likes her smile. It makes him feel warm. Wyle is smiling too, and that makes him feel warm also, and Daeron knows his face is going red again, but that’s ok.

“We should play with puppies. Prince Valarr, tell them to bring us puppies.”

Valarr looks confused because he normally does not get ordered by girls, because he is the heir to heir of the Iron Throne, and will be king one day. Only Daeron thinks that is exactly why Aly asks for Valarr to get the puppies brought, and not him, and it maybe makes him feel a bit weird because he wanted to get them puppies, not have Valarr do it. It makes sense. But still he wants to get the puppies.

Valarr, though, does turn to the septa, and gives her his best big eyed, wobbly lips, and sad look. “Puppies? Please?” he asks and Daeron thinks his cousin is very good at acting. However the septa does not move and simply shakes her head.

Well, ok, time to help his cousin. Just for the puppies, not for Aly and Wyle, because he wants puppies and maybe… ok he wants to watch Aly and Wyle play with puppies with him and Valarr.

Daeron steps forward, looking very, very upset. His best upset look, the one he uses on the nurses to get extra sweets, and starts to wail, very, very loudly. About puppies. And wanting to play, and he is crying very loudly, see, look how good he can act.

Both Aly and Wyle join in, and soon all four of them are crying.

Because puppies.

The septa looks very upset though and is telling them to stop, only all of them get even louder and now she’s running off saying she will get their parents and have their ears boxed.

Only now they’re alone.

All four of them stop crying.

Daeron thinks they all are very good actors.

“Puppies?” asks Aly, and she’s looking at Daeron with a smile, and so is Wyle, and even Valarr is smiling.

Now it’s his turn to help, so he grabs Aly’s hand and Wyle’s hand and Wyle grabs Valarr’s hand, and he tugs all of them forward towards where the kennels will be, because there are puppies in the kennels and he knows exactly how to get there too.

“To the puppies!” he yells, determined to get them all a puppy to play with.

~~~

“Where are the children?”

“They were just here!”

“You left two princes of royal blood, one of them the second in line to the throne and the other heir to my husband, alone in a godswood, along with the favorite daughter of the heir to Winterfell and a favored son of the largest trading house in the North, alone?”

“I’m so sorry my lady, but they-”

“Find them now.”

~~~

The mama dog is a very large, very fluffy lady dog who just had a litter of puppies two moons ago. Daeron got to see the puppies a fortnight ago and even pet the mama dog, who gave him a big lick on his face.

All of them are sitting down next to the mama dog, with her litter of seven fluffy white puppies crawling all over them.

Daeron is in heaven.

He had two puppies, one in his lap taking a nap, and another who was licking his face. They were very nice puppies, soft and squishy and with little baby puppy teeth who liked to tug on the ropes they used to play with. Valarr was petting the mama dog, and throwing a ball to the puppy that was playing with him, and then it brought the ball back like a very good puppy.

Wyle was laying down now, with a puppy on his tummy, and they were taking a nap. He looked very happy and cozy and Daeron wished there was a blanket so he could be even more cozy.

Three puppies were playing with Aly, trying to nip and tug her braid. “No, not for puppies, for people,” she had said, but was giggling too, which made Daeron giggle, and then Valarr was giggling, and Wyle woke up to giggle too.

It was fun.

Northerners were very fun.

“Can we go to the North and pet wolf puppies?” he asks suddenly, because wouldn’t that be a great adventure? And then his dream could come true, and that would be a very fine dream, yes it would be.

Both Aly and Wyle smile at that and even Valarr looks like he wants to go to the North, and they should ask Grandsire the King if they all can go to Winterfell.

“Prince Maekar, your papa, said fuck, so I think that means yes?”

Oh, that’s the naughty word he is not allowed to say but if Papa said fuck, then it has to mean yes.

~~~

“Did you think to check where puppies might be?”

“Apologies, your graces. I’ll-”

“You are dismissed, Septa Jeyne.”

~~~

“Rivers.”

“Snow.”

“Valar Morghulis!”

“Valar Morghulis!”

“Valar Morghulis!”

“Valar Morghulis!”

“... Snow, did your niece teach the other children to say that to me?”

“Honestly I have no idea, really I don’t, I’m not even sure who would have taught her High Valyrian in the first place. We’re Starks and we never did get that Targaryen princess that was supposed to marry into our house, so I’m not entirely sure where she could’ve picked it up.”

“Of course.”

“Absolutely.”

“... you take yours and I’ll take mine?”

“Deal.”

~~~

Maekar was not expecting the door to swing open suddenly and without warning, in the middle of this meeting with not only the King and Small Council, but also their new northern friends.

And if anyone were to ask, the yanking of a particularly nasty knife and holding it out was a perfectly normal reaction, not paranoid at all.

But what he was not expecting was his uncle Brynden strolling into the room with two children on his shoulders. Two squirming, wiggly, red-and-black-clothed children arguing with Brynden over not being able to play with puppies at an ungodly loud volume, and hold up, one of those children is his own.

“What the fuck?”

He just only manages to dodge the shove Baelor gives him just in time to see Lonnel Snow behind him, with two children on his shoulders, both of them wiggling and squirming and trying to escape, yapping on about wanting to cuddle puppies too, that this was unjust, unfair, and unacceptable.

Brynden plops Daeron down in his lap, which makes his son stop his wiggling and  complaining, and seems to stun the boy into silence and leave Daeron staring off into the distance in a very unsettling way. Apparently Baelor is getting the same exact treatment with Valarr, who has decided that he will outright glare at Brynden with such disdain that it seems to knock any ability to respond out of Baelor in the first place.

Little Wyle Manderly gets tossed into his father’s lap with a squeal of joy and a giggle only to quiet down when it seems the seriousness of the situation sinks in.

But Maekar, who is still rather concerned at just how quiet Daeron is, follows exactly where his son’s eyes are landing on.

Alysanne Stark.

Who is not tossed, not thrown, not heaved, but gently placed on the table in front of her father, and Maekar would say something if not for the outright cold fury in Beron Stark’s eyes.

“Explain.”

Even he has to shiver at that tone.

How in the seven hells is the girl making eye contact without any fear?

The little girl then proceeds to launch into a story involving the old oak from the godswood not being a proper heart tree, then wanting to play with puppies, Valarr asking for puppies, a septa who cannot deal with four crying children, and apparently Daeron being a savior and finding puppies for them to play with. Maekar does have to give her credit because she does not burst into tears in front of her father’s glare, a look that even has Maekar wondering if the man is, in fact, part wolf. He wonders how many grown men have felt ice cold fear when that gaze was upon them.

The man holds up a single hand to cut his daughter’s ongoing rant about how it was very unfair they were interrupted while playing with puppies, says something in Old Tongue, and only then does the girl seem to deflate.

There is a tug on his arm and he looks down to see Daeron looking at him, violet eyes wide and teary, and no, he is not falling for that, absolutely not, not even if those were Dyanna’s eyes on his son.

Ok so many he is falling for that, because those are definitely his wife’s eyes and his son’s sweet disposition, and he really is a sucker for Daeron when he is absolutely an angel, which happens to be the majority of the time when not roped into the nonsense of other children. Clearly none of this was his doing, he was just wrangled into it, if by the story that was being told. Maybe he should warn him not to fall for pretty girls’ wiles until he is old enough to think carefully about his choices, even if it is rather adorable to see.

“May I go see Winterfell, Papa?” he asks so sweetly, and there are actual tears in his eyes. Is it wrong if he wants to tell Daeorn, yes, he can go to Winterfell?

“I want to go too!” Oh, now Valarr is playing this game?

The only child in the room who has yet to say anything is the Manderly boy, who is merely content to curl up in his father’s lap and yawn, and for that Maekar thinks that one the best behaved of the bunch, truly, except for when something furry and white pops out from underneath his tunic, whimpers, then goes back to hide.

Was that a puppy?

Forget it, all of them are being menaces, even his sweet first born.

The girl turns now to face all of them, sullen and pouting, and it should not be as cute as it is, but really, the girl is adorable. No denying it.

Idly, he wonders if Beron Stark would be open to some sort of betrothal, even if Valarr might be promised to someone else, Daeron was the better option in his mind. The girl might not be a proper queen, but certainly could be a princess. It would also help solidify the trade deals and alliances with the North. With the wildness in her, it might be better for her to be his son’s wife rather than his nephew’s.

“I am sorry for behaving like a wilding and for making Prince Daeron and Prince Valarr and Wyle behave like wildings too,” she mumbles, not quite apologetic if Maekar is correct at the tone of voice.

“Alysanne. Stark.”

Maekar sees even his father, King Daeron the Good, give a shiver at that tone. Yet the girl does not, and really, what are northerners made out of?

“I am sorry and will pray to the old gods for forgiveness for my bad behavior and leading the princes and my bannerman astray.”

Not the words of a five year old, but it must have been what was said in Old Tongue.

It is only then that Maekar feels the room suddenly grow warmer, as if a chill had been lifted, and watches as the girl slides off the table and into her father’s lap, very still and very quiet. Too quiet.

And there is bark. Another bark. Several barks.

From the children.

Seven furry white heads appear, scattered around the room and from the children’s clothing, from pockets, and all four of them suddenly have smiles.

“Puppies!”

~~~

“Your niece is chaos incarnate, Snow.”

“I know, Rivers. Isn’t she adorable?”

“You are insane.”

“Mmmhmm sanity is overrated.”

~~~

Daeron is not allowed to keep any of the puppies. What he does have to do is write lines over and over, that say I will not kidnap puppies from the kennels and make septas cry for pretty girls while Maester Melaquin watches. And maybe if he is good and repents and says sorry with the gods watching over him, then he might get a puppy for his nameday. But only if he is sorry and acts like a prince should, which is not kidnapping puppies or saying Valar Morghulis to Uncle Brynden when his half-great-uncle walks into a room.

It made Aly the direwolf laugh though. And smile.

It also made Wyle the merman laugh too. He smiled too,

Daeron likes the smiles.

Even Valar has to write lines and the maester is watching them both and will not let either of them leave until the lines are finished. He has to write I will not order septas to bring me puppies if friends ask me to, which is not fun at all.

They are stuck in the room and not allowed to talk or speak or play or have anything fun until they are done with the lines only they need to fill two pages of parchment! A whole two pages, and not even with big letters, but tiny letters, and it is very unfair.

But it was worth it.

The door is opening and in comes the green-eyed man who says he is Lonnel Snow, and asks the maester to take both Aly and Wyle. They are lifted into chairs and told not to leave until they are done with their own lines, after which all four of them are to ask forgiveness from the gods for their behavior.

“You, little miss, shall write I will not tempt princes into committing crimes for me in the capital for two pages, you little ser, shall write I will not encourage my friends to tempt princes into committing crimes for her in the capital. Do you both understand?”

Both of them nod, a little glum, and Aly says something in Old Tongue, leading to the man letting out laughter and shaking his head. Daeron wants to learn Old Tongue now, along with his High Valyrian. It would be useful if he went to Winterfell. And then he could teach his new friends how to speak High Valyrian too.

“Absolutely not until you are older.”

“How old?”

“Eight and ten.”

Daeron watches this all with wide eyes until the maester brings his ruler down on the table, making everyone jump, and then sulks. This is not fun at all.

It takes an hour to write everything neatly and they are quiet until they are allowed to talk. The serving girls are bringing in lunch for them all and everyone has to put away their parchments and quills and ink before they can eat. But before that he goes and tugs on Aly’s sleeve to get her to turn around and look at him.

“What did you ask?”

Oh, she’s smiling again, and he likes that. His face is warm.

“If I can tempt princes into committing crimes, outside the capital.”

He does not know why his face is still warm but there is a nod, and that sounds much fairer than if she were to do that here. Also she will be big, and he will be big, and that means they can both tempt princes into doing crimes, whatever that means. Or will Wyle tempt princes with her? Is he the prince to be tempted?

“What does tempt mean?”

“I dunno. Uncle Lonnel said I can’t do it till I’m big though.”

“Oh. Okay.”

~~~

All four of them get marched off to the castle sept after lunch, which is not as big as the Great Sept but still big enough to pray in with many people. Only the royal family and courtiers get to use the sept, which is really important, and Daeron was told by Mama that it is an honor to pray in the sept with any royal. So he is a very good prince and holds Aly’s hand and Wyle’s hand and Wyle holds Valarr’s hand while all of them are made to walk right to it to ask the gods for forgiveness.

They make it almost inside when Aly lets go of his hand and stops walking.

“No.”

Daeron turns to look at her, very upset, because she let go of his hand and he liked holding her hand, like he liked holding Wyle’s hand.

“But we have to say sorry in front of the gods.”

“No. No sept.”

Oh. Does that mean she does not keep the new gods?

“I want a weirwood.”

Daeron looks up at Maester Melaquin, because of course he knows everything, it’s why he’s the maester that Papa had sent when lessons started. “Where are weirwoods?” Because it is only fair that she gets to pray where there is a weirwood if they are to pray in a sept. Actually, he wants to see a weirwood now, and maybe he can see how the Northern people speak to the gods. The old gods do not need books or septs or septons or septas and have less rules, so maybe he can pray to them too? Or instead of the Seven, because it seems less confusing.

“I’m sorry, little prince, but there are no weirwoods here. The closest might be in one of the Riverlords’ castles. All the wild ones were cut down ages ago.”

Daeron looks back at Aly, who is tearing up.

He does not think this is acting.

It starts with a sniffle, then a hiccup, and now Daeron is watching Aly start to cry, very loudly but real sobs, and maybe he is crying too because his eyes sting, and he wants to pray with her at the weirwood, and there are no weirwoods here, and that is very not fair. And now Wyle is crying, and Valarr is crying, and all of them are crying because how is it fair they get to pray and Aly cannot?

The gods won’t hear her, and that is not very nice.

Actually, he thinks he can fix this.

He stops his crying, if only a little bit, and only when he sees his Papa, Uncle Baelor, Grandsire, Lord Beron, and Lord Manderly come to them. Because they had to say sorry to the gods in front of them, and Daeron waits until Papa is close before throwing his whole self right to his Papa’s legs and tearing up again.

“We need weirwoods,” he manages to say in between his sniffles and buries his face into his Papa’s chest when he gets picked up. He absolutely is not acting this time because it is very sad that there are no more weirwoods here, and the Red Keep absolutely needs one. Especially so Aly can pray like they can pray, so the gods can hear her like they will hear him.

He tells this to Papa, every last word, and makes sure to try and keep his sniffling very soft, because crying over not having weirwoods might not be what princes do, and he very much wants to be a good prince so he can get a weirwood planted in the godswood or maybe go to Winterfell or both.

Both is good.

“Aly needs to pray and there are no weirwoods here. And how will the gods hear her?” he manages to get out, still sniffling. “Godswoods need weirwoods, can you ask Lord Beron for a weirwood?” A reasonable request. He can feel his father wrap big arms around him and lift him up off the ground, and Daeron buries his head into a shoulder, looking at no one in particular till he catches the eyes of his grandfather the King.

The King looks tired.

Good.

“Lord Beron, perhaps if we include a weirwood planted both here and in Summerhall, for our godswoods, as a gesture of good faith?” Oh. Grandfather King is asking for the weirwoods, and if Aly comes to visit again, then she can pray to the Old Gods and not worry about not being heard. Which is very important because the gods need to hear prayers if they were to make their judgements and guide you. Or so Mama said. That gets Aly to slowly stop her tears, from where she was picked up by her own papa, and he can see Lord Beron also nod in agreement.

“May I go to Winterfell too, Papa?”

He might as well ask now.

But before Papa can answer, it is Lord Beron who says something first. He has a smile that reminds Daeron of when Uncle Baelor and Papa spar, and Papa has a smile that looks hungry. He also has that smile when he looks at Mama, which is often, and says something about being dragonblood or hot blooded or whatever it means, just that when Mama is there he has to go with the nurse or septa. He would get told that when he was older he would understand.

“We would be agreeable if the crown were to think about fostering young Prince Daeron in the North with us. Of course given his current attachment to my daughter and her companion, we also might be agreeable to letting her come south for a bit as well,” he says, and Daeron thinks that is a mighty fine idea.

Apparently so does Aly, because she stops crying and sniffling, and nods too.

Yes, a very fine idea.

~~~

“Baelor.”

“Oh, hello brother.”

“... do I even want to know what the fuck you’re doing in the rooms afforded to the Stark party?”

“A who, not a what. Distinction is important. Jena told me to confront the past and thus I shall do as she says, as she goes to spend time with that handmaiden of hers. They are very close, you see, and have been lacking in some alone time as she put it, so she sent me away to have some alone time as well.”

“... fucking hells…”

“More like wolves.”

“... fuck off, Baelor.”

“Gladly, brother, gladly."

~~~

“Lonnel.”

“Beron.”

“... why is the Crown Prince lounging like a content lizard with his head on your bare stomach?”

“You can ask him.”

“I happen to be asking you.”

“Do you wish for all the details?”

“... good night, brother. Your Highness."

~~~

Daeron is very good at sneaking.

Sneaking out of his rooms was a talent, and one he was very, very good at. He often snuck into Valarr’s rooms so they could hide under the covers of their blankets and tell scary stories about warriors and dragons and monsters until the sun came up, and then he would sneak back to his own rooms. Sometimes he would sneak out to the kitchens to find a snack and then head back without being caught. He was tiny enough that it was easy to hide. Sneaking out at night was not like sneaking out in the day, and he got caught in the day sometimes, but mostly he did his sneaking at night when everyone was supposed to sleep.

He had a plan.

First, he needed Valarr.

It was almost too easy to hide in the shadows and make his way to Valarr’s room. It was close enough no one would find him and the guard patrolling had a break that made it so very easy to run down the hall in his quietest slippers, and go right to the door, letting himself in.

“Psst, Valarr,” he hissed, going right to his cousin who was soundly sleeping in bed. He gave a little shove and that got Valarr up. His hair was messy and sticking all over the place, and Daeron laughed at that.

“Wha?”

“Puppies.”

Oh, that worked. Valarr blinked at him and rubbed sleep from his eyes and there was a nod, because he knew exactly what Daeron was thinking.

Puppies. They might have been told not to order people to get them puppies but no one said anything about bringing the puppies to them. And then they could sleep with the puppies too, which was even better. Puppy snuggles.

“But also we need to take Mama Dog so they can have their mama there too.”

Well… good point. He nodded at his cousin.

The plan was afoot.

~~~

Brynden could say something.

He absolutely should say something.

Shiera would want him to say something and he did wish to please her above all others, except that he knew exactly why Daeron and Valarr were sneaking around the Red Keep with a dog and her seven puppies, and where they were going. It did not take a greenseer to figure that out. He had watched some distance away from when he had first spotted the boys sneaking out of Valarr’s rooms and making their way down to the kennels. An odd sort of feeling overtook him and he had been up, looking for the source of said feeling.

Which was the pair of young princes committing a heist.

He had watched, curiously, as they made their way through the Red Keep in the dead of night that might have concerned others at how good one six year old and one five year old were at sneaking around undetected, and made a mental note to speak to his brother about security. If those two could do that, who else knew what sort of problems they had with the guards not at their posts?

He could say something to their fathers now.

Wake up his nephews, explain what had been seen to them, and let the boys be sorted out accordingly.

But it was amusing to see them gather the puppies into two bags and lead a sleepy full grown prized herding dog through the castle. Even more so when he saw how eerily the boys were able to avoid every single guard on patrol. Just how they managed it had to be some sort of intervention by the gods at this point. Every single guard making a turn or looking away, allowing the pair to slip past alongside a rather large fluffy white dog.

Though the amusement died when he saw where they were going.

Guest rooms.

Starks’ rooms.

Of course.

With a sigh he watched as they slipped inside alongside the animals, and closed the door. A turn of his heel and Brynden was gone, shaking his head.

Nope.

Not his circus, not his monkeys.

~~~

Baelor was having a splendid dream. It was warm, sunny, and he was digging his toes into the sand as he watched waves lap at a beachfront. No worries. No letters from lords, no overseeing taxation and harvest reports, no paperwork whatsoever, just him, the ocean, and the warmth of the sun. Also the warmth of a body was a bonus to this, and just as he was about to turn to the figure in his dream, there was the distinct sense that his face was suddenly wet.

Eyes snapped open.

Something furry, white, and wiggly was licking his face.

A puppy.

He blinked. The puppy kept on licking, even when he turned his head to the side to see if there were more.

Lonnel was to his side, face down on the bed, sprawled all over the place. Several marks dotted his neck, along with an impressive bite mark that made Baelor’s own face flush. Also the man was completely oblivious to the fact that there was a puppy currently using the top of his head as a pillow but he had to admit it was rather cute. Not something to say out loud about the man who was currently under the cover and very much to puff up if he was called cute of all things; it still was the truth and Baelor was not going to lie about such things.

Two puppies though.

Two puppies that should not be in this room, let alone out of the kennels, and he was pinching the bridge of his nose with the oncoming realization that there were four children currently in the castle who possessed the audacity to steal puppies from the kennels, two of which definitely knew their way around the Red Keep having lived here all their lives.

One of which was his own son.

Well, damn.

Baelor leaned back into the pillows, glad that the puppy who had been licking his face decided to curl up on top of his chest instead. He reached out to gently pet the soft creature, and adjusted its position to put it close to the littermate using Lonnel as a pillow. An idea that he was going to steal, and threw an arm around the sleeping man, intent to just hide away. Both puppies seemed to think that now was a good time to wake and start lavishing attention on the northerner which… he could not blame them.

“Baelor…”

Oh, he was up? Excellent, they might have time for another round before having to deal with the day.

“Yes?”

“Is that a puppy licking my ear?”

Strange to think it would be a puppy and not him, but Lonnel was not wrong in his guess. Close to the truth.

“... two puppies…”

No reply. Instead just a grumble of something that could be Old Tongue or it could just be noise, he wasn’t fluent in that and only was able to speak Common and High Valyrian like any proper Crown Prince should, but it did things to him and he was wondering now if they could put the puppies somewhere else while he got to enjoy a bit more time with the man.

“Baelor?”

“Mmhmm?”

“Take the puppies away. I’m not fucking you if there are puppies in the bed.”

“What if I-”

“You’re not fucking me if there are puppies in the room either.”

Well. Fine then. He can do as he is told and gather up the two creatures, who seem to be not happy with the situation at hand now that they have no Lonnel to lavish attention on. That’s something he can empathize with and pads barefoot across the room to crack open the door to the solar. He manages to wrap a sheet around his waist just in case, and when opening the door catches a glimpse of the scene, and it’s heartmeltingly adorable.

Four children curled around a pile of blankets and pillows, alongside the great white herding dog he had gotten his mother for her nameday, with the rest of the puppies snoring along with them. Valarr has his head on top of Wyle, who is holding hands with Daeron, who is somehow curled around Alysanne, who has managed to grab hold of Valarr’s foot. A tangle of limbs, the children are quite literally in a snuggle pile.

Well, ok, they can have two more, and he gently places both puppies on top of his sleeping son, before quietly slipping back into the bedchamber and crawling into the blankets where Lonnel is waiting underneath.

“We cannot be loud,” he manages to get out, as lips start to descend on his body. It earns him a growl of displeasure and wandering hands, but he twists so he can face Lonnel with a look of absolute seriousness. “Children are in the solar next to us and we would wake them. I would rather wait a decade or so till explaining the concept of copulation to my son.”

Hands pause and now it is his turn to whine in displeasure. “Lonnel...”

“Baelor.”

“I did not say stop. Just keep quiet.”

“Says the man who babbles deliciously in nasty High Valyrian phrases.”

“If memory serves me correctly, you did the exact same in Old Tongue, yes?”

At that there is a flush across pale skin, and Baelor has to kiss him in order to muffle the yelp when hands reach parts of him he so enjoys having them on.

~~~

Four children, seven puppies, and one mama dog wake up. They do not hear anything going on in the room next door, as it is decided it is time to search for breakfast.

Oddly enough it is little Valarr and Daeron the heroes of the morning plans, after several minutes of contemplating where to find breakfast for puppies and Mama Dog. It is decided the kitchens would be their best chance. They would sneak in, grab food, and then picnic in front of the Iron Throne, as after all Valarr would be seated upon it one day.

~~~

“I thought you said the children were out here?”

“They were… oh… oh no…”

“... does your son like to wander the Red Keep?”

“He and Daeron have a tendency to be able to evade many a maester, nurse, and maid when they wish and combine their talents together. Not to mention I may have told him of a few secret tunnels in case of an attack and needing shelter.”

“Fuck… oh… hello brother.”

“Where. The. Fuck. Is. My. Daughter.”

~~~

Ser Gwayne Corbray was not sure if he was seeing the scene in front of him correctly. If he had cracked, or perhaps was dreaming, because there was no such possibility in all this was real. He had just come from being summoned by the Crown Prince, along with the rest of the Kingsguard, and sent to look for the missing children, a grown dog that was the Queen’s nameday gift, and a litter of puppies. All of them were missing and the hope was they were still in the Red Keep.

Well, he had found the dog. And the puppies.

But it was the children that were sending him, a seasoned Kingsguard knight, into a panic.

Each of them was taking a turn sitting on the Iron Throne, as if it was an ordinary chair, snacking on what was in a basket filled with sweets. Little Wyle Manderly had sat upon it for ten seconds, before loudly declaring it was ugly and uncomfortable and he would not wish to be even the Hand if it meant sitting on that thing. He would rather be Master of Ships.

Personally, Gwayne would agree, it was ugly and if being Hand meant having to sit on it when the King was not there, he would never wish for that position ever.

After that it had been Prince Daeron who sat, frowned, then said something about it not being quite right, and asked Valarr if it was okay if he would not be the Hand for him because it was rather strange to sit on it. Too much work and was boring, he would rather just play all day, and could be Master of something else if his cousin wished it.

There was something in the boy’s eyes, he noted when walking closer to the children, that gave off this eerie sense he was seeing something without truly being present.

Lady Alysanne took her turn and had the audacity to start swinging her legs, declaring she would be Hand if the other two did not wish it, and hopped right off with the confidence that only seasoned warriors and grown men should have. Fear bloomed when the girl patted the damn seat and laughed, claiming since no northern sword was used it would be fine.

Dear sweet Mother, he was going to have a heart attack.

All because Prince Valarr, the Young Prince, jumped onto the damn throne, sat down, and loudly declared when he was King he would make Alysanne his hand, and the other two must be on his Small Council, no take backs. Then proceeded to eat a pastry on the throne as the others clapped and cheered, proclaiming him very kingly and a true dragon, waving pastries in the air as if they were swords or daggers.

Not a single one of them had any cuts.

The mother dog howled in agreement, as did the puppies, and he just sat down at that point, shaking his head.

It was only when Ser Donnel, young, talented, Ser Donnel of Duskendale, came to stand next to him, clapping his hand on his shoulder, did he bother to snap out of the daze.

“You see this, yes?”

“... playing. Playing and picnicking on the Iron Throne. Children. None of them cut.”

He heard the choking sound and looked up to see the other knight, eyes blown wide and filled with disbelief. “None of them?”

“Nope. Not a single cut. Prince Valarr said the little lady is going to be his Hand. Prince Daeron to be Hand of the Hand, whatever that means. The Manderly boy is his Master of Ships. They planned it all out. Prince Daeron will be riding a dragon back and forth from Summerhall to the Red Keep to Winterfell, Prince Valarr will make it so his cousin can marry the little Lady Stark and Lord Manderly, and then have a wedding on the Isle of Faces. Something about marrying a girl with pink hair too, for his queen, a lady who loves the sea. And puppies, they all want puppies, as many puppies as the kennels can care for. Everyone in Westeros shall have a puppy.”

As if right on cue, little Prince Daeron comes running up, a sweetbun in each hand, and holds them out with the biggest, sweetest smile he has ever seen on any child in the Red Keep. Gently he picks up both and hands the second bun over to Donnel, and the little boy actually wiggles with happiness before running back to join the others.

“Donnel.”

“Gwayne?”

“Please go gather the Crown Prince, Prince Maekar, Lord Stark, and Lord Manderly. They might want their children back.”

“Oh… of course.”

When the younger man leaves, and Gwayne is alone, watching the children be ever so gentle with the puppies and mother dog, he tentatively takes a bite of the sweetbun, and has only one thought coming to his mind.

The King will be most wroth if they get the Iron Throne sticky.

~~~

It would not be the King who found them, nor the parents, but instead Queen Myriah.

The Queen, as it turned out, looked far more relieved none of the children were injured by the terrible throne. Surprised none of them were sporting so much as a papercut with how they were found, lazing around and doing as children were often to do. Ignoring the actual danger of acting foolish around such a seat, she was surprised even more when all of them came running towards her the moment she came into focus.

Both her grandsons had thrown themselves around her legs, hugging her tightly with sticky hands and big smiles, looking up with the sweetest expressions their little faces could produce. Their new friends managed to stop just before crashing into her and both gave a clumsy bow and curtsey, staring up with their jam-smeared faces and large grins. On the heels of all the children were the missing puppies, and her sweet herding hound Meria who had the litter of puppies six weeks ago.

“Grandmama, when I have a dragon I shall name it after you. Aly saw it, she did, and it will come true,” comes from Daeron’s mouth, sounding ever so serious and confident that this will be the absolute future. “Myriah, Queen of the Skies, unbowed by the Dragon Pit, unbent by no matter the many men who try to make her bend, and unbroken in spirit when we fly.”

Well, it looked like there was a poet in her youngest’s firstborn son after all. Maekar, she knew, had a secret way with words that he only reserved for exactly one individual; his wife. It looked like little Daeron had inherited that skill. She lets out a hearty laugh and ruffles Daeron’s hair at that. “A mighty fine creature your dragon sounds like then, and I shall be honored with a creature named after me.”

Not to mention it would enrage a few members of the court. A dragon named after a Martell queen, such a fun little jibe at the naysayers.

But she does peer down at Valarr, who blushes exactly like his father, and raises an eyebrow. “And you, what sort of grand future plans do you have?” she asks.

Her eldest grandson goes into great detail, of having the first female Hand of the King, and then wants one person from every kingdom in Westeros to come and be on his council, and how he will make it so everyone will a heart tree in their lands to pray at should they wish it, and that Wyle will be the best Master of Ships ever, and Daeron shall fly all around the kingdoms to deliver his proclamations. Also that he shall go to the Isle of Faces and ask for help with sending weirwoods everywhere, so all the gods might watch over them, not just the Seven-Who-Are-One. Everyone must have a puppy, no matter what, smallfolk and nobles alike. Westeros would be a much better place for that.

He also wishes for a pink-haired wife who likes the ocean, please, and would she help him in finding a girl who also likes to play games and wishes for puppies?

Ambitious for a child of six but she also ruffles his hair, proclaiming those plans to be fine indeed.

“You four do realize you gave us adults quite a fright when you disappeared,” she replies calmly, and all four have the decency to look a tad bit guilty when it hits them that perhaps they should have informed actual adults about their plans for breakfast in the morning. But most of the adults were still asleep at that point.

“Uncle Lonnel and Prince Baelor were up very, very late,” proclaims Alysanne rather sagely and with all the seriousness a five-year old can muster. “They were talking loudly and there were loud banging noises, and then they stopped and went to bed. Valarr gave them each a puppy to guard them because they looked very tired under the blankets.”

Myriah’s brain freezes at that though her smile does not wane as the little girl then proceeds to regale them with far more wholesome topics such as just what the puppies might dream of when they were curled around the children after it had been time to sleep. Or what the mama dog might wish for her puppies once they were fully grown. Childlike and innocent and not accidentally walking in on her eldest son and the northern bastard.

Oh her eldest would be getting an earful later.

Crown Prince and Hand of the King he may be, he was still her son. It was one thing to conduct an affair with mutual agreement between all parties (as she was well aware of the Lady Jena’s own preferences in terms of bedmates and the conversations that were shared between her son and his wife), it was an entirely different one to conduct on where the children would see them.

Though afterwards she would say that Master Snow was, indeed, a handsome man and clearly Baelor’s type.

That was a whole other conversation but right, the children needed tending to lest they decide to have a picnic elsewhere.

“Come now children, we all shall go to your parents and yes, you may bring Meria and her puppies with you.”

~~~

Lines. More lines.

I will not steal prized herding dogs and their puppies. I will not feast on sweets while sitting on the Iron Throne.

Four children glumly sit down in the nursery, under the watchful eyes of two maesters, two septas, two Kingsguard knights, and little prince Aerion who is being entertained by his nurse. Each of them has three sheets of parchment in front of them with strict orders to complete both sides with the lines.

After that they would march right to the king to apologize for putting everyone into such a tizzy.

Not to mention getting crumbs and jam all over the Iron Throne.

Only then would they be able to go to the Godswood to play.

~~~

“Is this legal?”

“Not sure?”

“It is not a sept and technically there is no law in the North about this sort of thing, as far as I know.”

“Shhh I think it is starting.”

~~~

Valarr stands right at the front of the old oak in the middle of the godswood. Next to him is Aly, whispering the words he has to say out loud for everyone to hear. Ser Donnel and Ser Gwayne are their witnesses, along with the nurse who is holding Aerion to stop him from eating the leaves falling on the ground.

“Who comes… um, what is next?”

“Before the Old Gods. The whole thing, Val!”

Right. And look, he just got a nickname out of it too.

“Who comes before the Old Gods?”

Daeron and Wyle are a little bit away and giggling a lot, but they each also have a bunch of flowers in their hands and are nodding.

“Daeron of House Targaryen.”

“Wyle of House Manderly.”

Good. He sees Ser Donnel go to take a place between both of them and the knight is letting his friend and his cousin hold his hands as they walk.

“Who gives them?”

“Ser Donnel of the Kingsguard.”

He looks over at Aly, who is now poking him in the shoulder to continue while all three walk up to the old oak. Everyone is handed a flower crown, and all of them, even the knights and Aerion, get one to wear. Everyone looks very fine in their crowns, and he gets poked again.

“Oh, um, who is claiming them?”

“Alysanne of House Stark.”

“... like the Good Queen?”

“No, Black Aly, and one day I am gonna be a better archer than her.”

That makes sense. Valarr looks up at the leaves, and then to his cousin and Wyle, before continuing.

“Will you take Aly?”

“Yes!”

“Only if I get to pet a wolf puppy.”

“Fine. Uncle Lonnel can find us a wolf puppy to pet.”

“Ok, good. Then yes.”

Valarr wonders if he will get to pet a wolf puppy too at this rate. Because it isn’t exactly fair that Daeron gets to pet a wolf puppy and he does not, because he is older.

“Right, ok, Aly, do you take them?”

“Yes.”

And that is that. He grins, very pleased with himself. Everyone is clapping, even little Aerion who was sticking a leaf in his mouth just before because the nurse was too busy clapping, and even Ser Gwayne and Ser Donnel are clapping.

There is tea and cake afterwards and all of them head back to the nursery, just in time to find the maids setting out the lemon cakes and apple tarts and juice for all of them, and team for the adults. A fine feast for after a wedding.

~~~

In retrospect it may not have been a good idea to bring his wayward daughter down south with the entourage. Alysanne had proved more than a handful in the time she had been in the Red Keep, and running not just his brother, but several others ragged. At least, Beron mused while at the farewell feast thrown in their honor, the little princes and Wyle were also full of chaos and not all of the blame could be blamed on his daughter. Oh he would fully admit his youngest daughter was a ball of chaos when not properly watched over but here she was much more likely to rope others into her plans.

Hopefully time would tame part of that wildness. Or hone it into something useful.

But that was neither here nor now, as the child in question was in the middle of some sort of strange southern dance that all the children were partaking in, much to the amusement of every adult in the room. Not gracefully but with enthusiasm, as every now and then one of them would trip, causing the whole lot to fall, and then get back up again as the crowds cooed over just how cute they were.

Idly he sipped on the Arbor gold served to him, thinking on the usefulness. Prince Daeron would come to Winterfell at some point, Alysanne would go with Wyle down south alongside the prince for a few years, and perhaps there would be a betrothal made when the children were of age. Nothing set in stone until he was Lord of Winterfell but his brother Rodwell had already given him leeway in terms of his children’s marriages, and it looked like the little prince was already smitten with Alysanne. Even better, the boy’s father seemed inclined to agree.

“Pardon me, my lord, but perhaps you may have an answer to a question my fellow Kingsguard and I have?”

His head slowly turned and he was face to face with Ser Donnel and Ser Gwayne, both of them rather formidable warriors for southern knights judging from the little he saw in the training yard, and in his mellow mood he was more positively disposed to answer any queries.

“Go on, as away.”

“Does marriage in the north have to take place in front of a weirwood, or could any godswood do?”

What a strange question.

One that gets Prince Maekar’s attention, as the man is sitting right next to him. The Lady Dyanna is on his other side, no doubt listening as well, and something is telling him that this most definitely is about something this daughter and their son has done.

“A weirwood, specifically a hearttree, would be ideal. Most devout to the Old Gods, including myself, would require one present. I suppose if none were present then the closest tree perhaps would be an oak, such as the one in the godswoods here.”

Others take him now, why do both knights suddenly look like they wish to vomit? At least Ser Gwayne is able to open his mouth and continue on, but Ser Donnel looks rather too pale for comfort.

What did Alysanne do?

“And if one were to marry multiple partners? Is that allowed?”

Gently, deliberately, the glass goes down. Already the headache is forming and he rubs his temple, trying to find the answer to the questions.

“As with the majority of Westeros, there can only be two who enter into a marriage.”

Which now begs the question.

What the fuck did his daughter do this time?

“What did Alysanne do?”

It is Ser Donnel who speaks up, to the stares of both himself, Prince Maekar, and Lady Dyanna. “Ah, my lord, your daughter may have gotten to marry both Prince Daeron and Wyle in front of the godswood yesterday afternoon. We thought it may be a game but… she has taken to calling them her husbands.”

Shit.

“In front of the oak tree, I take it. Who officiated?”

“Prince Valarr.”

Who would be king one day. And technically of higher rank than his cousin.

Well this could be a problem. Not an utterly horrific, unsolvable problem that would endanger the future plans between the royal family and the Starks, which Beron was mentally preparing in his head. But still a problem. Technically it was not a marriage, as all parties involved were still children, and there were three of them. But words were still spoken and there were witnesses.

Thankfully it is Lady Dyanna who manages to speak before either himself or Prince Maekar does. “A childish fantasy that surely is playing pretend. Often in my youth I played such games with my brother and sister and other children in the surrounding areas in Starfall.” She does reach out to place a hand on the prince’s shoulder, calming what might have been the start of a fit of his son and heir being bamboozled into wedlock at such a tender age.

Not that Beron would fare any better, given it is his youngest girl.

Words of reason and wisdom from the lady. Perhaps he is being an overprotective father in this case, as all the young boys have been excellent companions aside from the antics they engaged in. Or rather his daughter led them in.

“Perhaps we may talk of betrothals when they are older?” says the prince, and he is surprised that the normally militant man is seeking a more diplomatic path. That or he is well aware that the children, in such a short time, have grown attached to one another and it would be a shame.

“Along with fosterings. A few years in Winterfell would do anyone good, and perhaps Alysanne should spend time with you and Lady Dyanna,” as he turns to raise his glass to the woman before continuing, “Especially if she were to one day be Prince Daeron’s wife.”

Problems solved.

~~~

Ashford Meadow, 209 AC

Daeron manages to land Myriah down outside the main tourney space, much to the delight of his youngest brother who had begged, pleaded, and bribed his way into getting to ride the dragon to the tourney with Daeron rather than on horseback with the rest of the family. His dessert for a whole week, and he had to help with cleaning out Myriah’s talons was the offering, taken in return for granting the wish.

Aly had voluntarily agreed to this change in plans when informed and something about the gleam in her eye when she had done so made him shudder with worry. But that was neither here nor now.

His wife was scary when she wished to be. 

Aegon had the time of his life and would be squiring for Wyle, which his father had agreed to on the condition that Daeron come to the tourney on dragonback rather than horse. Given he was a much better flier than rider, it was something they were both in agreement of.

The last time he was supposed riding in a joust it ended up with Alysanne stealing his armour, hiding it in the privy of all places, and then telling his father that no husband of hers should go out onto the field smelling as if they were literal shit, once the armour was found. At which Maekar had thrown his hands up in the air and grumbled about there being an archery contest instead, if Daeron could please do that, then he would lay off his son’s back.

Daeron came in second, with Alysanne taking top prize for that after sneaking in herself, and he held absolutely no shame that she had beaten him. If anything it was quite a night celebrating afterwards, with Wyle showing up late and missing everything, and then it had been a real party then.

At least this time the antics would be limited and she could not do such things, as at the moment she was five moons gone with child, and thus limited to the chaos inflicted.

“You are mooning again, Daeron,” says a voice and he looks down to see Aegon already on the ground and waiting for him. Undoing the buckles on the saddle, he was able to slide slowly down off Myriah, giving the shedragon a pat on the side. Not the largest creature, but a lady of great speed and grace.

“I do not-”

“Yes, you do, you look at Aly and Wyle with starry eyes and kissy lips and they do it too and it is disgusting," says Aegon with disgust.

Automatically his hand goes to ruffle Egg’s hair, the boy whining but still leaning in. 

“My prince!”

Oh, that is Ser Donnel and Ser Roland running up to him now and Daeron gives a final pat on Myriah’s side before the dragon takes off to make her nest closer to the castle. Maybe steal a few wild boars at it for her dinner. A good girl.

“Well met sers, I take it everyone else arrived? Did my uncle pack his armour like I asked?”

He had two dreams, always starting the same, of a black dragon over a meadow, falling from the sky and landing on a knight. Sometimes the dragon was dead and the knight lived. Other times it was wounded, but the knight lived and swore himself to the dragon. Hopefully it was the latter.

“Yes, my prince, and we were sent to fetch you. Your cousin and Ser Wyle are in the opening joust and we were sent to collect you when you arrived. A good flight?” asks Ser Donnel, watching as his dragon flies off.

“Very. Did Aly-”

“Is in the castle now settling in and asking for you to bathe before seeing her and Ser Wyle. And yes, there is a bottle of sweet Dornish Red waiting, so I suggest you go before the pair of them go hunting for you themselves.”

“Oooo, kissy kissy.”

A flush on his face and he gives Aegon a light tap on the head.

“See, our dragon is real!”

“Aly, that’s a prince.”

“A dragon prince. I saw him when I slept. He’s real, like the dragon in my dream.”

The girl looks at him, uncaring that everyone is staring and there is laughter, and grabs Daeron’s hand. His face feels warm. Very warm. He looks down at the hand, then at this girl, who is now Aly and not Alysanne, and sees she has big grey eyes that have green in them, and her hair is in a very messy braid because she ran, and he looks at the other boy with green in his hair, and lets out a squeak when she tugs his hand.

“You are Daeron, the dragon prince my dream,” she says loudly, and suddenly Daeron wishes he was in the nursery with Aerion because everyone is looking at them, and he is red, and there is a girl holding his hand.

“But I’m a boy.”

“And you rode a dragon.”

“Aly you-”

“You rode a big dragon and it was the color of your hair and we were on the dragon with you and we flew, it was real, like you are real. I saw it.”

“I don’t-”

“Please, Aly-”

“It was real and you were big and I was big and Wyle was big, and it was fun.”

Daeron is very, very red, and looking at this girl, with very pretty eyes, and then back to his Mama who looks like she is trying not to laugh, his Papa who is staring at the girl with a very funny face, and then back at the girl who is still talking about this dream, and the room is very, very warm.

“You were a wolf! In my dream! You were a wolf!”

Oh. That was him. Yelling. He was not supposed to yell. Princes do not yell at strange girls, even if they are very weird and holding his hand and talking about dreams being real.

Except, his dreams sometimes are real.

~~~

“May Prince Daeron visit Winterfell?”

Uh. What?

“And may he visit the godswood?”

Something in his brain freezes.

“And may he marry me and Wyle?”

What the fuck?

“That’s a naughty word. I’m not allowed to say fuck.”

Did he say that outloud? Maekar turns to Baelor, who now looks like he is going to burst out laughing again, and clearly he said that last bit outloud. Which he normally would not do in front of children that young. Grown men, yes. Little girls of noble birth? No.

His wife would punish him.

And not in the fun way.

Dyanna was scary when angry. And he did not wish to upset his wife by accidentally cursing at a child. 

“Shit…”

“That’s also a naughty word. I’m not allowed to say shit too.”

~~~

“Baelor… tell me the fuck you didn’t.”

“... in my defense, I was not yet married. Or officially betrothed…"

“... I need a drink…”

~~~

“Snow.”

“Rivers.”

“Valar Morghulis!”

“... why is the tiny child thrown over your shoulder saying all men must die to me in high valyrian, Snow?”