dream a little dream| part two
Pairing: Daeron Targaryen x fem!Reader
Summary: Daeron Targaryen has dreamed of you for as long as he can remember. Once he has you in the flesh, he will not so easily let go.
Warnings: 18+, alcoholism, bastard!Reader, family issues, slow burn but not for Daeron lol, implied dream sex, mostly unedited
Word Count: 3.7k
series masterlist
The beginning to the next day found you sitting in a tub of lukewarm water, scrubbing absently at the dirt that had accumulated over your journey. The water was scented with some earthy herbal mix and you could see a faint oily sheen on the top.
With the help of a lady’s maid, you detangled and washed your hair. While still damp, the maid arranged it in a pretty but practical style. Once she was finished, you dismissed her and got out of the tub by yourself. She should’ve stayed and helped you dress but your family, and the staff, had long since learned not to hassle you.
Mind adrift, you got dressed with little difficulty. Like your hair, your dress was pretty but practical. The hems were ever so slightly raised so as not to get completely filthy in the mud. Your dress had subtle embroideries, done by your own hand, and sleeves that ended with slightly longer silk trails.
You liked to trace the inside of the sleeves and feel the embroidery you had put there, for your eyes only. Little birds, plants, native to your home in Westeros.
You were just stepping into your shoes when your father announced himself and entered your tent. Lord Arryn was a large man and he made your tent feel suddenly small. He looked about and tried to hide his disapproval. He liked you to enjoy the luxuries his name afforded you, but you were always quick to refuse.
The tent was warm, private and cozy. That was all you needed and more than most got.
Lord Arryn hovered awkwardly for a moment before seeming to remember why he was there. “I hear you had quite the interesting evening after I had retired, daughter. In fact, if I am to believe the rumors, you are a wife now.”
Your father’s eyes twinkled in jest. Embarrassed, you dipped your head and sighed. Truthfully, you regretted the haste with which you had sent the Targaryen away. He’d been drunk out of his mind. You had been startled when he had declared you his wife and acted childishly.
“You have never been one to believe rumours, father,” you said reluctantly.
“Well, perhaps these ones have some truth to them,” he grinned, “for we have been invited to dine with Lord Ashford and his Targaryen guests tonight.”
You paused. Something in your chest shrivelled. “You jest.”
Lord Arryn laid his hands on your shoulders. “Not at all. It could be that they wish to thank you for looking after the errant prince last night.”
“Looking after?” you groaned. “Hardly. There is no need for me –“
“Daughter,” he interrupted your protests, “the family has been invited. You are a part of the family. You will attend.”
It was rare for your father to be so assertive. You knew there was little point to arguing when he was. Pressing your lips together, you gave him a tight nod and averted your gaze. Content, if a little apologetic, your father leaned down to press a whiskery kiss to your cheek before slipping out of your tent.
Shame and dread warred in your chest. You rubbed your palm absently over your breast and tried to forget about what the evening would bring.
Irritated, you kicked your shoes back off and sat back on the bed. What you would give, not to feel this shame.
Could it be that you had grown accustomed to being spoiled? You benefited from the position of your Lord father, and the fact that he (and his wife!) acknowledged you as his daughter, but often flouted the tasks that were required of such acknowledgement out of fear and your own shame.
You had been born several years before Lord Arryn had married Lady Anabel. Often you wondered about those years, when you were young and naive to the curious looks and words whispered behind cupped palms.
It was not like that for every bastard, as you understood, but you were female and provided little value to your family. One day, perhaps, you could be married off to some small lord’s son. The match would hardly be advantageous to your family.
Last year, Lady Anabel had bore a son. A pink cheeked, chubby little thing whom you adored. The boy had not long begun to toddle on his feet and already he was more valuable than you could ever be.
The journey had been long and hard and so he remained at the Eyrie, surrounded by an arm of doting nursemaids and cousins, while the rest of the family traveled to Ashford. You saw the way Anabel would look West, aching and worried, and wondered whether your own mother had looked in the same direction as she left the Vale and you, her daughter, behind.
You did not know whether your mother was alive. Your father did. Anabel did. No-one would tell you, though, and it only fueled your certainty about the rumours you often heard.
Your mother was not small folk, they said. She was highborn.
It mattered little, you supposed. You were still born out of wedlock. But the rumours were cruel as much as they were hopeful. It was part of the reason you liked to avoid occasions such as this.
Every time you rubbed elbows with highborn, you could not help but peer into the faces of the ladies, hoping to spot something. Anything. A freckle in an inconspicuous place, the angle of a smile, the colour of the eyes. Something that would be familiar in a room full of people who looked down upon you.
You pinched the bridge of your nose, willing back the tears that pooled behind your eyes and threatened to spill. The tent suddenly seemed stifling and you jumped to your feet. You stomped into your shoes and ribbed back the entrance flap and practically ran out of the ten.
Outside, the air was pleasant. The sun rose overhead and illuminated the camp your family had made. Staff offered you smiles and you waved at your sisters as you made your way out and away.
The more distance you gained from the Arryn camp, the more you could breathe. People’s eyes passed right over you, as though you were air, and you relished the feeling.
Keeping yourself distracted all day had been an easy enough feat. Despite your procrastination, night fell, and you and your family were directed to Ashford castle.
Your sisters were practically beside themselves with excitement. You kept quiet and tried to let their joy unwind you a little bit.
After a quick basin wash, you’d gotten redressed on the instruction of Lady Arryn. This time, the lady’s maid had refused your dismissal. She did something with your hair that took almost half an hour and insisted on helping you into one of Lady’s Arryn’s borrowed dresses.
It did not fit quite right but it would do for a night. It was prettier than the dresses you typically wore, with a slightly bolder neckline to match. You had no shortage of jewellery but did not usually wear it. The earrings you wore now felt heavy on your ears and you dreaded the headache you would likely get later.
Thin, bejewelled, bracelets chimed at your wrists and you kept reaching up to tug at the glittering necklace hanging around your neck. After the second time your hand was slapped away, you kept them tucked firmly at your side and tried not to grip the skirt of your dress too tightly.
Ashford castle was a somber place. The stone was so dark in was almost black and, as you wound your way through various corridors, the air in some of them felt rather damp. The place did not seem to be in particularly good condition. It made you feel a little less out of place.
The dining hall was not really a hall. It was little more than a large room – you liked that, too. The table inside looked as though it was almost too big for the space. You counted the number of places set and felt dizzy. It was a lot. If you were fortunate, it would be enough for you get lost amongst your family members.
You were near the far end of the table; several seats removed from the centre to where you presumed the Targaryens would sit. Things were looking up. It would be unlikely you would have to interact with them. Your sisters were sat opposite you and your father, as well as Lady Arryn. There were several seats beside you. You assumed at least one would be for Lady Gwin. It looked as though her Lord Father would be sat beside yours.
You could be content for the evening with only the children to conversate with. They’d likely forget you all together.
Lord Ashford appeared and so it began. You kept your head down as people began filtering in, offering polite conversation when Lord Ashford asked on your wellbeing and talked about how much you had grown since he had last seen you. Lady Gwin eyes you curiously before starting a conversation with your sisters.
You felt the moment the Targaryens arrived. The room seemed to grown smaller still and you adjusted slightly in your chair, feeling small. That was a good thing, though. Perhaps if you felt small enough you would eventually just shrink and disappear from sight altogether. Wouldn’t that be a blessing.
Dimly, you heard your father introduce you as his eldest daughter. After introducing your sisters, of course. You felt their eyes on you as you dipped your head and curtsied. There was a brief pause before the conversation resumed and you were able to sink back in to your seat.
You startled when the seat next to you was pulled out and a figure dropped down into it. You could smell something thick and heady, the scent of expensive leathers and oils. Surprised, you chanced a look and nearly choked on your own spit.
Daeron Targaryen sat next to you as though it were the most natural thing in the world. He looked better than the previous night – not that it was a difficult task. He had clearly washed since then and that bitter scent he had carried with him had vanished. That dirty blonde hair had been combed and brushed into a neat ponytail. You got a good look at his face for the first time.
There were fingerprint shadow smudges beneath his eyes. The man looked exhausted but surprisingly aware. His eyes, deep blue, were clearer than before. Steady, if possible, and openly curious.
You could not look away quick enough. It was pointless since he had already been looking at you.
Averting your gaze, you cleared your throat and leaned back in your chair until your spine was pressed straight against the wood. Food was beginning to be brought in and you did not see how it would be possible for you to eat.
Still, Daeron did not look away. His eyes bounced all over you, your body, your clothes, and lingered on your face for longer than was appropriate. Lord Arryn was blissfully aware right beside you and, across the table, your sisters and Gwin were discussing the things they had seen that day. You were on your own.
Again, you cleared your throat. This time you met the prince’s eyes. “Is something wrong, my prince?”
At the sound of your voice, Daeron seemed to startle. “I – apologies, my Lady. Last night. . .it seemed like a dream. I have not been sure it wasn’t until this moment.”
It was the most you had heard him speak at one time. You blinked at his honesty and twisted your hands together in your lap. How should you proceed?
You reached out for your cup and took a sip of wine for whilst you thought. Daeron mirrored your actions with a heftier swig. He caught the eye of his father across the table and put the cup back down.
“It was no trouble, my prince,” you smiled tightly, “these things happen.”
Daeron nodded unsteadily. You realised that he was not as put together as he looked. Sweat was beading along his forehead, barely visible in his hairline, and his hands shook when they did not hold the cup. He seemed nervous for an entirely different reason to you, but you began to feel the blossom of pity anyway.
Before you could think too hard, you spoke quietly. “Perhaps you should eat?”
Daeron blinked at you, his eyes losing some of that glassy quality. “Right. Right. I – do you like beef?”
The question was so unexpected that you almost laughed, covering your mouth with your hand. “I like it well enough. And you?”
Daeron’s eyes had dropped to your hand. “Don’t hide it.”
“Hide what?”
“Your smile,” he said, leaning forward as though he might remove your hand himself.
You dropped your hand as though you were touching something hot. Your smile melted away along with it as you glanced around the table, hoping no-one was listening. You caught the eye of Maekar for a split second before he looked away, fast enough for it to have been a coincidence.
Reassured, you offered the prince a smaller smile, if only to placate him. Princes did not do well with being refused.
Something flickered across Daeron’s face, too fast for you to truly see what it was. He sat back in his chair and picked up his utensils, gesturing for you to do the same. Without thinking about it, you did.
The food looked nice. Your stomach still churned with the remnants of nerves. The meat was seasoned with herbs you could not place and was still warm. The vegetables had been roasted and were soft beneath your cutlery as you began to poke about your plate.
He speared a piece of meat onto his fork and brought it to his mouth. You watched him from the corner of your eye as you began to cut your food into easy mouthfuls. Daeron chewed longer than was necessary before placing his fork down and reaching for his cup.
He swallowed a mouthful of wine before speaking. “I hate beef.”
You snorted, a most unladylike sound. Again, you glanced about, relived to see no one was paying attention except Daeron.
Daeron’s lips turned up in what was a rather beautiful smile. It looked out of place, as though he did not deign to smile often, but it was enough to have you returning one in earnest.
“The most beautiful smile,” he murmured, eyes fixated on your lips.
He turned his attention back to his meal before you could react, leaving you once again stunned and a little lightheaded.
The rest of the meal went by in a similar fashion. You and Daeron engaged in safe small talk mostly, but every now and again, he would compliment you when you least expected it and draw back before you could get overly flustered.
It was a strange game he was playing, and you did not know why he was choosing to play it. He did not seem a cruel man. Sad, maybe.
Daeron Targaryen was strange, you decided, but you did not mind him. You did not mind him at all.
In the evening, alone in your tent, you let your mind roll over the events of the dinner. Your father and Lady Arryn had been happy to rub elbows with the heir to the Iron Throne. Your sisters had been overjoyed to spent time with a girl their own age.
And, you supposed, you had had a rather pleasant time with Daeron Targaryen.
It took you fifteen minutes to undo your hair and arrange it how you liked to sleep with it. The help of the lady’s maid was refused, of course, despite her disapproving look. She had helped you from Lady Arryn’s dress, though, and she had taken it with her when she had left for the evening.
Dressed in a thin shift, you crawled beneath your blankets and stared up at the silk ceiling. Having put the candles out minutes ago, the only light available was the moonlight that penetrated the fabric.
You tried to close your eyes and rest but they remained stubbornly open. Every time you shifted, you got the barest hint of fragrance. Something that the prince had been wearing, you thought.
You tilted your head a little and sniffed at your left shoulder. That was the side he had been sitting on, and the scent was strongest there. It was unlike anything you had smelled before, and yet you found it oddly. . .comforting?
Wriggling beneath the blankets, you hugged them tightly to your body and tried to tamper the scent down. It seemed intent on staying. Eventually you gave in and stopped breathing through your mouth. The scent worked its way into your nose and into your system quickly, as though Daeron himself was right there beside you.
You were asleep within minutes.
It was difficult to say whether your sleep was truly restorative. As soon as you drifted off, your mind began to dip into place that you were not aware it was capable of.
You saw things. Dirty blond hair, blue eyes that stared at you as if they knew you already. In your dreams you were running, wanting to catch up, wanting to know what the owner of those eyes knew. The figure did not run from you. They stood there, waiting, arms wide until you were almost touching. The distance made you feel sick.
You felt things. Hands that touched and stroked and rubbed in places that you’d only explored alone. It felt entirely too real but you had no real desire to wake up. Those hands stoked a fire in you that you were not aware you had. They touched you with a familiarity that had you melting and offering yourself up like – like –
You sat up, breathless and hot, half expecting to see some figure bearing down on you. Of course, you were alone. You sat there for a few minutes, legs twisted in the sheets, dazed and shaky.
It was still dark outside. There was no noise coming from the Arryn camp. You waited a few seconds more before slipping on your shoes and tentatively peeking out of the tent. Lady Arryn would have your hide if she caught wind of you sneaking about in your shift.
You stepped outside regardless. The night air smoothed over your skin with the familiarity of a lover, bringing about memories of the dream you had just had. You shivered and looked down, suddenly aware of the way your nipples were peaked against the thin fabric of your shift.
You worried your lip between your teeth before walking further out, following the curve of your tent until you arrived at the back. The moon was your only guide as you took careful footsteps through the dew-damp grass. It was unlikely you would be seen there while you let the night air calm you down.
It wasn’t until you came to a stop that you became aware of the fact you were not alone.
You slapped your hands over your mouth to cover your gasp. Intruder or not, you were not eager to be caught outside in your shift.
It took your brain a moment to catch up as you tried to process what was in front of you. It wasn’t until you inhaled and got a heady whiff of that scent, the unplaceable mix, that you recognised who was in front of you.
Daeron Targaryen did not look quite as startled as you. He was still in the clothes he had worn earlier, but his hair had worked its way out of the neat ponytail. Errant curls wisped around his face and you were struck suddenly by how boyish he looked.
His lips were red and bitten. It seemed a silly thing to notice, given the circumstance, but your mind was determined to continue doing foolish things.
You then noticed the dent in the grass, right beside the fabric of your tent. Your mind struggled to put the pieces together. “Were – were you sleeping out here?”
Daeron’s lips parted as though he would answer, but then his eyes dropped. Your nipples tightened as though his gaze was a physical thing, the reaction so instant that you felt betrayed by your own body. Reeling, you crossed your arms over your chest and tried to look natural.
Even with the distance between you and Daeron, you could see his breathing had turned shallow. The moonlight ahead illuminated the blood pooling in his cheeks and the way his hands were clenching and then unclenching by his side.
You searched yourself and tried to find outrage, tried to find anger. You were unsettled, yes, but you did not feel scared. Instead, a soft, tentative curiosity was unspooling in your stomach. It would not so easy be rewound, you somehow knew.
“This must be a dream,” Daeron said, so quietly that you almost did not hear him.
Then he seemed to remember himself, blushing somehow even more furiously. He dipped lower than necessary, speaking more to the ground than you. “My lady.”
He turned and began to leave, but paused before he disappeared completely into the darkness. He looked over his shoulder, meeting your gaze. “Sleep well, my lady. Have sweet dreams.”
You remained locked in place until he had vanished from sight. The air was colder now, and it nipped at your exposed skin. With a choked inhale, you turned and fled round the side of your tent and tore back through the entrance.
You paced for a moment before huffing and throwing yourself beneath the blankets. Your mind was racing too fast for you to examine each individual point but you could make out the main theme – why?
Why had Daeron Targaryen been outside your tent? And why did that not scare you?
You burrowed beneath the blankets as though you might be able to escape from your thoughts. This time, when you inhaled, all you could smell was the oil on your own skin and the dust from your blankets.
a/n - that last bit was unplanned but it felt right in the moment
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