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Jul 28

Ash and Salted Earth

Chapter 8: Judgment is the Father's

Daeron Targaryen x fem!reader

Synopsis: Prince Maekar Targaryen’s arrival sets both you and Daeron on edge. Word count: 7.5K Warnings: Dysfunctional family dynamics, reader heavily alludes to witnessing cannibalism, descriptions of extreme poverty, mentions of plagues, women being referred to as "the weaker sex" Notes: Major canon divergence, no use of y/n, you are a street rat, original dragon Honestly, with how much we talk about this fic, @lalalovelyly is basically beta-ing it by now, so full credit to them on that front Masterlist <<Prev. chapter

You take the steps of the long, winding stair leading up to the castle two at a time, delight making you quick and energetic. Far below, waves lap against the rocks, and above, a few seagulls cry out to each other. The sun has begun to lower in the sky, the afternoon light turning warm and heavy, though a cold wind still tears at your clothes.

It had taken some convincing, but Snaggletooth had begrudgingly circled the castle in broad daylight, once and then twice, and then glided over the waves below at such speed, it nearly tore you from his back. He had not liked it, but with the absence of ringing alarm bells and the sudden swarming of guards, servants and residents on the castle walls, he had not shown the overt agitation and aggression you feared he might.

Progress. Still quite a way to go, but progress nevertheless.

Another thing adding to your good mood is the ship you spotted from the air. It had long since docked and the sail was folded, but Dragonstone is still closed to all incoming ships save those given express permission to come and go by royal decree, so it seems like Prince Rhaegel and his family have returned early. You had not expected them for another day or two, but surprisingly, you find that you look forward to seeing them again. Prince Aelor and Daeron are both growing very weary of being looked to as the only resident princes as well, so Prince Rhaegel and Lady Alys’ return ought to bring some relief.

You make a brief stop at the top of the steps, pausing to catch your breath. You are no stranger to being on your feet, to walking long distances and occasionally having to make a run for it, but the constant trekking in and out of the castle and up and down the stairs and the Dragonmont is still a bit beyond your usual amount of exertion.

After a few moments, you continue towards the open gates of the castle, gravel crunching underfoot. The main portcullis and gate of the castle is open, though there are guards posted to keep watch.

You expect to find the courtyard a hive of activity with the return of Prince Rhaegel and his family, but as you stride in, you find it no busier than usual. A couple of servants still hurry to and fro, busy with their duties, and those that spot you give you brief nods of recognition, but beyond that, it might as well be any other day. Then again, it does seem as though Prince Rhaegel and his family have returned early, so perhaps they took the servants by surprise or you have missed something or other.

You glance up at the sky as a dark shadow glides over the courtyard and several of the passing servants gasp and call out. Snaggletooth is flying high, but he is still unmistakable, as he circles in the sky like a bird of prey. After a moment, he dips behind a cloud and disappears again.

Restless, you note, or maybe just clingy.

It is rare for him to go so near the castle, but he has been more reticent to land near it than fly over it – it makes sense, you suppose, since he is by far more vulnerable on land than in the air. Not many things can harm him up there.

You continue your pace up towards the doors leading further into the keep. The castle is a maze of winding hallways, tunnels and rocky passages, but you are starting to get your bearings. You still do not trust your sense of direction enough to veer from the most familiar corridors, but you at least no longer require an escort at all times.

You barely make it up the steps before the heavy doors groan and open from within, without your prompting. You barely suppress a good-natured sigh as Prince Aelor slips out as soon as he is able, headed straight for you.

“My prince,” you greet, still working on wrapping your head around all the proper forms of address, and move to walk past him towards the still-open doorway. To your surprise, Prince Aelor reaches out and stops you with a firm grip on your upper arm.

“Stop,” he implores, and only now do you notice how frazzled he looks; his blonde hair is in disarray and there is a nervous set to his jaw. “You cannot go in.”

“What has happened?” Your mind is already speeding ahead, conjuring up scenarios of various disasters. Perhaps the Great Spring Sickness has been brought to Dragonstone with Prince Rhaegel’s family and everyone must be confined, or maybe Snaggletooth has burned a shepherd’s herd again-

“My uncle is here.”

“Your uncle?” Your blood runs cold. From what little you have heard of him, King Aerys is a reclusive man who barely leaves his books, much less King’s Landing. It would take something momentous to send him to Dragonstone – something like news of a living dragon.

“Yes,” Prince Aelor hisses and pulls you aside, out of the doorway to stand behind a dragon-shaped pillar. “He got ahold of Daeron before I could warn him – I tried, mind you, but he brushed me off and now he’s been hauled off, no doubt to be lectured half to death.”

“Your uncle brushed you off?”

“No, Daeron did.” Prince Aelor huffs frustratedly at your struggling to keep up with his rapid recounting of the situation. Your frown deepens. If the king is on Dragonstone, that makes the lack of ceremony even more surprising- “He came here early, apparently sent by the king to verify the word of Lord Bloodraven,” A shudder runs down your back. Lord Bloodraven, you know of, the bone-white bastard of Aegon the Unworthy, said to practice foul sorcery and wear the skins of animals to spy on highborn and smallfolk alike, “that there is a dragon on Dragonstone. I don’t know if they asked my father about it, but they might have, I don’t know-”

“Prince Maekar,” you realise. “You’re talking about Prince Maekar.”

“No, I’m talking about Lord Bloodraven-”

“No, Prince Maekar is here?!” Now your own frustration is beginning to bleed through as well.

“Yes!” Prince Aelor groans. “Maekar, the Anvil, Daeron’s father, my uncle!” You stare at him, dread dropping like a stone in your stomach.

The impulse to turn tail and bolt right back out the castle, to run for the hills and take flight on Snaggletooth, is strong. It strikes you, once again, how far removed you are from the life you led in Hull not that long ago; here you are, facing one Targaryen after another, having to navigate politically charged situations and relationships when, not that long ago, you slept in alleyways and ate rats and pigeons on a good day.

The biggest thing that stops you from fleeing is the thought of leaving Daeron.

“And Daeron’s with him?” Prince Aelor nods tersely. “Where are they?”

Prince Aelor stares at you. Then, he groans.

“You’re as bad as each other,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I think my uncle dragged Daeron off towards the guest rooms, or maybe the royal apartments? I didn’t really get to ask-”

“There’ll be no need to, either,” comes Daeron’s exhausted voice, calling to you from around the pillar Prince Aelor has awkwardly attempted to hide your conversation behind. You straighten your back and stretch your neck, meeting Daeron’s eyes as he heads for you and his cousin.

He looks, you note, like he has not slept in days. His hair is a mess, like he has been running his hands through it continuously, and his dark doublet is buttoned askew.

“Daeron.” You nearly reach out for him, but restrain yourself, aware of Prince Aelor’s presence. “Are you alright?”

“‘Alright’, well, funny thing that…” Daeron trails off, running a trembling hand through his clumpy, unwashed hair. He comes to a stop in front of you and his cousin, the three of you forming a small, loose triangle. His reliance on drinking to get through the day has already aged him prematurely, but now, he looks even older, as though his reunion with his father has aged him a decade and then some. “Good flight?”

“Daeron,” you repeat, voice hardening, and Daeron sighs deeply.

“He saw you. Well, he saw your dragon. He wanted answers. I… tried to oblige.”

“How much does he know?” It is far from your primary concern, but you dearly hope Daeron has not regaled his father with the finer details of your relationship with Daeron. The mortification and shame may actually kill you, if the Anvil does not manage it first.

“He knows the dragon has a rider. Please don’t ask me his thoughts on it, I couldn’t say. He knows I went to Hull on account of this, that you and I have been acquainted for some time-”

One detail catches your attention.

“You knew about Snaggletooth before you came to Hull?” You frown at Daeron, thinking he must have gotten his events mixed up due to either exhaustion or the drink. Daeron blinks right back at you, seeming confused as well.

“I told you this.”

“No, you didn’t,” you refute, knowing that you are getting caught on minutiae and finding yourself unable to let it go regardless, “You- wait, why were you in Hull?”

“I just said.”

“But…” You are uncomfortably aware of Prince Aelor watching your exchange with Daeron, looking very curious, but you do your best to ignore him, “But I thought you came to Hull and you said that then you saw him, and-”

Daeron’s mouth drops open, realization flashing across his face.

“Oh,” he breathes. “No, I didn’t mean- That’s not…” He trails off, huffing to himself and you frown. An uncomfortable stab of betrayal lances through your chest.

“Did you lie to me?”

“No!” Daeron exclaims strongly and then grimaces. “I- Well, not about that, at least, but when I said I saw you, I didn’t mean…” He shrinks under your gaze, squirming and shifting on his feet. He releases a long breath, blinking hard. “Listen, clearly there’s been some sort of misunderstanding, and I promise I will clear it up, but right now, my father has bid me bring you to him.”

“Right.” You take a deep breath, your mind still reeling. “Right. Any words of advice?”

“You’ve already faced down a dragon,” Prince Aelor quips, joining the conversation. “My uncle, as intimidating as he is, surely cannot be half as frightening as that.”

“Don’t be so sure.” Daeron gives his cousin a dark look, as though he has already made plans for your cremation.

“You are not helping,” you tell Daeron firmly and look up at the heavy doors leading further into the castle, steeling yourself. Once again, you have to suppress your finely honed instinct to turn on your heel and head in the opposite direction of what reads as a threat. You heavy a sigh. “Very well. Let’s get this over with.”

Daeron studies you with a mildly contemplative look on his face.

“You know,” he says, brushing past you and taking point, “I don’t think my father could have said it any better.”

– – –

Prince Maekar Targaryen is, simultaneously, bigger and smaller than you imagined. Daeron does not favour him – where he is a slender man, with sand-coloured hair and soft, elegant features, his father is stocky and thick-necked, with a short, silver-gold beard and a hard, severe face. He appears, to your eye, terminally incapable of relaxing, with his large hands clenched in his crossed arms and feet planted as though he is bracing for a charging enemy.

“So.” Prince Maekar surveys you with stern, unforgiving eyes. “This is the girl.”

You glance at Daeron beside you. His eyes keep flitting between his father and the floor, his frame tense and hands unsteady. You are not sure whether you are supposed to speak and so, you remain silent.

These guest chambers are much like your own, with the entrance leading into an initial solar, with adjoining rooms for sleeping, washing and doing whatever business you assume noble visitors tend to do. Across the room, Prince Maekar stands tall behind a round table, circled by cushioned chairs fashioned of dark wood, near a broad fireplace inlaid with scales and dragon motifs along the edges. Afternoon sunlight pours in through tall windows behind him, darkening his frame into an intimidating silhouette.

After a terse silence, Daeron shudders and speaks.

“Yes.”

Prince Maekar gives you another long, hard look.

“And the beast?”

This time, Daeron says nothing and so, you assume you are permitted to speak.

“He’s around. Somewhere.” At your side, Daeron cringes.

“‘Somewhere’…” Prince Maekar says the word as though it leaves a foul taste in his mouth. You frown.

“It’s not like I have a stable for him.”

Prince Maekar raises his pale eyebrows at you, looking deeply unamused.

“We are standing” he speaks slowly, as though he is addressing a child, “on the fucking Dragonmont.”

“He doesn’t like it!” You reply hotly, irritation at his condescending tone making you brash. Prince Maekar’s stare is positively withering. “I’m-” Gently, Daeron brushes his knuckles against yours. You glance at him and inhale deeply, trying to wrangle your temper and reminding yourself of your place. “Snaggletooth is wild, your grace. As far as I know, he’s never known anything but the open air. I’ve only just managed to get him to go near the castle, and even then, he doesn’t always listen.”

“Snaggletooth…” Prince Maekar mutters, breaking his stare at you and shaking his head slightly.

“He has bad teeth,” Daeron states fiercely, as though your naming your dragon is a matter of the highest honour.

“The worst,” you hurry to confirm.

Prince Maekar levels you and his son with glares in turn, before he looks away and lets out a long, tense exhale through his nose.

“I assume-”

“You told me Lord Bloodraven informed the king of the dragon.” Prince Maekar’s face drops with surprise at Daeron’s talking over him, the expression so naked and odd on his severe face that it is almost comical. Daeron meets his eyes with a gulp and the tremors in his hands worsen a tad, but he holds fast.

“Apparently so,” Prince Maekar grunts, after an awkward silence.

“How did he know?”

“I didn’t bloody ask-”

“They say that Lord Bloodraven can take the forms of animals,” you think aloud, before you can think better of it. Prince Maekar scoffs.

“They say that the world is flat and that the man who beds a whore on Maiden’s Day will suffer a withered cock.” He gives you a derisive look, and you feel your cheeks flush hot with embarrassment. “Fucking children’s stories and nursemaids’ tales, the lot of them.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Daeron quips breezily, his hand brushing against yours again as he shifts, “There are living dragons about, you know. Perhaps we ought to lend a bit of credence to those nursemaids’ tales.”

“Hmph,” Prince Maekar grunts, offering no further reply. Then, he looks to you again. “No family?”

“Not that I’m aware.” What childhood memories you have are scant and unpleasant – occasionally, an adult would give you a kind word or the odd handout or two, but nothing close to parental affection, and the handouts quickly disappeared as you aged.

“And you came across the dragon by chance?”

“How else would I have?” You frown at him. Daeron bumps your hip and you add on a belated “your grace.”

Prince Maekar looks you over for a long moment. You resist the urge to squirm under his examining eyes.

“How much control do you have of the beast?” You automatically reel at the implication that you “control” Snaggletooth to any extent, but you wrangle your rancour and maintain your composure.

“He comes when I call, for the most part. He lets me touch him and sit on his back, if he is not in too foul a mood, and…” You trail off. It is difficult to articulate the way you and Snaggletooth communicate, especially when in the air. Occasionally, you shout or beckon him in a direction, but most often, it is as though he responds to far subtler cues – a squeeze of your thighs, a shifting of your weight, or something so innate, you do not even have a proper word for it.

“It’s a start,” Prince Maekar grumbles, a frown carving deep lines into his forehead. “I will need to see the beast.”

“Why?” You exclaim, looking from him to Daeron. “Why does everyone want to get up close and personal with him?”

“I certainly do not,” Daeron refutes.

“Yes, well, sometimes I think you’re the only person with his head on the right way around here-”

Prince Maekar snorts loudly.

“Now there’s something I’ve never been accused of before.” Daeron scratches his cheek with a lopsided smile. Then, he looks to his father and heaves a sigh. “Father, you saw the dragon with your own eyes, albeit at a distance. Surely that is enough to confirm Lord Bloodraven’s word?”

“Perhaps.” Prince Maekar looks unhappy, but you are growing to believe that that is just his default state. “You concern me more, anyhow.”

“Me?” You and Daeron say at the same time. Prince Maekar groans loudly in annoyance.

“You.” He gestures at you, flicking his head as though to ward off a buzzing fly. “You, a nameless girl off the streets of some backwater port.” Beside you, Daeron bristles. You cannot say you find fault with Prince Maekar’s assessment, however. “An upstart commoner who’s claimed a dragon when the last supposedly died half a century ago.”

“I never meant to claim him.”

“No?” Prince Maekar cocks a sceptical eyebrow at you. You avoid his heavy gaze, studying the stone floor.

“No,” you assert. There’s a beat of silence.

“Then what,” Prince Maekar asks slowly, “exactly, were you trying to do?”

Half a hundred different answers come to mind, bold lies next to plain admissions.

To see what would happen.

To achieve something, anything, for once in my meaningless life.

To help.

“To feed him,” you state plainly. It is the truest answer you can come up with, though it is far from satisfactory. Prince Maekar grunts and mutters a low curse to himself, dragging a hand over his face.

“Fine,” Prince Maekar growls and gestures sharply at you. “We may speak more later. Or not at all, I have what I came for. Leave, you may go. For now.”

“Your grace.” You barely remember to do the customary curtsy you have been taught to do whenever a Targaryen dismisses you. As you turn, Daeron lets out a low sigh of relief beside you, moving to follow you towards the door leading out of the chambers.

“Daeron.” Prince Maekar’s heavy voice rings out behind you again. You can see the way Daeron stiffens, the way his jaw flexes as he clenched his teeth. “Stay.” It is, plainly, not a request.

You give Daeron a searching look.

“I can stay as well,” you mutter to him, trying to catch his eye with no success.

“You were dismissed,” Prince Maekar says brusquely, making your face twist in annoyance. Reminding yourself of his station is the only thing that prevents you from glaring at him across the room.

“Go,” Daeron encourages you, his voice low and soft. You raise your eyebrows questioningly and he nods. “I shall be quite alright. I will see you at dinner.”

Dinner. With Maekar Targaryen. Your eyes glide back across the room, to meet Prince Maekar’s stony gaze. Right.

– – –

The door shuts heavily behind you, leaving Daeron alone with his father once again. For a moment, he gazes longingly at the door, listening for your receding footsteps behind it.

“So,” his father says behind him, “that is who you’ve been spending your time on.” Daeron turns back to face Maekar and shrugs, doing his best to appear nonchalant. Maekar’s tension has eased marginally with your departure, his arms coming to hang down his sides rather than being crossed tightly across his chest. “How much do you know of her?”

“Oh, bits and pieces,” Daeron replies, deliberately trying to keep his answers vague. Truthfully, he does not like the idea of betraying your confidence or accidentally offering his father some information that could be used against you out of his own carelessness.

“Nameless, faceless, with no family to speak of…” Maekar mutters grimly, “And she has a dragon.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Daeron quips. The witty comment falls flat between them, Maekar giving him a dark look.

“You never held to your studies, so perhaps you don’t recall,” he growls, “but the last time baseborn bastards rode dragons, our house came to rue the day they mounted them.”

“No, I don’t recall.” Daeron dismissively turns away and looks about the room, feigning interest in one of the fading paintings on the wall. “And besides, it’s not like she’s in any hurry to run off and join whatever Blackfyre loyalists remain.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Maekar warns, “With the king dead and your uncle on the throne, the pretenders and their dregs will look west of the Narrow Sea again. Vultures will seize on whatever carcass they come upon.”

“Best make sure she’s got no reason to join up with them then, hm?”

“Is that your excuse for what you’ve been doing?” Daeron turns, perplexed at what Maekar is referring to. He blinks at his father, whose jaw is clenched tightly, and gives him a wordless gesture of confusion. “Do you take me for a fool, boy?”

“Not usually,” Daeron answers slowly, still trying to follow his father’s train of thought. Maekar lets out a low noise of frustration, shaking his head.

“I am neither blind, nor a blasted simpleton. You certainly seemed partial enough to her just now.” Daeron feels a slight heat rise in his cheeks – an odd sensation, when his father has come upon him bedding a whore more than once and Daeron has never cared enough to feel particularly embarrassed.

“She is fine enough-”

“Oh, spare me.” Maekar waves a hand at him with a grimace. “I have eyes, boy. I can only thank the Gods that for once, your vices may be to our advantage.”

“Never took you for a man of faith,” Daeron jokes, but an uneasy feeling of trepidation is beginning to stir in him – he does not particularly care for where the conversation is heading.

“Hmph,” Maekar grunts, and crosses his arms again. “Have you bedded her?”

Daeron makes an offended noise, though the question does not exactly surprise him. He has been known to enjoy a whore on occasion, but this is not that.

“I have not,” He refutes, his stomach turning with an odd guilt at discussing you in such a manner behind your back. His father grunts and sighs exasperatedly.

“The one time it might have been to our advantage for you to indulge your appetites…” He mutters. Daeron’s stomach twists further, dread sending a shiver down his spine and worsening the tremor in his hands.

Gods, I could use some wine.

“What?”

“She is a woman.” Prince Maekar grimaces – evidently, the topic does not sit well with him, but he forges ahead with the characteristic stern manner in which he approaches every unpleasant duty set before him. “And she seems amenable to you.”

“Are you suggesting-”

“Must I spell it out for you?” Maekar huffs. Daeron blinks at him, with a vague feeling that the ground is swaying beneath him. Ordinarily, he would chalk it up to the wine and leave it at that, but this feels more like he is left reeling by the uncomfortable turn the conversation has taken.

“You want me to-” Daeron gulps, shaking his head. “No. No, I-I will not.”

“Not by force, you idiot-”

“It doesn’t matter.”

His father’s face remains unchanging, as hard and merciless as ever.

There were times, Daeron recalls, faraway times, back when he had to crane his neck back to look up at his father, when Maekar had not been so stern and unforgiving. When he had even been known to smile on occasion and put a heavy hand on his sons’ shoulders when they needed something to ground them. Those days were long past, overtaken by nightmares and his lady mother’s death. With his uncle’s accidental death, any chance of those days returning died as well.

“You object?”

“Yes.” Daeron flexes his trembling hands, desperately trying not to let his gaze flit away form his father’s. “Yes, I-I do object.”

Maekar stares levelly at him. Something subtle in his face shifts, something so foreign that Daeron is at a complete loss as to what it is.

Relief? He wonders. Guilt?

…Pride?

Would I even know to recognize it?

“Fuck me…” To Daeron’s surprise, Maekar is the first to break their silent stand-off, running a large hand over his scarred face. “You care for the girl.”

Daeron’s face makes a sour twist. He has always been an avoidant man and hearing his father’s conclusion spoked aloud wakes a familiar urge to run for the nearest inn and locate a flagon of something at vaguely drinkable and at least slightly inebriating.

“I thought you’d already decided that,” he sniffs, attempting to sound dismissive. It sounds rather pathetic, but that is not necessarily out of character for him.

Maekar glares at him.

“I do not care how, I do not care by what means. Secure the girl, and you secure the dragon.”

That is the point! Daeron thinks desperately, feeling slightly ill. That is the problem!

In truth, he has deliberately avoided giving the matter of your burgeoning flirtation too much thought. The matter of his inevitable future betrothal to some unfortunate maiden is a political reality he has always done his best to drink away thoughts of, and for all the whores he has bedded, he has no great experience in matters of the heart.

Compared to all that, whatever happened between you and him was just… nice. Nice and simple and easy, or at least it felt like it.

Daeron, for all his comforts and luxuries and privileges, can count the number of truly nice things he has been given on his two hands, when he is sober enough to count. What few he has are precious in the way very few things are to him. He hoards them, keeping them tight and hidden away where they can remain untouched and simple and his.

The thought of whatever is happening between you and him being turned into part of a political game, something to be taken advantage of…

It disturbs him, but the thought of you thinking that he kisses you out of deception, out of politics, is positively horrifying.

He has lied to you before, but he will not lie to you about this.

Why? Something small and twisted and dark whispers at the back of his head. Why not?

Daeron staunchly refuses to answer it.

“Leave.” Maekar gestures at Daeron and turns away from him. Daeron dares let out a small breath of relief. “Go, do… whatever it is you have been doing here.”

Daeron does not hesitate to seize on the offer, turning and making for the door with long steps. Behind him, as he pushes the door open, Maekar collapses into a chair with a deep groan.

As he steps over the threshold, he draws in what feels like his first breath of air since you left him alone with his father.

– – –

Dining with Prince Maekar, compared to dining with Prince Rhaegel and his family, is so radically different that it is borderline surreal.

Much of it remains the same; dinner is served in the same intimate, moderately sized dining hall, with Prince Maekar sat at one end of the table and Prince Aelor on one side across from you and Daeron on the other. You, once again, wear the heavy vestments of a highborn lady, and once again, the food is sumptuous and plentiful.

The mood, however, leaves much to be desired.

Prince Aelor keeps glancing nervously at you and his uncle in turn, shifting uneasily in his seat every few seconds. At the end of the table, Prince Maekar surveys the spread laid out before him with the look of a man contemplating military strategy. The room is silent, save for the occasional noise of cutlery and slow dining.

For his part, Daeron seems to be doing his damnedest to drink himself into a stupor beside you. Where you, Prince Aelor and Prince Maekar all sit ramrod straight, Daeron is slouched loosely in his seat, a cup of wine dangling precariously from one of his hands. He has been bathed and re-dressed – at Maekar’s insistence, you assume – but his doublet is already stained with wine, and you can smell the drink on him. Though he has been partaking, to your recollection, he has not imbibed so much since Driftmark.

“You,” Prince Maekar suddenly calls, your eyes snapping up to him. You push aside your mild irritation at his failure to address you by your name. “You said you’ve made progress with getting your beast to near the castle?”

You had not expected Prince Maekar to be the one to break the silence.

“Yes,” you confirm carefully, after swallowing a mouthful of vegetables, “today was the first time I managed to get him to fly over it.”

“Except for when you made your arrival.” Daeron smirks at you. You glare at him, but he forges on. “That made for quite the spectacle, that.”

“This castle is built on the Dragonmont,” Prince Maekar interrupts, speaking over a still-babbling Daeron. “Tunnels and dens that used to house the dragons of house Targaryen.”

“I told you, he doesn’t like them.”

“You’ve managed to get him near the castle.” Prince Maekar cocks an eyebrow at you. Your face twists with annoyance.

“It might-” Prince Aelor clears his throat, looking slightly nervous to interject. You put down your cutlery. “It might be for the best, to get him to shelter in place.”

“Why?” You frown suspiciously at Prince Aelor.

“I know he’s used to roaming free and coming and going as he pleases, but that’s already had consequences for the villagefolk.” You recall the shepherd’s plight well, but that does little to sway your opinion. “And you said Snaggletooth was injured when you came upon him, right?” You give a slow nod. “So he can be injured. And if he does enough damage, a sufficiently desperate man may set upon him.”

“The man would die.”

“Would ten? Would twenty? We know from history that a mob incensed can bring dragons down. And in the Dragonmont, he wouldn’t have to hunt unless he wished to. He’d be fed, tended to, looked after.” As much as you still dislike the thought, that makes a far more convincing argument than vague speculation about how a farmer might get a lucky hit on your dragon. “And we wouldn’t have to chain him.”

“Aelor,” Prince Maekar warns, but Prince Aelor gives his uncle a stubborn look in return.

“We wouldn’t,” he insists. “If we put a collar on him at first opportunity-”

“I would leave,” you say immediately. “With him.”

Prince Maekar scoffs loudly.

“And you’ve managed well enough so far.” Prince Aelor looks back at you.

“I doubt you’d find many volunteers for the task of feeding a wild dragon,” you argue, still sceptical. Prince Aelor gives you a small, lopsided grin.

“You managed it, and you didn’t even get paid.”

“I nearly got eaten myself though.”

“‘Nearly’ being a key word there.” Prince Aelor’s stubborn optimism is simultaneously impressive and mildly concerning. “Look, it might be worth it to get him to see the benefits of it for now. At least then you wouldn’t have to trek all the way out the castle and up the mountain every day.”

You scowl at Prince Aelor for a few moments, searching for another counterargument and coming up short.

“Fine,” you huff. Prince Aelor grins triumphantly. “But I cannot force him. If he refuses to enter-”

“He won’t. He listens to you.”

Again, it seems as though your powers of persuasion are being vastly overestimated.

“Sometimes. When it suits him.”

“I will write to the king,” Prince Maekar interjects stiffly, “and confirm what I was sent to confirm. He will want to be informed of your progress.” You shrug – there has been so many ravens and letters and words, this is but one more message in a stream of messages sent about you. “Then, I return to Summerhall.”

At your side, Daeron suddenly stirs in his seat.

“Summerhall?” He repeats, blinking as though he has just been roused from slumber. “Not King’s Landing?”

Prince Maekar gives him a look so dark, the warm candlelight of the room seems to dim for a moment.

“The king” he speaks slowly, as though his composure comes at a great cost, “has elected to name Lord Bloodraven as his hand.” Daeron snorts loudly, curling forwards in a poor attempt to disguise it as a loud cough. Prince Maekar flexes his jaw, drawing in a deep breath. “Besides, do not tell me you wish to remain in this dreary place.” He scowls at Daeron, who gives him a mildly disoriented look in return.

A lance of nervousness shoots through you. Summerhall, from what you recall, is not close; it would not be feasible for you to bring Snaggletooth all the way there.

Daeron would have to leave, and you would have to stay.

“I-” Daeron shudders and squeezes his eyes shut, blinking several times, as though to clear away a fog from his vision. With a small groan, he sits up straighter in his seat. “I have a hard time imagining how I’m supposed to do as you bade me at a distance of several hundred miles.”

You give Daeron a questioning look, but he stares resolutely at his father, refusing to meet your gaze.

“Very well,” Prince Maekar growls. Daeron lets out a long breath, giving you a brief glance before he takes a deep drink from his cup and gestures for a servant to refill it.

That heavy, oppressive silence fills the air again. From what he told you, Daeron has plenty of siblings, some of them still young; you have a hard time imagining what family dinners in Summerhall must be like, when the atmosphere is this awkward with just Daeron and his father.

Perhaps, you reason, it is different when it’s just family.

The meal draws out, to the point where you consider making some excuse to retire early.

“You know,” Prince Aelor clears his throat from across the table, sounding unsettlingly loud in the heavy silence, “I’ve never been to Hull.” He looks at you expectantly, with a touch of urgency for you to pick up the conversation. Begrudgingly, you chew, swallow and indulge him.

“It is a port city. Ships and fishing and the like. I couldn’t tell you of the finer parts of it,” you state plainly, casting your gaze down to your plate. Despite your lack of appetite tonight, you eat plenty and steadily – years of uncertain meals have made you unable to let one pass you by.

“Right.” Prince Aelor shifts again, picking up his goblet and putting it down again. “But what of your Hull?”

“My Hull?” You blink at him, surprised at the phrasing.

“Yes. The Hull you grew up in, the Hull you know. You could tell of that, surely?”

“I…” You glance at Prince Maekar, whose stiff gaze is fixed firmly on a bowl of sliced carrots drowned in butter and herbs. “I don’t think that would make for good dinner conversation.”

“Poor conversation is bound to be better than…” Prince Aelor trails off, inclining his head towards his uncle and cousin and giving you a meaningful look.

A small, soft sigh escapes you. You are not sure you agree, but the prince seems determined.

And perhaps, you muse, acutely aware of the weight of your garb and the bounty the table in front of you is practically overflowing with, it would do him some good.

“When the Great Spring Sickness first came to Hull,” you begin, slowly and soft, “at first, it was not the folks on the streets who died the quickest. The Sickness came for all eventually, of course, but it seemed as though it passed the poorest by. I suppose it may be harder for it to spread among those who steer clear of crowds and live in the open air.”

“That is fortunate,” Prince Aelor notes, slowly nodding along. Your face twists.

“It didn’t last. Lord Velaryon saw the port closed, to stave off the spread of disease.” Things went from bad to worse as stores ran low, starving the least resourceful of the already-emaciated unfortunates on the street. “One morning, a while after the port had closed, I happened across a naked man in a backstreet. Not too unusual, but this fellow was dead.”

“Oh.”

“Someone had shoved him under a half-rotten bale of straw and torn sacks, the kind farmers use for hauling produce.” You unenthusiastically shove another mouthful of mashed turnips in your mouth, pausing to swallow before you continue. “Someone had torn the meat from his upper arms. His thighs had been cut as well.”

“Oh.” You look up to see that Prince Aelor has gone pale, a twist of revulsion to his mouth. “That’s…”

“That” you tell him, “is my Hull.”

Prince Aelor stares at you, pale and silent. You stomach twists guiltily – it is not an incident you have thought about in a while, but judging from the look on his face, this particular story might have been a tad too much for the young prince.

He might sit the Iron Throne someday, you remind yourself, he cannot be ignorant of these things then. It does not do much to alleviate the guilt gnawing at your stomach.

“I appear,” Daeron says beside you, his words slightly slurred, “to have lost my appetite.”

“Enough.” Prince Maekar’s voice rings out, firm and uncompromising. “I’ll not have talks of this at supper.” Daeron raises his goblet at his father in mock-salute, earning himself a glare and an irritated grumble.

From across the table, Prince Aelor continues to stare at you with poorly concealed horror. Then, his eyes travel from you to the laden table before him, a disturbed look dawning on his face. You watch him with mild interest for a few seconds, but he seems lost in thought.

You place your knife and fork on your empty plate the way you have been taught, to signal that you have had your fill. Plenty of food remains, you note idly, watching Prince Aelor come to the same realisation across the table.

Good.

– – –

When he is, at last, blissfully alone, Maekar lets out a long, dizzying exhale and leans his weight on the back of a high-backed chair with both hands.

Outside, darkness has fallen, the moon veiled behind a thin cloud-cover. The servants have stoked the fire in his bedchamber, leaving small flames and embers to ward off the cold of Dragonstone.

Mentally, Maekar begins taking stock of the day’s events and his situation, the way he has always categorized and sorted detachedly through his own life since he was a youth.

The dragon is real.

He had been sure it was some ploy by his wretched half-uncle, though to what end, he had been unable to figure out. It had been downright unsettling, seeing Aerys put aside his books and scrolls and attend to the matter with urgency. Maekar had had to talk him down from interrogating Rhaegel about it, for fear the confrontation would prove too much for Rhaegel’s fragile mind. Instead, they had gone to his wife, who seemed both relieved at being able to speak her thoughts aloud and reticent to actually do so.

Not for the first time, Maekar wishes his brother, the one slain by his own hand, were here to handle things.

Maekar is not one for wallowing or indulging in melancholy, but death has swept through his family, taking the greatest of its men and leaving behind the likes of him to hold the realm together. As meaningless as he knows it is, it is difficult not to wonder what those greater, better men would make of the dilemmas he must now face in their stead.

Would his father have known how to handle this upset, able to finesse his way through the politicking as usual? Would his nephews be awed by the living dragon, and as taken with its rider as his eldest seems to be? Would Baelor, the brother whose death stains his hands with a taint that can never be washed off, see a threat, an opportunity, or just a young, frightened girl who saw an injured animal and resolved to feed it what little she had when she was on the verge of starvation herself?

Meaningless, all of it, empty wishes for men to take over the duty that has now fallen to him.

What is far more present, far more exasperating, is his son.

His son, who is besotted with a commoner. Who trails after a lowborn guttersnipe fresh off the streets, illiterate and ignorant of the legacy she has taken from their family and made her own.

Not that the fool boy seems to recognize his infatuation for what it is.

With how fond he is of women, Maekar would have thought he would have figured it out by now, but apparently not. It seems a tad too optimistic to hope that he does realise it, but also recognizes the yawning gap between their stations, that she is a baseborn vagrant and that he, for all his failings, remains the blood of the dragon.

An unnatural union, unheard of. Maekar’s grandsire had been fond of women of all stock, from the noblest ladies to the lowest of whores, and both the realm and his house had suffered for it.

The dragon, Maekar concedes, with borderline painful reluctance, changes everything.

It did not sit well with Maekar, for him to suggest his son take the girl to his bed for the greater good. He is not a man given to duplicity, and certainly not to taking advantage of the weaker sex when it suits him. This situation however, though momentarily suspended in a fragile calm on Dragonstone, is fraught and could very quickly devolve into a dire political nightmare, one that could see his house ultimately ending up on the opposing side of the only living dragon in the known world.

As much as the thought fills Maekar with distaste, bedding and wedding a woman is the easiest way to bring her into the fold. And besides, he would not have suggested it if Daeron and the girl did not already seem halfway abed with each other already.

But Daeron had objected. Adamantly. And Maekar had been begrudgingly proud of him for it. He had not expected it from Daeron, but for once, his son had put his foot down, even if it looked as though he might keel over from doing so.

Respect is not something he thought he would ever feel for one of his eldest sons again, but suddenly he does and there are living dragons about; apparently, the gods see fit to shower his family with marvels after robbing it of those who would have most loved to see them.

With a huff, he pushes off the back of the chair and paces past it, casting a dark look out the window into the darkness beyond. Sleep, he knows, will come eventually, but it will not be easy; somewhere, out there, waits a creature of fire and blood, death made flesh.

He turns from the window, towards his darkened chambers and his empty bed. Years ago, he had a woman waiting there for him, dark of hair and with the sweetest wit he has ever known. His bed was warm then, occasionally invaded by small, bare feet and young bodies crowding him and his wife, pushing him so far to the edge that he nearly fell out of his own bed at times. It has not been like that for years; his bed has been cold and empty for a while now.

He had been an easier man then, he knows. A happier one, even if no one would ever describe him as “happy” in general.

He would like for his son to have the same happiness.

The thought is so sudden, so unexpected and raw, that Maekar stops in place and stares off into nothing. A headache is threatening to erupt somewhere behind his eyes, not helped by how his eyebrows knit together in a frown.

Could his son ever have something approaching the same kind of happiness, with his haunted mind and drunken indiscretions? With a baseborn beggar without as much as a family name?

Meaningless, he reminds himself, meaningless wonderings and speculation.

With a low sigh, Maekar mechanically begins pulling his leathers and clothes off, to crawl into the cool bed and face the lonely night with characteristic stoicism.

#a knight of the seven kingdoms #akotsk x reader #daeron x reader #daeron x you #daeron targaryen #daeron the drunken #x reader #akotsk daeron #a knight of the seven kingdoms x reader #asoiaf x reader

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