holly

Summerhall was a palace built on a dream. Prince Daeron the Good had envisioned a great summer seat for his family, a place of peace and poetry far from the blood-soaked stones of the capital. He had become King before the first stone was laid, now tucked away at the mercy of the Red Keep, but his vision lingered in the honey-colored walls, in the wide windows that drank the sunlight, in the gardens that spilled down the hillside in terraces of green and gold.

Clarice had been at Summerhall for three days, and already she understood why the Targaryens kept returning to this place. It was softer than the Red Keep, gentler. The air smelled of lemon blossoms and sun-warmed stone, not smoke and river mud. The servants moved quietly, the corridors were wide and airy, and for the first time since her wedding night, she could breathe without tasting the edge of a blade.

But Aerion was restless.

Clarice had been married to Prince Aerion for just over a year, and in that time, she had learned the geography of his moods as a sailor learns the tides: the treacherous calm, the sudden squall, and the crushing pressure of the deep. Summerhall was meant to be a respite, but Aerion did not retreat; he merely brought his own weather with him.

It was past the hour of the owl. Aerion was asleep, sprawled across their bed like a fallen conqueror, one arm thrown possessively over the space where she had been. He slept deeply, the sleep of a man who fears no consequence, but Clarice found the silence of the room suffocating. The corridors of Summerhall were silent, save for the distant, rhythmic chirping of crickets in the gardens and the soft, ghostly rustle of Clarice’s hem against the stone.

She walked alone. It was a risk, of course. She wore only her shift. It was a slip of pale rose silk, so thin it was essentially a whisper against her skin. In the torchlight of the corridor, it was scandalously translucent, outlining the curve of her waist and the swell of her breasts, but Clarice found she could not bring herself to care. Propriety felt like a winter coat in this heat, and she had shed it along with her patience. Her hair, usually pinned and plaited into submission, fell loose to her shoulders, a cascading curtain of blonde that shimmered with red gold in the torchlight.

In her hand, she clutched a book. It was a heavy, leather-bound volume on the mythology of Essos, filled with woodcuts of Sphinxes and Manticores. It was her shield and her escape, a tome that lived perpetually in her grip because Aerion rarely granted her the peace to read it. 

"...and it is said that the Sphinxes of Valyria spoke in riddles not to confuse," she read aloud, her voice a barely audible murmur, "but because the truth was a fire that would burn the tongue of the speaker..."

She stumbled over the High Valyrian translation, frowning. Her finger traced the ink.

"A fire that consumes the... the vessel?" she whispered, squinting at the faded script.

"Consumes the hearer," a voice corrected nearby.

Clarice didn't have time to stop.

The figure stumbled out of the shadows of an alcove, moving with the loose- limbed, liquid unpredictability of the profoundly intoxicated. They collided with a soft thud of bodies. Clarice gasped, stumbling back, her bare feet slipping on the polished stone.

The book slipped from her fingers.

It hit the floor with a heavy, echoing clap that sounded like thunder in the quiet corridor.

"Oh, bloody hell," a voice slurred, deep and rasping.

Clarice dropped to her knees instinctively to retrieve the volume, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. At the same moment, the stranger swayed and sank down, reaching for the same object with clumsy, delayed gallantry.

Their hands brushed against the leather cover at the same time.

Clarice looked up.

The man was young, though his eyes held the exhaustion of a century. He had the silver hair of the Targaryens, though it was golden and disheveled, falling across his forehead in messy waves. His face was pale, the skin drawn tight over high cheekbones, and he smelled of strong Arbor red and something much bitter, like herbs.

But it was his eyes that arrested her. They were a softer shade of violet than Aerion’s; not the bruised purple of a storm, but the pale, grieving lilac of early morning. And they were looking at her with an expression she had never seen directed at her before: absolute, unadulterated wonder.

Time seemed to curdle and slow. The moonlight pouring through the window above them caught the dust motes dancing in the air, turning them into a halo around his head. He didn't move. He didn't pull his hand away. He just stared at her, his lips parting in genuine, slack-jawed wonder.

He looked surprised. He looked amused. But mostly, he looked utterly entranced, as if he had stumbled into a fable and found the maiden waiting.

"I've dreamed of you," he whispered abruptly.

The words hung in the air, heavy and strange. It wasn't a teasing line, nor a lewd jest. It was the confession of a man who had been chasing a ghost for a lifetime, only to find it suddenly solid and breathing and utterly stunning before him.

Clarice blinked, her breath catching in her throat. She gripped the book, pulling it slightly toward her chest. "My prince?"

He smiled then. It was a crooked, lopsided thing, charming in its lack of artifice. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze drifting over her face, drinking in the blue of her eyes, the loose hair, the pale rose silk, translucent against her skin.

"You are..." He shook his head, as if trying to clear the cobwebs. "You are even prettier in the waking world. The dream didn't get the nose right. It wasn't... sharp enough."

Clarice felt a flush rise to her cheeks, heat blooming under her skin. She should have been scandalised. She was a married woman, half-naked in a hallway with a drunkard. But there was no threat in him. There was only a gentle, sloppy adoration.

"You are drunk, ser," she said softly, though her voice lacked its usual bite.

"I am," he agreed solemnly. "Painfully so. But my eyes work. Gods, they work too well."

"What are you doing here?" she asked, clutching the book tighter. "It is the hour of the owl. The palace sleeps."

"I heard a voice," Daeron answered simply. He gestured vaguely with a hand that trembled slightly. "Talking about Sphinxes and riddles. I thought, 'Daeron, old boy, finally, the madness has come to claim you.'" He looked at her pointedly. "I was following the voice of an angel. And it led me to you."

Clarice felt the blush deepen, spreading down her neck. She looked down at her bare feet, then back up at him. "I am no angel, my prince. Only Clarice. O-Of the Eyrie."

The man let out a soft laugh, a sound like dry leaves skittering over stone. "Well, Clarice of the Eyrie," he drawled, rocking back on his heels. "I don't think we've been properly introduced. I'm Daeron." He swept into a clumsy, seated bow, one hand pressed to his heart. "Your delightful husband's brother, at your service."

Clarice giggled. It bubbled up from her chest, a chirpy, unexpected sound that she hadn’t heard from herself in what it felt like ages. It was the sound of a bird finding an open window.

"It’s good to meet you, Daeron," she whispered, a shy smile tugging still at the corners of her mouth.

"It’s good to meet you too, Clarice," he echoed immediately. His grin was crooked and bright, and utterly adoring.

Their eyes locked again. It felt mythical. It felt like the snap of a puzzle piece finally finding its place after years of being lost under the rug. In the silence of the corridor, with the smell of wine and lavander between them, something invisible and iron-strong tethered them together.

"Daeron!"

The sharp bark of her husband’s voice shattered the strange, magical intimacy of the moment.

Clarice flinched, scrambling to her feet. Daeron tried to follow suit, but gravity was a harsh mistress; he wobbled and ended up leaning heavily against the wall.

Aerion stood at the end of the corridor. He was wrapped in a dressing gown of black silk, his hair tousled, his feet bare on the stone. He didn't look sleepy. He looked instantly, vibrantly awake, his eyes darting between his wife in her shift and his brother on the floor.

"Look at you," Aerion sneered, walking towards them. He didn't look jealous. He looked bored. "Crawling through the halls like a rat. Have you mistaken the gallery for a tavern, brother?"

Daeron wiped a hand over his face. "Brother, I was just introducing myself to your lovely wife, since you failed to do so at your wedding. She holds a candle better than you hold a temper."

"I didn't think you'd remember her name by morning," Aerion spat. He turned to Clarice, his hand snapping out to grip her upper arm. "And you. Wandering the halls in your shift like a whore. Have you no shame?"

"I was reading," Clarice said, her voice defensive.

Aerion snorted, his grip tightening on her arm. "Come back to bed. The air is damp. You'll catch a chill, and then I shall have to listen to you cough for a fortnight."

"You prefer the sound of your own voice above all else, husband," she retorted, offering him a sharp, thin smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Surely a little coughing would provide a welcome harmony to your usual monologue."

Aerion’s jaw tightened, the violet of his eyes darkening for a fraction of a second. He let out a short, sharp scoff —half annoyance, half twisted admiration.

"Your tongue is sharp tonight," he muttered, steering her away. "Let’s see if you cut yourself with it."

He led her back toward their chambers, dismissing his brother as one might dismiss a piece of furniture.

Clarice let herself be led, but she glanced back over her shoulder. Daeron was still leaning against the wall, bathed in moonlight, watching her go. He looked lonely. He looked sad. But as he caught her eye, he offered a small, secret wink.

Clarice turned forward, her heart beating fast. He was cute. He was sweet. 

Daeron Targaryen was intriguing, Clarice decided. 

***********

The days at Summerhall fell into a rhythm, oppressive as the heat. The mornings were for hawking or riding, displays of martial power that Aerion demanded she witness. The afternoons were for avoiding Aerion’s temper, which flared hotter than the Dornish sun. And the evenings were for feasts that Prince Maekar presided over with a face carved of granite, disappointed in everything his eyes touched.

Clarice found herself looking for the silver-gold head that wasn't Aerion’s.

Daeron was rarely seen before noon, and when he did appear, he was usually nursing a cup of wine and a headache, moving with the fragility of spun glass. Yet, Clarice found herself reaching for him.

It wasn't overt. It was a glance across the breakfast table as Aerion dissected a pomegranate with surgical violence. It was a lingering look in the gardens. And Daeron was always there, usually with a cup in hand, usually half-asleep slumped in a chair, but always watching.

They formed a quiet, illicit friendship. It existed in the spaces between Aerion's spurts of anger.

"You're eating that peach wrong," Daeron murmured one afternoon in the solar, watching her slice the fruit.

"I am eating it with a knife, Daeron," Clarice replied without looking up. "Is there a Valyrian technique I am unaware of? Do dragons swallow them whole, pit and all?"

"Dragons roast them first," Daeron drawled, emptying a goblet of Dornish red. "But I meant you're too neat. A peach demands mess. It demands juice on the chin. You eat like you're afraid the fruit will bite back."

"I am married to your brother," she retorted, flashing him a quick, sharp grin. "I am accustomed to things biting back."

Daeron laughed, a sound that was easily becoming her favorite noise in the castle. It was dry, nihilistic, and utterly warm. "Ah,"

He was clever. That was what surprised her most. Beneath the layers of wine and self-loathing lay a mind that was razor-sharp. He knew history, he knew philosophy, and he possessed a sardonic wit that matched her own. Where Aerion's humor was cruel, Daeron's was absurd. He found the world ridiculous, and he invited her to laugh at the joke.

One afternoon, she found him in the library. He was sprawled on a rug near the window, a book resting on his chest, eyes closed.

"It is a treatise on the economic impact of the Dornish wars," Clarice said, standing over him. "I suspect you are using it to block the sun rather than absorb its knowledge."

Daeron opened one eye. "The sun is intrusive," he murmured. "And the economic impact can be summarized in two words: 'expensive' and 'bloody'. There. I have saved you four hundred pages of reading. You're welcome."

Clarice smiled. She sat in the armchair nearby, opening her own book. "You are smarter than you pretend to be, Prince Daeron."

"And you are unhappier than you pretend to be, Clarice of the Eyrie," he countered, closing his eye again. "We all have our masquerades."

It became a pattern. They would sit in silence, or trade barbs that were sharp but never cruel. 

He began to anticipate her.

During dinner, when Aerion would launch into one of his tirades about the incompetence of the serving staff or the inferiority of the Dornish, Clarice would open her mouth to retort, to slide the needle in, but Daeron would speak first.

"Truly, brother," Daeron would mock him from his end of the table, swirling his wine. "The soup is lukewarm. It is clearly a conspiracy by the Martells to weaken your constitution. We should declare war immediately. I shall lead the vanguard with a spoon."

Aerion would turn his fury on Daeron, calling him a fool, a drunk, a disgrace. Clarice would be spared the fight. She would catch Daeron’s eye across the table, and he would offer her a subtle, imperceptible shrug. 

Then came the day in the library.

Clarice was seated in a window niche, reading the Essosi mythology book again, lost in a chapter about the Doom of Valyria; her mind a whirl of images of monsters and greatness and utter delirium; an expectant smile tugged at her lips as her breath shortened, her fingers hastily turning the page as her eyes hungrily searched for the next paragraph, when the book was suddenly ripped from her hands.

"Pay attention to me," Aerion demanded.

Clarice jumped, her heart skipping a beat. Aerion stood over her, holding the book out of reach. He looked agitated, his energy frantic and spiky and thunderous.

"Give it back, Aerion," she sighed, reaching for it. "I was reading."

"You are always reading," he snapped, flipping through the pages with disdain. "Why do you fill your head with this trash? Harpies and sphinxes. It is nonsense. Look at me when I speak to you."

"I look at you all day," Clarice countered, standing up. "Can I not have one hour to look at something that doesn't demand my adoration?"

"No," he said, his eyes narrowing. "You are mine. Your eyes are mine. If I have to burn this library to the ground to get your attention, I will."

He raised the book, as if to throw it across the room.

"Father is looking for you."

The voice came from the doorway. Daeron stood there, leaning against the frame, looking bored and slightly disheveled.

Aerion froze. He turned slowly. "What?"

"Maekar," Daeron said, inspecting his fingernails. "He's in the yard. Something about the new coursers. He said he needed... what was it? Ah, yes. 'A son who knows a stirrup from a saddle.' I assumed he meant you, since I clearly don't."

Aerion puffed up instantly; immense vanity overtaking the rage. "Of course he needs me. He realizes you are useless."

"Painfully so," Daeron agreed easily, taking a sip from a flask. "Better hurry. He hates to wait."

Aerion sneered at Daeron, then gave the book back to Clarice. It hit her chest with a thud. "Look for me in the courtyard later," he warned her, before sweeping out of the room.

Silence settled over the library, and Clarice welcomed him like an old friend. 

Daeron walked over, his boots soft on the Myrish rugs. He watched the empty doorway for a moment, then looked at Clarice.

He took a moment simply to drink her in. She was wearing a gown of pale lilac, a shade as soft as a bruised dawn, the linen fine enough to cling to her figure in the heavy warmth of the afternoon air. Her hair fell loose and straight to her shoulders, a cascade of gold that shimmered with the fierce, copper fire of her Tully blood where the sunlight touched it. She looked absolutely breathtaking.

"He isn't, you know," Daeron said.

"Isn't what?" Clarice asked, opening the book again where she’d left it. 

"Looking for him. Father is asleep in the solar. But Aerion... Aerion is easy to herd if you dangle a shiny mirror in front of him."

Clarice smiled. "You lied."

"I improvised," Daeron corrected. He sat down on the window seat in front of her, patting the space beside him. "Sit. You look like you're about to fall over."

Clarice hesitated, then sat. "Thank you," she said softly.

"Don't thank me," Daeron muttered, offering her his flask. "It's self- preservation. If he starts shouting, my headache gets worse."

Clarice took the flask. She took a swig. It was strong wine, heavily spiced. She coughed, wiping her mouth.

"You've been reading that book since you arrived," Daeron noted, pointing at the volume on her lap. "You're a terribly slow reader for someone so frighteningly clever."

Clarice laughed. "Aerion is... time-consuming. It is hard to focus on the Doom of Valyria when one feels as though is living through it."

Daeron chuckled, leaning his head back against the stone arch. "Hell is what awaits for us after our deaths, they say. But I think Hell is specifically being Aerion's wife. I don't know how you do it. Without drinking, I mean."

"I have my ways," she said cryptically. "Breathing patterns help."

"Ah. A useful skill." He took the flask back. "I prefer drowning."

He took a long drink, his eyes closing. Clarice watched him. She saw the tremor in his hands, the lines of strain around his mouth.

"Why do you drink, Daeron?" she asked bluntly. It was a bold question, intrusive, but the air between them felt safe enough to hold it. "Is it just the boredom?"

Daeron opened one eye. "Boredom? No. Boredom would be a blessing." He sighed, swirling the wine. "It's the dreams, Clarice,” he almost chuckled, “the dragon dreams. The curse of our blood. Some get madness, like Aerion. Some get greatness, like Baelor. And some... some get the sight."

Most noble houses scoffed at the Targaryens' claims of prophecy, viewing it as arrogance. But Clarice had seen enough of Aerion to know that there was something supernatural in their blood, something ancient and dangerous. She leaned forward, "I have heard the stories. Do you truly see... the future?"

"I see things," Daeron said, his voice turning flat. "Flashes. Metaphors. Dead dragons. Great halls burning. Sometimes they come true. Sometimes they are just madness. But they are always loud. The wine... it muddies the water. Makes the images blurry."

"Are they all bad?" she asked gently.

Daeron turned to look at her. The afternoon sun lit up his violet eyes, turning them transparent.

"Not all of them," he murmured. A small, crooked smile touched his lips. "Sometimes I see... hope. I see dragons returning to the world. Real dragons. Hatched from stone, three of them." A shadow crossed his face, then lifted. "And... I've seen you."

Clarice froze. "Me?"

"Yes." A slow, roguish smile spread across his face, entirely at odds with the prophetic gloom of a moment ago. 

"Where was I?" she asked, her curiosity piqued, her tone playful.

Daeron leaned in closer, the smell of spices and wine enveloping her. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Under me," he said.

Clarice stared at him. It was bold. It was improper. It should have been offensive. But the way he said it, with a wry, self-deprecating tease, as if mocking his own subconscious desires, robbed it of any actual threat.

She raised her eyebrows, a smile playing on her lips. "Is that so?"

Daeron burst out laughing. It was a deep, gut-level laugh that shook his shoulders. "You are a marvelous creature, Clarice of the Eyrie," he declared, wiping a tear from his eye. "Most women would have slapped me."

"I considered it," she admitted. "But I was curious about the logistics. You can barely stand up half the time."

"You wound me, my lady," Daeron winced, placing a hand over his heart. "Fair point. In the dream, I was remarkably coordinated."

"Ah, it was just the madness, then" she scoffed, with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Daeron looked at her then, the laughter fading into a soft, affectionate gaze. "Perhaps," he whispered. 

***********

Two days later, the sky turned the color of a bruise.

The heat broke in a violent shattering of the sky. Thunder rolled down from the Red Mountains, shaking the foundations of Summerhall, and rain lashed against the glass gardens like handfuls of sand.

Aerion was gone.

He had ridden out at dawn for a hunt, a grand affair chasing a rumored white hart in the Kingswood. He had taken his dogs, his horses, and his foul mood, taking the noise and the violence of the world with him. He had left Clarice with a mocking kiss and a command to "not wither" in his absence.

Clarice had spent the day in a state of deep relaxation, reading, soaking in a bath, eating figs without judgment, and simply breathing air that didn't smell of potential violence.

As evening fell and the storm worsened, she made her way to the library. The castle felt empty, the servants busy securing shutters against the wind.

Clarice wore the same pale rose shift she had worn that first night. It was too warm for velvet, and with Aerion gone, she felt bold. She threw a light shawl over her shoulders, but left her hair loose, a shimmering cascade of gold in the flickering torchlight. Her face was scrubbed clean, devoid of powders, her skin glowing with the humidity.

She pushed open the heavy oak doors of the library.

A fire was crackling in the hearth, fighting back the gloom of the storm. And there, sitting on a rug before the flames, was Daeron.

He looked different. Cleaner. He wore a shirt of black linen, open at the throat, and breeches of dark wool. His face was shaved, save for a day's worth of stubble that shadowed his jaw, and his hair was tied back from his face, revealing the sharp, aristocratic lines of his features. He held a goblet, of course, but he didn't look drunk. He looked... untroubled, for once.

He looked up as she entered, and his eyes crinkled in amusement.

"Shouldn't you be embroidering or praying?" he called out over the crackle of the fire, his voice teasing. "Or whatever it is wives do when their husbands go off to murder the innocent wildlife?"

Clarice closed the door against the draft. "I am reading about dragons," she said. "I find it best to study the predator one lives with."

Daeron snorted. "A waste of time," he said, "the books say dragons are majestic beasts of fire and magic. They don't mention that they are also petty, loud, and smell of sulfur when they're wet."

"You speak of yourself with such kindness, my prince."

"I speak of my blood," he corrected, taking a long pull of the wine. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at her, and the tome in her hands. “What is it that you’re reading now?”

Clarice simply lifted her book in response, a cheeky smile on her face.

"Ah. Essosi mythology again." Daeron lifted his cup in a toast. "Did you finally finish the chapter on the Doom?"

"I did," she said, settling onto the rug opposite him, tucking her legs beneath her shift. "Thanks to the silence. It is... remarkably peaceful today."

Daeron smirked, swirling his wine. "It must be strange, not hearing the sound of Aerion grinding his teeth. You're welcome."

Clarice paused. She looked at him, narrowing her eyes. "You?"

"The hunt," Daeron confessed, looking pleased with himself. "I may have... suggested to the Master of Hunt that a white hart had been spotted."

Clarice laughed, a bright sound that mingled with the thunder outside. "You lied? To get him out of the castle?"

"I facilitated Aerion with a ghost, since he’s so fond of catching them," Daeron corrected with a grin. "And I saved us both a day of his brooding. I consider it a public service."

"You are a manipulator, Daeron Targaryen," she said, shaking her head.

"I am a man who likes quiet, Clarice of the Eyrie," he replied softly. He reached for the bottle beside him and poured wine into a second goblet. He slid it across the rug towards her. "Drink. It's good. From the Arbor. Not that swill Aerion prefers."

Clarice took the cup. Their fingers brushed. The contact sent a jolt through her, warm and electric.

She took a sip. It was rich, velvety, tasting of blackberries and oak. "It is good," she admitted.

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the storm rage outside. It felt like the world had shrunk down to the two of them. It felt intimate in a way that was dangerous and undeniable.

"You look..." Daeron started, then stopped. He looked at her, his gaze traveling from her bare feet to the curve of her throat, lingering on the rose silk that clung to her form. "You look like a dream tonight, Clarice."

Clarice felt her heart hammer. She thought of Aerion, hunting in the rain, cold and angry. She thought of his grip on her arm, his threats, his constant, suffocating demand for ownership. And then she looked at Daeron. Gentle, broken, brilliant Daeron, who lied, not to claim her peace for himself, but to give her a day of it for her own. 

"Your dream," she whispered. "The one... about us."

Daeron went still. The playful mask slipped. His gaze dropped to her mouth, dark and hungry. "Yes?"

"Do your dreams always come true?"

"Every time," he rasped. "It is the curse of my existence."

Clarice smiled. It was a dangerous smile, full of Arryn steel and a sudden, reckless desire to reclaim something for herself.

"Well," she whispered, crawling forward on the rug until she was kneeling between his spread legs. She reached out and placed a hand on his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart through the linen. "What are we waiting for, then?"

Daeron let out a sound —half groan, half laugh. He set the cup aside, spilling a splash of red onto the rug, and reached for her.

He kissed her.

It wasn't like Aerion's kisses. It was desperate, yes, but it was giving. It was warm and wet and tasted of wine and yearning. He kissed her as if she were water and he had been dying of thirst in the desert.

Clarice made a soft sound in her throat, opening to him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, tangling her fingers in the silver hair she had wanted to touch for weeks.

He pulled her down onto the rug.

The wool was soft beneath her back. The firelight painted the ceiling in dancing shadows. Daeron hovered over her, bracing his weight on his elbows so he wouldn't crush her. He looked down at her, his violet eyes dark with desire, but soft with concern.

He didn't tear at her clothes. He undid the laces of her gown with trembling fingers, pausing to kiss the skin he revealed —her collarbone, the pulse of her throat, the slope of her breast. He was slow. He was teasing. His hands roamed over her skin, learning the curve of her body with a reverence that made her want to weep. He murmured praises against her skin, each one of them a prayer of worship.

When he finally entered her, there was no pain, only a feeling of immense, satisfying, longing fullness. They moved together in the rhythm of the storm outside, a slow, building crescendo. Clarice found herself clinging to him, arching into his touch, making sounds she had never made in her husband's bed. She felt needy, open, and utterly safe.

He moved with a slow, agonizingly sweet rhythm. He watched her face the entire time, cataloging every gasp, every flush. He talked her through it, his voice a low rumble in her ear. "That's it... look at me, Clarice... you're so beautiful... gods, you feel like heaven..."

She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper, wanting to consume him, to feel him closer than what was physically possible. She ran her hands down his back, feeling the shudder of his breath, the beat of his heart against her own.

He thrust harder, hitting a spot deep inside her that made her vision blur. Clarice threw her head back, a cry tearing from her throat. “Oh, Gods—” Daeron swallowed the sound with a kiss, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of his hips.

He came with a growl, burying his face in her neck, his body shuddering against hers. Clarice followed him moments later, her world narrowing down to the smell of old books and the feeling of Daeron Targaryen shaking in her arms.

They collapsed together on the rug, a tangle of limbs and pale silk and dark linen.

The fire had burned down to embers. The storm was still raging, but it felt distant now.

Daeron rolled to his back, pulling her against his chest. He traced the line of her arm with his fingertips, looking at the ceiling shadows.

"Well," he said, his voice returning to that familiar, dry drawl, though it lacked its usual sadness. "I suppose my record as a seer remains unblemished."

Clarice laughed, a genuine, bubbling sound that surprised them both. She turned on her side, resting her head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. "If you ever dream of me knitting socks, keep it to yourself. I have no interest in fulfilling that prophecy."

Daeron pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his arm tightening around her, holding her as if she were the most precious thing in the realm. "I promise, Clarice of the Eyrie. I will only share with you the good ones."

***********

a/n: well, I hope you enjoy this! I swear it's so magical to write about daeron. hopefully you like this chapter, and clarice and daeron's relationship.

I do realise there are a few loopholes here, but worry not they're on purpose and will be adressed.

thank you all for your wonderful comments as always, I swear I would've already stopped posting if it weren't for you guys! see you on the next chapter

tags: @t4medicroe , @rhaesvoid , @heavengirls111 , @ladyhesperus , @cloudyzip , @eyukkie , @bellstwd , @theoriginalwifeofhanjumin , 

@pyrokineticbaby , @gnosticdreamer , @f1wh0recom , @tomie-it-girl , @juluina , @chanangela , @steve-4-life , @flowofparadise , 

@beesox , @magdalenawannabe , @xcrybaby555x , @paletragedydreamer , @antimikey , @darylandbethfanforever9 , @b00kw0rmsworld , 

@thesisterteaz , @aerionslawyer , @notanyoneyouknowmaybe , @stephlzm , @cupidsms , @yrcbhu5wdv , @fentyless , @sunshineandarrow ,

 @starhxhx , @wizzdot , @flowofparadise , @ninasayerrs , @superflymaterial , @dramioneforevertilltheend , @atimetobesosmalll , 

@paletragedydreamer , @prettylittlebrowngirl , @selmge , @goblinofthegoblet , @luv-keena , @stephlzm , @moongirl27 , @fxntom90 , @juluina ,

 @skinnyyvanillax0 , @thisonegirl , @secretsandtinyshadows , @huntress1500-blog , @tychebaby 

*****

The entire week that Aleksander was away, was uneventful. She followed the same routine like a robot; get up, train for a few hours, spend the afternoon in the library, evenings with her mother and brothers and then have dinner with Alannah and sometimes with a few other Grishas as well.

The day Aleksander returned to Os Alta, the king arranged a meeting to discuss the wedding plans and the benefits of the union.

“The wedding will be held in three weeks,” Igor announced. “And in a week there will be a ball, for all the important nobles and Grishas so that I can declare the union between my daughter and the General of the Second Army”.

Estella scoffed when she heard her father refer to her as his daughter, but before her father could comment on her reaction, her mother spoke.

“Igor don’t you think three weeks is a little too early? I mean we will need time to organise a wedding. Plus it is Ravka’s only princess’s wedding, everything has to be perfect". “I don’t care how you manage it, Tatiana. The General and Estella are getting married in three weeks,” the king grumbled. “Moya tsaritsa, you do not have to worry about the arrangements, I am sure my Grisha will be more than happy to set everything up,” Aleksander offered. “I don’t think that will be necessary, General Kirigan. It is my daughter’s wedding, I intend to plan everything myself,” Tatiana said, giving her future son-in-law a small smile, to which he just nodded.

The conversation flowed for another half hour before the king dismissed Estella and Aleksander. Neither of them said a word as they left the room, going their seperate ways.

That night, Estella found herself in Alannah's room again, telling her about the ball that would take place in a week’s time and then the wedding two weeks after that. She stayed with her friend for majority of the night, ranting about how she was still not extremely happy to be bargained off like she had no value.

*****

The next morning when she woke up, she found a note on her bedside table. Estella quickly opened it and read the letter.

Good morning, Estella.

I would like for you to attend today's council. As soon-to-be Lady Kirigan, you should know how my meetings take place and what is happening in Ravka that only my inner circle and I know of.

The meeting will be held in the war room and it will start at 3 in the afternoon.

Don't be late.

~General Kirigan.

After reading the letter, the princess freshened up and went on with her day as she usually did.

Surprisingly, today, while she was practicing with other Grishas, she caught a glimpse of the General observing her. It was extremely rare to find their leader outside of the war room, much less the sparing area. So when she saw him she stopped in her tracks, giving her opponent a chance to overthrow her.

Estella didn’t see Henrique, a Tidemaker, summon water and charge his powers towards her as she was busy looking at Aleksander. This mistake of hers cost her and due to the immense force of the water, she went flying across the fighting pit, landing on her bottom rather harshly.

“Hey, are you alright?” Henrique asked, worry in his voice. “Yeah, I am fine. Don’t worry. I just got distracted, that’s all,” Estella answered, trying to play it off coolly. “Okay. I think we are done for the day. You should go get changed,” the Tidemaker said, sheepishly smiling at her. He helped her up and bid her adieu.

When Estella looked back in the direction that she had seen Aleksander minutes before, she didn’t find him. He was gone.

She decided to change into a dry kefta before going to have lunch with her mother and discuss some matters regarding her fast approaching wedding.

*****

“Mama, just no. The colour theme of my wedding won’t be Lantsov blue,” Estella declared to her mother, probably for the hundredth time. “Why not, lapushka? You are a Ravkan princess, a member of the royal family and all the members of House Lantsov have had the colour Lantsov blue for their wedding. You should have it too,” Queen Tatiana tried to coax her daughter but failed. “That is the exact same reason why not, mama. Every Lantsov before me has had those colours, I want something else, something different. You can have a traditional wedding for Vasya or Nikolai, not for me,” Estella said, frustrated at how bossy her mother was being for such a small thing. “Okay, okay fine. Don’t bite my head off. What colour theme do you want then?” the tsaritsa questioned. “How about gold and black with a little bit of white?” Estella suggested. “Gold to represent my lineage and black to represent his. Plus both colours go well with each other,” she continued. “We cannot have black at your wedding, Esty. Saints, black attracts omen and I won’t have any kind of mishap on your big day,” the older woman said, shaking her head. “Mama, have you met the General? That man wears nothing but black. I am hundred percent sure he will show up at the alter wearing that damned black kefta of his as well. For all we know he even bleeds black blood,” Estella mentioned.

There was a moment of silence before…

“HE BLEEDS BLACK?” the queen screeched, eyes widening and jaw dropping. “What? Mama no! I was just messing around. No one bleeds black,” the tsarevna whined, rolling her eyes at her mother. “Oh dear, you scared me there for a minute,” Tatiana chuckled nervously. “We are going to plan this wedding as per me or else I am going to make sure the only people present at my wedding are the General, myself and the Apparat,” Estella deadpanned, narrowing her eyes at her mother. “Whatever you say, Tsarevna, whatever you say,” the mother smiled, bowing her head down dramatically, making Estella cackle.

Once the laughter died down, Estella spoke up, “I am going to the Little Palace, mama. The General wants me to attend his council meeting”. The princess kissed her mother’s cheek before leaving the chambers and making her way to the Little Palace.

*****

Estella was late.

She had to reach the war room by 3 but on her way to the Little Palace she was forced to make unwanted conversations with nobles who couldn’t take a hint that she had no interest in chatting with them and that she was running late.

The Inferni walked as fast as her feet allowed her to and by the time she reached her destination, she was out of breath. Standing there for a couple minutes, Estella caught her breath, composed herself and then knocked on the door. Without waiting for an answer, she walked in, where she spotted her suitor with his three most trusted and valuable soldiers; Ivan, Fedyor, and Zoya.

“I am sorry I am late, I had some business to attend,” Estella said. “I am sure she doesn’t need any introduction but please welcome Princess Estella who, from now on is a part of my inner circle and in command of any and all Second Army decisions in my absence,” the leader of the Second Army said. Ivan and Fedyor just nodded, bowing their heads as a silent greeting towards her. However Zoya frowned, not out of confusion but rather out of slight resentment. “And why is that, General?” the Squaller asked. “Because, Zoya, the tsarevna and I are to be married as a way to dissolve the bad blood between the two armies of Ravka,” Aleksander answered, his voice and face emotionless. “What?” Zoya all but shouted. Ivan and Fedyor were just as bewildered, they had assumed that Estella was given that authority because she was the princess not because she was to be Lady Kirigan. “You have a problem with that, Miss Nazyalensky?” Estella queried, raising an eyebrow. “No, moya tsarevna,” Zoya mumbled, knowing better than to enrage Estella because it was like digging your own grave. “Good. Can we start this meeting now?”

*****

It had been nearly two hours and the meeting was going on perfectly well until Estella said something that made the General livid.

“It is the most feasible thing to do in a situation like this,” Estella told him, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And why is that?” Aleksander questioned, frustrated at his future wife for being right and at himself for not thinking of it sooner. “Because we do not need more Grisha near the fold. We already have enough there plus the First Army is there as well. Whereas, near the Ravkan borders, there are very few Grisha soldiers. If we station more soldiers near the border, the chances are highly likely that we’ll be able to stop the Fjerdans and Shu Han soldiers from entering Ravka and slaughtering our kind,” Estella replied to him, moving a few war pieces here and there on the map table to prove her point.

There was absolute silence in the war room for a hot minute, everyone contemplating Estella’s words before she broke it. “Saints, is this how you have been strategizing our moves all these years? No wonder why Grishas are being butchered,” the princess muttered, half joking, half serious. “Excuse me?” the Darkling barked, furrowing his brows. “I said ‘no wonder why Grishas are being butchered’ because the way you plan your tactics are ancient. Our enemies seem to have come to know it and that’s why we are losing this war,” Estella reiterated. Ivan, Fedyor and Zoya gaped at her, as if she had grown two more heads and Aleksander… Well he was incensed to say the least. How dare she speak to him like that? How dare she belittle him in front of his Grisha?

“Out!” Aleksander ordered, trying to keep himself from screaming at them. “All three of you. I need to speak with the princess in private,” he continued. As the three left the room, Ivan and Fedyor looked between their General and the princess wearily while Zoya just smirked, happy to know that Estella was about to experience the General’s wrath.

The moment the door closed, Aleksander lost it. His shadows engulfed the room, frightening Estella. “How dare you fucking say that to me?” Aleksander bellowed. “I am merely stating the facts because seriously, if this is how you have been leading us and if this is how you continue to plan on leading us, trust me, we are screwed,” Estella said, trying not to show how afraid she was of him in the moment.

In a blink of an eye, Estella was pinned to the wall with Aleksander’s hands on either side of her face, his own face inches away from hers. She could feel his hot breath on her face, she could see the anger in his dark, alluring eyes and she knew she had made a grave mistake.

She had made the mistake of infuriating The Darkling.

“You have no bloody idea what it’s like to lead an army while carrying the burden of being a descendant of the Black Heretic. You don’t know how painful it is to watch your people get massacred and there is nothing you can do about it. All these years, everything I have ever done is to protect my Grisha from Fjerda and Shu Han and Novyi Zem but they are still being killed in a war that is not theirs to fight. And you have the fucking audacity to say that I am incapable of leading the Second Army?”

By that time Aleksander was done speaking, Estella couldn’t look him in the eyes; she was feeling extremely guilty about having doubted him before knowing the whole back story. She didn’t know he was carrying so much burden. “General, I am so sorry. I…I didn’t mean to question you, I was just expressing my concerns regarding…” Estella trailed off. Aleksander roughly grabbed her face, making her look at him and gritted through his teeth, “Regarding what, huh? Next time, before speaking to me like that, remember that you are still a soldier in my army. I wouldn’t think twice before punishing you just because you are the princess or my betrothed”. Estella only nodded, her throat too tight with emotions to say anything.

Aleksander let her go when he heard a knock on the door. “Enter,” he said, distancing himself from Estella, giving her a few seconds to regain her composure. The door to Aleksander’s private quarters opened and Genya, the Fabrikator, strolled in, her pearl white kefta with gold designs complimenting her fiery, auburn hair. “Moi soverenyi, moya tsarevna,” she greeted, her eyes filling with concern as she looked at the princess, whose breathing was uneven. “Genya, it is good to see you,” Estella nodded her head, forcing out a smile. “You too, princess,” Genya muttered and then turned her attention back to her General. “You called for me, General?” “Yes, Genya. I need you to design few black keftas for the princess as well as a wedding gown. Oh and another gown for the ball that is to take place in a week. Take her measurements and you ladies can decide the patterns and style as per your preferences but Genya I need absolutely exquisite dresses for my bride. I hope I am clear,” Aleksander instructed and with that he walked out of the door, leaving Estella dumbfound. How could he yell at her one minute and in the next minute he was asking his best Fabrikator to sew a wedding dress for her? Aleksander was a puzzle, a mystery. A mystery she did not look forward to solve.

“Genya can we do this tomorrow? I am tired and I wish to retire to my chambers,” Estella sighed. “Of course, tsarevna. I will see you tomorrow,” with another small smile, Genya was gone as well, leaving Estella and her thoughts alone in her soon-to-be chambers.

‘If this is what I have to deal with once I marry Aleksander, then saints help me. It’s going to be an excruciatingly long, exhausting life’.

*****

A/N: Here's another part. I hope you like it, I'd love to know what you think of the story so far and tell me if you'd like me to add something to it. Thanks for reading :)