fortuna

The night had settled over Ashford like a shroud, thick and heavy with the scent of dying fires and spilled wine. The castle grounds were quiet now, the last of the mourners having drifted away to their beds or their cups, leaving the courtyards only to the weeping ghosts and the guards who paced the walls with weary steps.

Clarice walked slowly through the darkness, her hand pressed to the small of her back, her feet dragging against the mud. The rain that had threatened all evening had finally begun to fall, a miserable, spitting drizzle that did not clean the mud but merely made it slicker, turning the tourney grounds into a black, sucking swamp.

She held her skirts high, the heavy silk ruined by the splash of the earth, but she did not care. Her mind was a shattered mirror, reflecting a hundred fractured images of the day: Baelor crumbling into the mud like a puppet with cut strings, the horrific, sickening crunch of steel on bone, young Aegon’s tear-streaked face pressed against her skirts, and the terrible, liberating truth she had found in the boy’s unadulterated relief.

I am leaving him.

The thought was a phantom limb; she could feel it throbbing, terrifying and new, a presence she wasn't quite sure how to carry.

She found Aerion in the bedchamber.

She expected to find him pacing. She expected the sound of breaking glass, the smell of wine, the frantic, pacing energy of a tiger that knows the cage door has been locked. She braced herself for the shouting, for the accusations, for the manic, violent reenactment of the trial where he would explain how he had actually won, how the world had cheated him.

Instead, she found silence.

Aerion was asleep.

He lay on his back, one arm thrown carelessly over his eyes, the other one soft over his stomach. He had stripped off his armor, the black plate lying in a discarded heap in the corner like the carapace of an insect. He wore only his breeches and a linen shirt, unlaced at the throat, revealing the pale, smooth skin of his chest.

Clarice stood by the entrance, water dripping from her hair, and stared at him.

In sleep, the monster vanished. The cruel twist of his lips smoothed out into a pout that was almost childish. The furrow between his brows, usually etched deep with suspicion and arrogance, was gone. He looked deceptively innocent, like a marble statue of a fallen god.

It was unfair, she thought, feeling a sting of tears. It was unfair that he could look so innocent when he was so ruinous. It would be easier if he slept with his teeth bared, if he snarled in his dreams. But he was just a man, breathing softly, his silver hair a halo of disarray against the pillows.

"Damn you," she whispered to the sleeping form. "Damn you for being able to rest."

Her legs gave out. The adrenaline that had sustained her since the trial evaporated, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion that made her knees tremble. She moved toward the bed, stripping off the ruined gown with clumsy, shivering fingers. She left the wet silk in a pile on the rug, not caring if it stained, and slipped into her shift.

She climbed into the bed. The mattress dipped under her weight, and Aerion stirred. He didn't wake, not fully. He made a low, questioning sound in his throat, a murmur that was too slurred to decipher.

Then, sensing the warmth beside him, he moved. Instinct took over where consciousness failed. He rolled toward her, his arm heavy and hot, wrapping around her waist. 

"Clarice," he mumbled, the word slurred and heavy with sleep. His fingers brushed against the cold skin of her arms, and he frowned without opening his eyes. "You're cold."

Before she could pull away, before she could remind herself of Aegon and the fear in his eyes, Aerion moved. He closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her back against his chest with a possessive, instinctive strength. Clarice stiffened, her heart hammering against her ribs, but Aerion simply buried his face in the crook of her neck, letting out a long sigh as his breath warmed her skin.

He smelled of cloves, of sweat, and that unique, fiery scent that was entirely his own.

Clarice closed her eyes. She breathed him in, allowing herself this one final weakness. She reached down and placed her hand over Aerion’s, interlacing their fingers. She squeezed tight, a silent apology, a silent goodbye.

Clarice woke to the sound of violence. It was the crash of metal against wood, a harsh, discordant clatter that sent her heart hammering against her ribs.

She bolted upright, gasping, her hand flying to her chest. The dawn had brought no sun, only a lighter shade of gray, and the tent was awash in the grieving, dreary light of a cloudy morning.

Aerion was pacing at the foot of the bed. He was fully dressed in riding leathers, his hair slicked back, his face a mask of incandescent, beautiful rage. He had kicked a heavy oak stool across the room, where it now lay splintered against a trunk.

He looked like a storm contained within a human vessel, lightning flashing behind his eyes.

"Awake at last," he spat, seeing her move. "I thought you planned to sleep through the following winter."

"What has happened?" Clarice asked, though she knew. She could see it in the white-knuckled grip of his hands, in the way his jaw worked.

He stalked toward the bed, grabbing the post as if he intended to snap it.

"Lys," he spat, the word sounding like a curse, like a piece of rot he was trying to eject from his mouth. "He is sending me to Lys."

Clarice gripped the bedsheets, her mind racing to catch up to the waking world. She forced her breathing to steady, schooling her features into a mask of convincing shock. She widened her eyes, letting her mouth fall open slightly.

"Lys?" she asked, her voice trembling just enough. "Aerion, what are you talking about?"

"My father," Aerion laughed, a sharp, barking sound devoid of any humor. He turned to her, his chest heaving, his eyes wild. "The noble Prince Maekar, in all his infinite, grief-stricken wisdom. He summoned me at dawn. Before the sun had even bled into the sky. He blames me, Clarice. For Baelor. For the hedge knight. For the air he breathes, I suspect."

He threw his hands up in a theatrical gesture of mock surrender, pacing the length of the rug. "He says I am a danger to the realm. A wildfire that cannot be contained. So, the dragon is to be banished. Across the narrow sea, to fester among the perfume-makers and the bed-slaves.Ten years, he said. Maybe five, if I learn to 'behave.' As if I were a dog that needs training. I am a dragon! Does one train a dragon to sit and beg?"

Clarice looked down at her lap, her throat tight. "Exile," she whispered, testing the weight of the word.

"He is grieving, Aerion," Clarice said carefully, "he needs... space. Time."

"He needs a scapegoat!" Aerion turned on her, pointing a finger. "And I am convenient. I am the bright flame that draws the eye. Send the bad son away, and perhaps the Gods will forgive the kinslayer."

He began to throw things into a trunk. Tunics, velvet doublets, a jeweled dagger. He didn't pack; he attacked the luggage.

"Oh, but it gets better," Aerion said, stalking toward the bed. He climbed onto the mattress, crawling toward her on his knees until he was looming over her, his face inches from hers. The fury in his eyes had morphed into a dark, vicious amusement.

"He played the benevolent patriarch," Aerion sneered. "Do you know what he offered? He said that given your... condition... he would not force you to cross the sea. He offered you a place at Summerhall. He said you could stay behind, safe and tucked away."

Aerion reached out, his long fingers catching a strand of her blonde hair, twirling it idly around his finger. He smiled, and the sheer, oblivious arrogance of it made Clarice sick to her stomach.

"Can you imagine?" he scoffed, shaking his head as if the very notion was the greatest joke ever told. "As if you would ever stay behind. As if you would sit in that crumbling summer palace, knitting socks with the maids while I am an ocean away. I almost laughed in his face. He truly believes you would abandon me for a garden and a quiet room."

Clarice stared at him. The words I am staying were a stone in her mouth, jagged and heavy. She tried to swallow, but her throat was dry. She looked at the bruised line of his jaw, at the absolute, terrifying certainty in his gaze. He didn't just believe she would follow him; he believed she belonged to him, as much as his own hands or his sword. The idea that she was a separate entity, capable of making a choice that did not center him, had not even occurred to him.

"Aerion..." she started, her voice a fragile whisper.

"We leave immediately," he interrupted, dropping her hair and sliding off the bed with restless energy. "We ride with the funeral procession as far as the crossroads. Then we split. Have your maids pack only what is necessary for the ship. The rest can rot here."

He didn't wait for her to answer. He turned and swept out of the bedchamber, shouting for his squires to ready the horses, leaving Clarice sitting in the suffocating silence of her own cowardice. She began to pack then, whether it was for Lys or Summerhall, she did not know yet.

************

The departure from Ashford was a somber affair. The funeral for Baelor had been a hollowed-out thing, a grief too large to fit into a ceremony. The pyre had burned high, the smoke black and thick, carrying the hope of the realm up into the grey sky. It still hung in the valley as the great caravan began the slow, mournful trudge south.

Given her pregnancy, Clarice had been confined to a massive, lumbering wheelhouse. It was a richly appointed prison of dark oak and crimson velvet, smelling faintly of cedar and dust. The rhythmic, monotonous sway of the carriage did nothing to soothe the nausea growing in her gut, a sickness that had less to do with the child and everything to do with the lie she was carrying.

They had been on the road for two days. Two days, and she still hadn't told him. Every time she opened her mouth, the words died, strangled by the memory of his hand on her stomach, or the terrifying reach of his rage.

She was playing a game of counting. Counting the trees. Counting the clouds. Counting the minutes until she had to tell Aerion the truth, when the carriage hit a halt, jolting Clarice against the velvet cushions. She groaned, rubbing her lower back. 

She closed her eyes, trying to breathe through the nausea.

The door of the wheelhouse opened suddenly, letting in a gust of road dust and noise.

Clarice opened her eyes to see Daeron stumbling into the moving carriage. He moved with the loose-limbed, exaggerated clumsiness of a man who had consumed his body weight in wine. He nearly tripped over his own boots, grasping the doorframe with a dramatic groan before collapsing onto the bench opposite her.

He kicked the door shut with his foot.

"Riding," Daeron breathed, sliding down the seat until he was practically horizontal. He reeked of sour wine and stale sweat, "is an activity designed by sadists for the punishment of fools. Horses are the devil's own invention. I suspect mine is plotting to throw me into a ditch at the first opportunity."

He looked terrible. His skin was the color of old parchment, and there were dark circles under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights haunted by dragons. 

Clarice sighed, the tension in her shoulders easing a fraction despite herself. "You are drunk, Daeron."

"I am medicated," he corrected, turning his head to look at her with half-lidded, bloodshot eyes. He reached into his tunic and produced a battered silver flask. "The road is bumpy. The grief is suffocating. And my brother's ego is taking up all the air outside. I require sustenance to survive the journey."

"Maekar let you ride in the wheelhouse?"

"I told him I was going to vomit on his boots if I stayed on my courser," Daeron said with a faint smirk. "He seemed to find the argument persuasive. He banished me to the 'woman's wagon.' He thinks it a punishment. I consider it a promotion. The cushions are better."

He moved to unstop the flask, but Clarice leaned forward and snatched it from his hands with surprising speed.

"Hey," he protested weakly, making a grab for it and missing.

"The smell makes me nauseous," she sighed, tucking the flask behind the cushion at her back. "And if you vomit in my wheelhouse, I will throw you out the window myself."

Daeron looked at her, blinking at the sudden aggression, but he didn't argue. "Your mother is strict," he murmured, leaning down to address the swell of her stomach with a conspiratorial whisper. "Take note, little one. No fun allowed in this establishment." He grinned. "It will be up to me to teach you the important things. Like how to hide a tart in your sleeve, or how to sleep with your eyes open during a council meeting."

Clarice managed a weak smile, but it faltered quickly. From the road ahead, a shout rang out —high, furious, and unmistakably Aerion's. He was berating someone, his voice carrying over the rattle of the wheels like a crack of thunder.

Daeron winced, leaning back against the seat as the echo faded.

"Aerion is riding like the Stranger is chasing him," Daeron said mockingly. "He thinks he is leading a crusade to Lys. He has probably already planned his wardrobe for the crossing."

Clarice didn't answer. She shifted in her seat, her gaze dropping to her lap. Her hands, slender fingers usually so composed, began to twist the fabric of her dress, pleating and smoothing the heavy silk in a nervous, frantic rhythm. She looked small suddenly, shrinking away from the window and the road outside.

Daeron watched her, the amusement slowly bleeding out of his expression. He knew that fidget. He knew the way she retreated into herself when the walls were closing in.

"You haven't told him," he said quietly. It wasn't a question.

Clarice looked out the small window at the passing trees, gray blurs against a gray sky. "There hasn't been a good moment. He is... he is mad, Daeron, an absolute madman. He speaks of Lys as if it were a conquest, not a punishment."

"Clarice, my brother's life is a continuous string of delusions. You are waiting for a sunrise in the middle of the night." Daeron let out a rough sigh, rubbing his temples. 

"I know," she whispered, her voice cracking. She squeezed her eyes shut, overwhelmed by the suffocating weight of it all. "I will tell him. Before we reach the crossroads. I swear it."

"You are letting him believe the lie until the crossroads?" Daeron asked. His tone wasn't judgmental, merely observational. "That is a dangerous game, sister. The drop is steep."

"I know."

Clarice hissed as the wheel hit a particularly deep pothole. Her hand flew to her lower back, her face contorting in pain.

Daeron watched the spasm seize her, his jaw tightening as if he felt the jolt in his own spine. The mask of the drunken fool slipped entirely, revealing a raw, unguarded wince of shared suffering.

"Your ankles?" he asked.

"My everything," she groaned. "But yes. They feel like they are being crushed in a vice."

He moved instantly. The languid drunkard vanished. He sat up straight on the bench, and without asking, Daeron reached out. He lifted her left foot, resting it gently on his knee. His hands were cool and surprisingly strong. He began to massage the swollen joint, his thumbs working into the fluid-filled tissue with a practiced, rhythmic pressure.

Clarice let out a sound —a small, involuntary whimper of pleasure. Her head fell back against the cushions. "Oh, Gods."

Daeron glanced up. A smirk curled the corner of his mouth, a sharp, knowing expression that suggested he was remembering a different time, and a different darkness.

"Better than prayer," Daeron murmured, dropping his gaze back to his work. "My mother used to suffer terribly with her feet. I learned the trick of it. The key is to push the blood back up."

"You are a saint," Clarice mumbled, her eyes closing. "A drunk, useless saint."

"The best kind," he agreed. "We demand no altars, only wine."

He worked in silence for a while, the only sound the creaking of the wheels and the thud of hooves outside. It was a strange, stolen intimacy, the prince putting his hands up to work, tending to the wife of his brother.

"He will be angry," Daeron said quietly, switching to her other foot. "When you tell him."

"He will be furious, not angry."

"He might try to take you. Force you."

"He might." Clarice opened her eyes, looking at Daeron’s silver head. "But Maekar will be there. And you. And... I think, deep down, he knows."

Daeron looked up. His violet eyes were sad, endless pools of melancholy. "You are saving the child," he said. "And you are saving yourself, which is just as important. Do not let guilt eat you for it. Aerion... Aerion is a fire that consumes its own hearth. You cannot keep him inside without burning the house down."

"I... I feel as though I am cutting off a limb," she whispered, her voice trembling, her hands twisting in the fabric of her dress. "He is my husband, Daeron. I cannot just... turn off the feeling. I worry for him. I feel like I am abandoning him to the wolves."

"Spare me the pity for the executioner," Daeron snapped, his voice hard and stripped of its usual drunken softness. But he didn't stop. 

His hands kept moving, his thumbs kneading the swollen flesh of her ankle with a gentle, insistent rhythm that belied the harshness of his tone. "I have watched you for two years, Clarice. I have watched you walk on eggshells. I have watched you shrink until you are barely visible behind his shadow. He is a monster. He is not a tragic hero, he is a sadist with a crown. And I am tired, sincerely, exhaustedly tired, of watching you twist yourself into knots to justify the man who holds the whip."

Clarice went silent. She knew he was right, of course. She opened her mouth, as if she were about to offer yet another excuse, but the words died on her lips. Daeron didn’t press her.

"Does it help?" He asked after a while, his tone lightening, the sarcasm creeping back in like a shield. "My ministrations? Or am I merely fondling your feet for my own perverted amusement?"

Clarice laughed, a wet, choked sound. "You are a pervert, undoubtedly. But you have magic hands."

"I shall add it to my resume," he drawled. "Prince Daeron: drunkard, disappointment, and excellent masseur. The ladies of the court will be lining up."

Clarice shook her head, chuckling. "You’re incorrigible, Daeron."

The carriage began to slow. The rhythm of the wheels changed, the gravel crunching louder.

He was massaging her calf when the wheelhouse ground to a sudden, jarring halt.

Before either of them could move, the door was wrenched open. The gray light of the afternoon spilled in, framing Aerion. He was on horseback, leaning down from his saddle to look inside, his silver hair blowing in the damp wind, his cloak billowing like wings behind him.

He froze.

Aerion looked at Daeron, splattered over the bench of the carriage, Clarice’s bare foot resting gently in his hands.

A slow, cruel smirk spread across his face. He let out a condescending laugh that grated on Clarice's nerves. He looked like a man who had just been let in on the joke of a lifetime.

"Well," Aerion sneered, looking down his nose at his brother. "It seems the drunkard has finally found his true calling. A lady's maid. Shall I get you an apron, brother? Or perhaps a brush for her hair?"

Daeron didn't flinch. He didn't scramble away. He slowly set Clarice's foot down, taking his time to smooth the hem of her skirt over her ankle before he turned his head to look up at his brother.

"Someone has to tend to her, Aerion," Daeron drawled, his voice dripping with a dry, lethally calm sarcasm. "You're far too busy polishing your ego to notice when she’s in pain. And I find I have a... surprisingly deft touch with your wife's needs."

Clarice sucked in a breath, her nails digging into the velvet seat. It was a brazen, suicidal taunt, wrapped in just enough plausible deniability to slip past Aerion's colossal vanity. 

Aerion’s eyes narrowed, too wrapped up in his own arrogance to grasp the confession but vicious enough to catch the disrespect. "Get out of my wheelhouse, Daeron. You smell like a tavern floor, and you are fouling the air."

Daeron grabbed the door frame and hoisted himself out of the carriage with exaggerated sluggishness. He stood in the mud, looking up at his brother on the black destrier.

"Safe travels, brother," Daeron said, offering a mocking, sloppy bow. "Try not to be poisoned within the week."

Aerion sneered, a sharp, hateful sound. "Worry for your own throat, drunkard," he spat, his hand tightening on the reins. "Try not to choke on your own vomit while I am gone. The realm would mourn the loss of its court fool."

Daeron gave Clarice a final, unreadable look, and then stepped down into the mud, disappearing into the crowd of the retinue.

Aerion dismounted with a fluid grace and climbed into the wheelhouse, pulling the door shut behind him. The carriage jerked into motion again, the sudden movement throwing him slightly into the seat Daeron had just vacated.

He didn't pace. He didn't sneer. He sat perfectly still, his hands resting on his knees. The manic energy that usually buzzed around him like a swarm of bees was completely absent, replaced by an eerie, settled calm that frightened Clarice more than his rage.

"We are approaching the crossroads," Aerion announced, his voice flat. "The party splits in an hour. Maekar rides for Summerhall. I ride for the bay."

Clarice felt the blood drain from her face. The moment had come. The trapdoor was opening beneath her feet and her wings had been cut long ago.

"Aerion, I..." She looked at the road to Summerhall, winding up into the green hills. Then at the road to the sea. She opened her mouth to speak the words that would sever them, to tell him she could not go. But the words lodged in her throat like a jagged stone. "I should... the trunks," she stammered, her voice thin and high. "I must ensure the blue silk is packed correctly, the salt air will ruin it, and the baby's linens... I haven't checked if the wet nurse has—"

"Clarice," he said.

"I-I…" She kept on stuttering, the words sticking in her throat like burrs. "I need to... I should speak to Ellyn. My trunks, they are likely mixed with the others, and the medicine for the sea sickness, I haven't checked if..."

"Clarice, stop," Aerion commanded suddenly.

He didn't shout. The softness of his tone cut through her panicked rambling like a blade through silk.

Clarice froze, her mouth half-open.

He leaned forward, bridging the space between them. He reached out and took both of her hands in his. His grip was firm, hot, but for the first time in their marriage, it wasn't a threat. 

"You are not coming to Lys," Aerion said.

Clarice stopped breathing. She stared at him, her mind completely blank, unable to process the words coming from his mouth. "What?"

Aerion looked down at their joined hands, his thumb tracing her knuckles. He looked almost... shy. "I have thought on it. The journey is long. The storms this time of year are treacherous." He looked up, his violet eyes clear and unusually serious. "And Lys... Lys is a sty. It is a city of poisoners, whores, and merchants who think gold is a substitute for blood. It is no place for you."

He paused, his gaze drifting to her stomach. "And it is certainly no place to birth my child. I will not have my heir squalling in some rented villa, tended to by exiles."

Clarice was entirely paralyzed. The sheer, dizzying whiplash of it, receiving the exact salvation she had desperately sought, wrapped in a rare, reluctant moment of his empathy, broke something inside her.

He gestured imperiously toward the road to Summerhall.

"You will go there, and you will wait." He commanded. "You will raise him in the gardens. You will sleep in a real bed. You will have the Maesters of the Citadel attend to you. It is decided."

"But... you said we would show them," Clarice whispered, her voice trembling, not entirely an act. "You said we would be a court. I can endure the sea, Aerion. I can—"

"You will endure nothing," Aerion snapped, cutting her off. "You will stay. I will not risk my son on a ship full of rats and sickness. When I have carved out a kingdom worthy of him, then you will come. But not before."

He was lying. They both knew he was lying. He wasn't going to carve out a kingdom. He was going to drink and fight and spiral in exile. But he was giving her an out. He was giving her permission to survive.

Tears, hot and fast, spilled over Clarice’s eyelashes. She let out a choked, ragged sob. Relief washed over her in a suffocating wave, but beneath it, darker and sharper, was a twisted, bleeding ache. It was the severing of a limb that had been gangrenous but was still part of her. He was saving her, in his own selfish, broken way, and the tragedy of it was that she knew, with terrifying certainty, that this moment of distorted care was the closest he would ever come to love. She wanted to scream at him for his cruelty and weep for his solitude in the same breath. She was free, and it felt like she was being torn in half.

"Do not weep," he commanded, though his voice was unusually thick. He reached up, his thumb wiping a tear from her cheek. "You will stay at Summerhall. But you are still mine, Clarice. Do you hear me? The Narrow Sea is but a puddle to a dragon. It does not change what belongs to me."

"I hear you," she breathed, nodding frantically.

"You will write to me," he demanded, the familiar possessiveness creeping back into his tone. "Every week. I want to know everything. When the child kicks, when it is born. If he has my hair, my eyes, you will put it in a letter before you even cut the cord. And you will tell him of me. You will tell him his father is a dragon."

"I promise," she cried, leaning into his touch, her heart breaking for the tragedy of what they could never be, and the mercy of what they wouldn't have to be. "I promise, Aerion. He will know you. The baby will know his father. I swear it to the Gods."

Aerion’s face softened. It was a beautiful, tragic expression. He leaned in, and Clarice met him halfway.

The kiss they shared in the swaying wheelhouse was tender, desperate, and utterly devoid of their usual venom. It tasted of salt and sorrow. 

He pulled away slowly, resting his forehead against hers. "You are still a terrible bore, wife," he whispered, a weak attempt at their old banter. "Summerhall will suit you. It is full of dust and old books."

"And you are still a vain, arrogant fool," she replied, laughing through her tears. "Try not to start a war in the Free Cities before the baby is born. That'd be an awfully arduous way of getting my attention."

"I make no promises," he smirked.

"Write to me," she commanded, her voice fierce. "Every week. If you don't, I will tell the child his father was a scrawny stable boy."

Aerion laughed. It was a genuine laugh, bright and startled. "You wouldn't dare."

"Try me."

He smirked, running his thumb over her lip. He then pulled back entirely, the mask of the dragon prince sliding firmly back into place. He stood up, the space too small for his height, and pushed open the carriage door. The cool air rushed in.

"Go, then," he dismissed her, his voice clipped and rough. He didn't look back at her. "Before I change my mind and let you suffer the sea sickness just to spite you."

He stepped out of the moving carriage, the door slamming shut, leaving Clarice alone in the dim light, until the dust settled and there was nothing left but the silence of the hills.

************

Summerhall was a paradise of light and stone.

It had been a month since the crossroads. For the first two weeks, Clarice had been miserable. She had wandered the airy corridors and sprawling gardens like a ghost, drenched in a heavy, confusing guilt. She kept waiting for the door to be kicked open, for the shouting to begin, for the heavy, suffocating scent of cloves and fire to fill the room. And she would wake up in the night, reaching for a body that wasn't there, waiting for someone to to stoke the fire back to life to shove the midnight cold away. 

But as the days bled into weeks, the silence stopped feeling empty and began to feel like peace.

She realized she slept through the night. She realized she no longer checked the doorways before entering a room. She realized she could read a book without being interrupted, that she could wear her hair how she liked without comment. She didn't miss him; she realized with a start one morning while breaking her fast on the balcony. She missed the adrenaline, perhaps. She missed the intensity. But she did not miss the fear.

And for a month, she had successfully avoided Daeron.

It wasn't difficult. Maekar was at King's Landing, serving his penance as the new Hand of the King, leaving the summer palace mostly empty save for the servants. Daeron kept to his own chambers or the wine cellars, a ghost haunting the edges of her newly found peace. She saw him sometimes, a silver figure in the distance of the gardens, passed out drunk under the shadow of an orange tree, but she turned away. She needed time to learn who she was when she wasn't surviving Aerion.

But the avoidance could only last so long.

One afternoon, seeking refuge from the midday sun, Clarice ventured into the ancient library. It was exactly as she remembered it from seven months ago, smelling of old parchment, lemon polish, and dust motes dancing in the shafts of colored light from the high windows. She was looking for a book on High Valyrian verbs, a small, silly promise she intended to keep, when she heard a page turn.

Daeron was sprawled across a velvet armchair in the corner. A heavy leather-bound book rested open on his lap, and a silver flask dangled loosely from his fingers. He looked healthier than he had at Ashford, though still pale. He didn't look up as the door clicked shut, but a slow, knowing smile spread across his face.

"I wondered when the hermit crab would emerge from its shell," Daeron said, his voice a dry rasp in the quiet room.

Clarice paused, her hand resting on her heavy stomach. She considered turning around, but her feet felt rooted to the Myrish rug. "I have been resting. The Maesters insist upon it."

Daeron finally looked up. His violet eyes were clear, holding a warm, teasing light that sent a familiar flutter through her chest. "You've been avoiding me."

"I have not," she lied primly, walking toward the shelves, pretending to examine the spines of the books. "I have been busy. Mourning.”

"Mourning the living is a tedious business," Daeron remarked. "They have a nasty habit of not staying dead.”

"And you have been avoiding me," he chuckled, setting his flask on the small table beside him. "You scurry past the courtyards like a frightened mouse if you so much as catch a glimpse of my boots Come here, Clarice. I don't bite." He paused, his smile turning wicked. "Well. Unless you ask me to. I remember you quite liked that..."

Clarice felt a flush of heat rise to her cheeks, coloring her neck. She shot him a scandalous look, quickly scanning the empty library. "Daeron! Are you mad? It is dangerous to speak like that. Someone could hear."

Daeron laughed, a genuine, unburdened sound that echoed in the high ceilings. He waved a dismissive hand at the empty room. "Who? The dust? The ghosts of dead Targaryens? Aerion is halfway to Lys, likely terrorizing the ship's captain, and my father is in King's Landing trying to figure out how to be Baelor without the charm. There is no one here but us, Clarice, and a handful of maids who are half-deaf."

"And if they see us?" Clarice countered, her voice still thin, but a ghost of her old sharpness flickering in her eyes. "They have tongues, Daeron. Tongues that wag all the way to King's Landing."

"Let them wag," Daeron drawled, waving a careless hand. "They'll say the drunkard prince is boring his brother's wife with stories of dead dragons. A scandal so dull it wouldn't even make it to old ladiess tea parties."

Clarice let out a long breath, the rigid posture she had held for a month slowly melting away. She looked at him, truly looked at him, without the shadow of Aerion looming over them. He looked safe. He looked like home.

Daeron patted his thighs. "Come here. I want to show you something in this book. It’s a treatise on Valyrian architecture. It’s incredibly dull, you'll love it."

Clarice hesitated, letting her arms fall by her side. "Daeron, I am gigantic. I will crush your legs. I feel like a galleon that has run aground."

"I shall welcome the injury," he insisted, reaching out to grasp her hands.

With a soft sigh, surrendering to the pull, Clarice turned and carefully lowered herself onto his lap. Daeron groaned playfully as she settled her weight, wrapping his arms around her waist to steady her.

"Gods, woman you're enormous," he teased, resting his chin against her shoulder. "If you get any larger, we shall have to roll you to the dining hall. What are you feeding that child? Lead weights?"

Clarice, in a flash of uncharacteristic insecurity, took him at his word. A flush rose to her neck. "I am too heavy," she mumbled, placing her hands on his knees to push herself up. "I should move, I—"

"Sit down," Daeron laughed, his arms tightening around her waist to keep her in place. "I was teasing, you foolish creature. I wouldn't let you go even if you broke my femurs."

"You are a terrible flatterer, then," she murmured, leaning back against his chest. It felt impossibly right. He smelled of old paper and wine, a scent that meant safety. 

They sat in silence for a few moments, the rhythmic beating of Daeron's heart a steady drum against her back. The sun filtered through the dust, turning the room into a golden haze.

"I am afraid, Daeron," Clarice confessed into the quiet dust of the room. The vulnerability slipped out before she could catch it. "I am afraid the baby will hate me. When he grows up. For choosing to raise him here, alone. Without a father."

Daeron’s arms tightened around her. He rested his hand over hers on the swell of her belly. "He will not hate you, Clarice. Every day that he doesn't have to watch his father beat a servant or throw a goblet at you, he will thank you. When he is old enough to understand, he will thank you on his knees that he didn't have to wake up every day to a monster. He will know peace because you gave it to him."

Clarice smiled, a small, genuine curve of her lips. She covered his hand with hers, interlacing their fingers.

"She," she corrected softly, in what was already an unconscious action she'd cultivated to spite Aerion.

Daeron paused. He pulled his head back just enough to look at the side of her face. "She?"

"Yes," Clarice said, turning her head to meet his eyes. "I am going to have a girl."

She braced herself for disappointment, for the Targaryen obsession with male heirs and dragonriders. But instead, a look of pure, unadulterated wonder bloomed across Daeron's face. His eyes lit up, the shadows of his dreams entirely banished by the thought.

"A girl," he breathed, a wide, beautiful smile breaking across his features. "A little girl. Gods, Clarice. She’ll be terrifying. With your sharp tongue and... well, hopefully none of my traits." He laughed, a soft, delighted sound. "A niece. I can work with that. I shall teach her to outdrink the lords and outsmart the maesters."

Clarice let out a wet, breathless laugh, fully relaxing into his arms. For the first time since she had arrived at Ashford, since she had married into the blood of the dragon, she felt completely, undeniably safe.

"You were right," she whispered.

"I usually am," Daeron grinned against her neck, though his voice was tender. "About what specifically?"

"About safety. It isn't boring. It’s... restful."

She turned back to him. He didn't push. He just waited.

She leaned in, threading her fingers into his silver-gold hair, and he met her halfway. The kiss wasn't desperate or stolen. It wasn't a secret snatched in the dark. It was warm, slow, and deep. It tasted of watered wine and sunlight.

When she finally pulled away, she settled comfortably back against his chest, her head resting just beneath his jaw. She reached out and tapped the heavy, forgotten tome resting on the arm of the chair.

"Read to me," she commanded softly, with a playful smile tugging at her lips. 

Daeron smiled, wrapping his arms tighter around her to pick up the book on his lap. "As the lady commands. Gravel ratios or load-bearing capacities?"

Clarice tapped the page. "That one."

Daeron groaned. "Porosity of volcanic rock? Have mercy on me, Clarice. That passage knocked me unconscious twenty minutes ago."

"Then it is perfect," she said, closing her eyes. "It means your voice will be low and boring."

"My voice is melodic. It is the voice of a scholar."

"It is the voice of a man who needs a nap. Read."

"As you wish. But if I fall asleep and drop this on your toes, I accept no liability."

"Just read, you fool."

Daeron cleared his throat with mock gravity. " 'The porosity of the stone in the warm summer months...' "

" '...allows for a certain dampness to permeate the foundations...' "

"Fascinating."

"You are mocking me."

"I am listening. Go on."

" '...creating a structural integrity that is both flexible and robust.' "

"Like you."

Daeron paused, his chest rumbling with a silent laugh. "Flexible? Yes. Robust? Debatable."

" 'However, one must be wary of the salt air...' "

"You have a nice voice, Daeron."

"It's the wine. It coats the throat."

"It's the heart. It's a gentle one."

"Don't go soft on me now, Arryn. I was just getting to the part about sediment."

"Read about the sediment then,"

" 'Sediment accumulation is a constant threat, ...' Ah, the plot thickness, ‘minerals are known…’ "

Clarice chuckled. Outside, in the golden light of the afternoon, the lemon trees rustled in the breeze, and the dragons, for once, were nowhere to be seen.

************

a/n: Sooo... I know a lot of you guys won't like this chapter, if so I'm very sorry to dissapoint you. I sweat this is always where the story was going to go, it's not like I changed it over comments or anything like that. If you re-read the chapters I promise the subtext has always been there (in fact a lot of you guessed correctly!)

I do want to be clear on this: Aerion is STILL very much part of the story and he WILL appear again and he WILL come back from Lys; I won't spoil any further, but Aerion coming back and how Clarice and Daeron will deal with it and the baby is the major plotline in a few chapters.

I'm very sorry if this chapter lets you down and I totally understand if this wasn't what you guys initially came looking for, but I hope you nonetheless enjoy it and hopefully you keep on reading (if I did my job corrently then you should be at least a little bit interested by daeron x clarice and how they came to be!)

love you guys and appreciate all your support infinitely! <3

from now on this story is aerion targaryen x ofc AND daeron targaryen x ofc

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