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Jun 12

Ash and Salted Earth

Chapter 1: Fire and mud

Daeron Targaryen x fem!reader

Synopsis: Dragons have not been seen in Westeros for more than half a century. You care little for dead legends, seeing as you're too busy surviving on the streets of Hull. Then, a chance encounter with a creature of fire and blood changes everything. Word count: 6.1K Warnings: Graphic depictions of vomiting, plagues, descriptions of extreme poverty, dead animals (no animal death described) Notes: Major canon divergence, no use of y/n, eventual Daeron x fem!reader but they don't actually meet before chapter 2, it is fem!reader but gendered descriptors are few and far between (at least for now), you are a street rat, original dragon This was majorly inspired by @lalalovelyly's amazing fic, "Bastards, Dragons and Royals", which you should definitely go read if you haven't already

On the island of Driftmark, everything tastes like salt.

The taste is in everything; it’s in the bowls of slop served in the one pot-shop that’s managed to stay afloat more than half a year, in the leaves of the few greens you’re lucky enough to get, in the puddles on the roads.

It’s in your mouth as you make your way out the winding streets of Hull, the only home you’ve ever known.

There are nicer parts of the town, with well-cobbled streets, guardsmen and, in good times, well-supplied hawkers and seamen going about their business. The closer to the dark, salt-stained castle above the town, the nicer the town seems. You have never been to those parts much, even at the best of times, and now there’s no point at all. It’s not like you can snatch a coin-purse or pilfer the pockets of an inattentive passerby now. The finer streets are all but empty.

No one with any choice in the matter dares leave their place of residence, with how the Great Spring Sickness has set its sights on the Seven Kingdoms.

You are spared having that choice. It’s not like you have a place of residence to leave or not to leave.

The few guardsmen on duty don’t spare you a second glance as you slip out the open city gates – they care little for the comings and goings of one measly street rat, especially when it’s still early in the morning.

Desolate streets give way to desolate farmland. Around Hull, there are dozens of farmsteads, with vegetable patches and fields of grain, supplying the town so that it doesn’t have to subsist on fish alone. The fields are usually well-tended and watched over, and the ones closest to the town still are, but the further you walk from Hull, the less well-tended they become. Driftmark is a fertile island, but even the hardiest of crops are left to rot if the farmers are all dying in their beds.

The Great Spring Sickness has left the fields rife for filching.

Potatoes and leeks and turnips and carrots and cabbages; if the farmers that still live even notice you pilfering their fields, they’re usually too weak to chase you. There’s still the ever-present threat of dogs or patrolmen coming upon you, but the plague has reduced your already-sparse options even further and hunger forces you to run the risk again and again.

You have to walk farther and farther to find something worth that risk though. There’s only so much rot and mold you’re willing to eat yourself, even if your standards are low.

A rickety cart rumbles past you in the pale morning dew, pulled by a donkey that’s all skin and bones, laden with half-naked corpses. You make sure to give it a wide berth.

The sun rises higher and higher behind a thin veil of clouds as you walk. A light but biting breeze leaves you rubbing your arms for warmth. In the quiet of the dawn, the only sound besides that of your footsteps is that of the wind and the ever-present seagulls crying overhead.

This time, the sun is high in the sky, and your stomach is rumbling pitifully when you finally find something approaching edibility.

It is the furthest farmstead with Hull still within eyesight, though “farmstead” is a generous term for it. It’s little more than a shed, with rickety fencing, seemingly abandoned. A clothesline fastened to the side of the house has snapped and fallen into the mud below and, for a moment, you dare hope that there might something of linen or even wool that you can fashion into something wearable. When you dig your hands through the mud though, all you come away with is pale cloth so soft and mildewy it all but falls apart in your hands. You find nothing to satiate your gnawing hunger either – only a few heads of what might have been cauliflower so rotten that they turn into mush as soon as you pull at them.

Your salvation comes in the form of the dandelions that have all but overtaken the vegetable patch. While the vegetables are rancid, the weeds are thriving.

You greedily tear leaves off and shove them into your mouth, with no care for the grit of dirt and bad aftertaste that comes with it.

Above you, the gulls have gone quiet.

The yellow dandelion heads feel strange to chew, but at this point, your stomach is cramping and your mouth is dry and you’re so hungry that you barely register the sensation anyways. All there is is the leaves and the hunger and having to force yourself to remember to chew, rather than just inhale the scraggly plants.

Something moves.

It is not so much out the corner of your eye that you see it, or that you see it at all. It is something far more instinctual and animal, some old prey-instinct, like how you know when someone is looking at you, even if your back is turned to them.

It is suddenly so very, very quiet.

And you are suddenly so very, very loud.

The wetness of your swallows, the air you breathe in and out of your lungs, the way your stubborn heart beats from inside your ribcage. You are suddenly acutely aware of how loud and alive you are, crouched in the muddy vegetable patch of a sorry farmstead, clad in rags and with clammy hands.

Your eyes dart around; there is nothing. Hull is far, but still within eyesight. The shabby farmstead is as shabby as when you first found it. Brown hills stretch around you, cut through by the cobbled road you followed out of town.

A hill moves.

This time, it is out of the corner of your eye that you see it. You wish you had not.

You are being hunted.

Something has its molten, flame-coloured eyes fixed on you, though your mind refuses to recognize it for what it is. Though it is pressed low to the ground, it is still massive, bigger than the biggest plowhorses you’ve seen, and you’ve not much else to compare it to. It is a still, unnatural mass of spurs, ridges and scales, jagged and asymmetrical and ugly. With its dull colour that lands somewhere between mud and dead grass, it all but melts into the backdrop of brown hills and rocky slopes. With the way the creature is hunched over on the ground, staring at you, it is difficult to make out which part of the body is what – the only clearly discernible parts of the form of spurs, horns and jagged spikes are the two long forelimbs that seem to make up most of its physical size, which stretch into awkwardly huge, bat-like wings.

You make the mistake of looking it in the eye.

It pounces.

There is nothing smooth or elegant in the awkward, scrabbling lunge it makes for you. It is a tumbling whirl of black and brown and wizened shades of green that leaps forward, its eyes burning. You are equally graceless, a wheeze of panic flying out of your mouth as you scramble backwards.

A maw of uneven, black teeth as long as your forearm snaps closed where you crouched half a second before. The pungent stench of burnt meat and rotten eggs, with a sharp, metallic edge, rolls over you and makes your eyes water.

Mud sprays and thin smoke rises as you and your predator both struggle wildly to your feet. You feel the urge to freeze again, but the urge to flee far outweighs it and has you turning tail, running for your life. Sweat runs down your temples and between your shoulder-blades, the air thick and hot in the presence of the beast. Any second, you expect to feel flames licking at your raggy clothes and teeth tearing at what little meat is on your bones.

All you feel is your heart pounding so hard in your throat that you fear you might cough it up.

Behind you, in the mud, the dragon collapses.

– – –

The first thing you do when you are behind the city wall of Hull again is throw up whatever measly sustenance your excursion had netted you.

A pool of half-chewed dandelions and bile lands on the cobblestone with a wet plap and you stagger. Somewhere in your wild flight you lost one of your barely-held-together shoes and the sole of your now-bare one is raw and bleeding. One of your wrists aches from where you caught your weight on it as you scrambled away from the-

With a groan, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, leaving a streak of grime across your face. Your stomach cramps in protest, both at the emptiness and the roiling nausea.

Your body refuses to be still and you continue making your way down the cobbled street, half-convinced that looking over your shoulder will show the monstrous creature still in pursuit.

You stumble and catch yourself on a barrel of rotting straw that’s been left outside a small hovel, drawing in gulps of cold, salty air.

In.

Above you, the gulls are crying again.

And out.

If you listen for it, you can hear the ever-present sound of the sea that you grew used to tuning out long ago, lapping against the rocky shores of Driftmark.

In.

The wood of the barrel is damp and rough against your hand.

And out.

You saw a dragon.

Finally, the thinking part of your brain catches up to the feeling one and you make a noise somewhere between a wheeze and a sob.

The dragons are dead.

They’ve been dead for more than half a century.

You’ve never so much as spoken to a maester. All you know of dragons is what you’ve gleaned from tavern tales and hearsay, but no matter the source, all agree that the Targaryens have been dragonless for decades.

And the filthy, scraggly beast you encountered certainly didn’t live up to the legends.

You don’t know much of history – what help is history when it comes to hunger pangs and sleeping in alleyways? – but even the most frightful tales of dragons carry a certain awe, at the terrible splendour of the great beasts and their destructive power. Creatures that carried kings and queens on their backs, large enough to blot out the sun and engulf entire towns in the shadows of their wings overhead. Rich hues of gold, silver, bronze and cobalt flashing in the sun.

This had been an awkward, hulking thing, in shades of rot and silt, with rows of black teeth and the stench of death and desperation about it. There had been no majesty to behold, no strength to admire.

The more you think on it, the scragglier the beast appears in your mind’s eye. Most of its size had come from its leathery wings, enfolding its hunched body on the ground. Its neck was long and thin, the joints awkward and knobbly.

And it hadn’t pursued you.

All it had done was one mad dash, and even that had been a wild, clumsy attempt. It had been desperate.

Starving.

Dying.

Something small and vague begins to take shape in your mind, less an idea than the potential of an idea.

“Oi!” A hoarse voice hisses from the now-open front door of the hovel you stand in front of. A pale face peers out at you from within the darkness, its owner covering the lower half with a piece of cloth to ward off the ill humours of outside. “Move it!”

The door slams closed, leaving you alone once again.

You drag your gaze from the doorway back to your surroundings. Your mind still lingers on the unreal, impossible encounter with a creature of fire and blood, but the houses and streets of Hull are comfortingly familiar. Another deep breath helps steady you and you strain to find your centre again, in the wattle and daub walls, the smell of fish and sea and the taste of salt on your tongue.

You stagger forwards, aimlessly, with your still-pounding heart and your single shoe.

– – –

The dead pigeons are limp and damp in your grip, the heads lolling against your fingers.

You curse at yourself beneath your breath, eyes darting about the desolate landscape of brown, rocky hills.

“Mad,” you mutter. What little muscle you have is hard and tense. “I must be mad.”

You’re either willingly seeking to bait the Stranger again, or you truly have lost it and your mind made up the whole, terrifying encounter. Either way, there’s a touch of madness about you.

Just like the day before, your surroundings are quiet. The small, shabby farmstead is still there, with its abandoned laundry and rotten vegetables. The sea is still crashing in the distance, ever audible on Driftmark. The gulls are crying. Your stomach is cramping.

You look down at your catch.

Two whole birds would make for a decent meal. Or you could hand them in at the one pot-shop that’s still open for the lowest of the low who have nowhere else to go – they’re not picky when it comes to what meat goes into their stew. You could get a real meal for them in return perhaps, or, if the gods are good, a new pair of shoes. An old pillowcase to fashion into a shirt. Something.

With a groan, you draw your arm back and toss the dead birds into the small vegetable patch.

They in the mud with a wet, undignified splat.

It’s all rather unceremonious.

You lean back and forth on the balls of your feet for a few, awkward moments.

A sudden gust of wind sends you scurrying forward, making for the poor shelter of what an exceedingly generous person might call the farmhouse.

Stupid! You chide yourself, bracing for the flames and claws and teeth, Stupid!

There is nothing.

You turn around in the low doorway, eyes darting around the empty landscape. Another gusts of wind whistles in your ears.

You’re wound so tight, you’re jumping at the wind.

You force yourself to exhale and then turn towards the inside of the farmhouse, resting your back on the wall beside the doorway.

You’re not mad. You cannot be mad. Your mind is one of the only things you have, and you’ve seen what happens to beggars and lowlifes when even that goes.

There was a man, you recall, a good few years back, who you would sometimes see in the same alleyways and gutters that you still frequent. “The old dog,” everyone would call him, be they fellow beggars or guardsmen, because he would growl and bark at anyone he felt came too close.

You felt sorry for him, you recall.

You’re not sure what happened to him.

And now your own mind may be faltering as well.

The only real evidence of your encounter with the great beast, besides your own recollection of it, is that you’re still one shoe short due to your mad dash back to Hull.

You look down at your feet, noting that you do indeed still only have one shoe. Strips of soiled linen are wrapped around your shoeless foot, the only option you could scrounge up during the night.

The gulls have gone quiet.

You stiffen.

And then you slowly, deliberately, dare a peek around the doorway.

The dragon is creeping forwards, pressed low to the ground. Its mass of ridges, spurs and spines makes it resemble a moving thicket of naked brambles.

It truly is struggling, you realize, confirming your hasty conclusions from the day before. It is less crawling than dragging itself forwards with the spurs of its wing-joints, the back legs struggling for purchase in the soft earth. It could definitely still bite clean through your midsection, but its main body is held awkwardly between its two wings, small and spindly and skinny.

Your eyes rest on the big, leathery wings.

Why does it not fly?

The dragon stops a few feet away from your dead birds, huffing, and swings its spiky head uncertainly from side to side. As it does, it inadvertently answers your question.

There’s a long, jagged gash running from its side, up straight through the joint between body and wing. It is not fresh; it’s covered in a thick, black scab, but clearly seems to still pain the creature – it holds the wing awkwardly, leaning its weight on the other.

You can just barely make out a dark shaft of something sticking out awkwardly from the same joint, looking like its buried deep within it, but from your awkward angle and with the dragon’s brownish colouring, you can’t make out what it is.

The more you look at it, the worse off the beast looks.

It is already an unsightly, sinewy creature of uneven ridges and bony spurs, but it is not improved by the multitude of scars, scabs and old injuries that you can make out from your hiding place. The ridges around its eyes have broken-off spurs, several places on its legs and sides seem to have lost scales and the edges of its wings are frayed. Several black teeth stick out awkwardly from its closed mouth, crooked and snaggly.

It opens its mouth and breathes deeply, nostrils flaring, and its eyes narrow. It swings its head again and you creep an inch deeper into the darkness of the little house, desperately hoping to avoid the monster’s gaze. You can feel it passing over you, hear its heavy breaths, and then its attention thankfully seems to pass you by. It sniffs the air deeply again.

You press your palm over your mouth, for fear that your quick breaths will give you away.

The dragon coughs.

Your lips part in surprise.

It coughs again, the sound rough and scratchy. It draws back its neck and strains. The smell of smoke and rotten eggs intensifies, strong enough to make your eyes water.

Then, a short jet of flame bursts forwards, bathing the ground in fire. You jerk, nearly falling backwards in surprise, but you manage to keep your footing.

The dragon surges forwards, descending on the now-charred pigeons with a ferocity that sends a shiver down your spine. It devours them in a single bite, the two birds being little more than a single mouthful for it. The sight does nothing for the fear that still makes your heart feel uncomfortably big in your chest.

Spent, the dragon collapses, mud squelching beneath its heavy frame. It exhales, a deep rumble that feels like it’s making your teeth vibrate.

It blinks, slowly.

In the dark, you breathe out as well.

– – –

It rains, the day after.

Rain is not uncommon on Driftmark – though the island is fruitful and fertile, it is also perpetually wet, either from the sea, a recent drizzle or just because it seems that being so is part of its natural state of being.

The bad weather makes critters shelter in place where you can’t reach them. Birds perch on the ridges of roofs, puffed up with their heads beneath their wings. Cats press up against doorways and stairsteps, making themselves as small as possible in whatever meagre shelter they can find.

By the time the day draws to an end, all you’ve managed to find is a single, albeit large, rat. You’re oh so tempted to make a meal of it yourself, but you’d risked a blow of grey slop from the one still-open pot-shop in the morning, and you can keep going on that for now. Opting for that revolting, albeit easy, option is not without risk; whatever goes into the lumpy stew is of dubious origin at the best of times, and it also brings you into contact with other people. You know enough to keep to yourself when there is a plague about, especially one that has been heralded as the end of days, but hunger has a way of overruling even the most basic of precautions.

Now, you have to run a risk that might get you beaten by the guards if they’re feeling merciful.

Then again, you have already run the risk of getting burned alive more than once at this point. A beating hardly seems that bad in comparison.

The massive harbour of Hull is one you’re very familiar with. Under normal circumstances, it’s crowded, with colourfully dressed merchants and humbly clad crewmen bustling about, supervised by guardsmen in the sea-green and silver colours of house Velaryon. Fishing boats perpetually pass in and out the harbour, in the shadow of the rows of ship hulls at anchor. However, by decree from Lord Corwyn Velaryon, and by extension, you assume, the king, the port had been ordered closed to prevent the spread of the Great Spring Sickness, until such a time would come where it was deemed safe to reopen.

It has left all of Hull unsettlingly quiet. The port is especially desolate in comparison to its usual state. Local fishermen still take their little boats out to sea early in the morning though, seeing as it’s still the main food source of the town.

You do your best to look inconspicuous, pressing yourself up the walls of the houses that line the harbour as you stroll down the length of it. The rain has slowed to a fine drizzle, veiling Hull in pale grey.

You can’t risk snatching the bigger fish in barrels and on drying racks – the harbour may be desolate compared to its usual state, but guardsmen still patrol and fishermen and deckhands supervise their catch zealously. You also wouldn’t be able to lug a fish as big as your torso through the streets, out of Hull and all the way out to the distant farmstead that the dragon seems to frequent anyways.

You meander onwards aimlessly, in your one shoe and with raindrops on your eyelashes. The air is thick and heavy with rain, intensifying the smell of Hull; fish and sea, wet hay, tanner’s shops and rat droppings. Beneath the sound of sailors and water dripping from roof gutters, the steady sound of the sea adds a strange serenity.

You are on the verge of abandoning your search entirely when you see it. A small cod lies abandoned near a stack of crates and rope, its yellow-brown colour camouflaging it against the cobblestone. You scramble for it, unwilling to risk losing it to predation from the skinny cats that frequent the harbour, unable to believe your luck.

The fish is cold and wet as you grab it by its gill, the mouth flopping open as you pull it off the ground. Its round, dead eyes stare up at you accusingly.

“Better you than me,” you tell the fish. It doesn’t deign to answer.

And so, you find yourself once again approaching the abandoned farmstead as night begins to fall, rat and fish in hand. It takes you a good few hours to make the long trek, but it’s not like you have anything better to do.

This time, you see the beast.

It is not an easy thing to spot, especially at a distance, but by now you’ve studied it enough, both in person and in your mind’s eye, that you have an idea of what to look for. It still is very easy to mistake for a wizened patch of thick bramble, or even the trunk of a large tree, but you see it.

It lies maybe around five-and-twenty yards from the little farmhouse, curled up under a rocky outcropping on a particularly steep hill. If you were not already straining your eyes with how intently you look for it, it would have been very easy to pass it by without ever noticing it.

Perhaps you have passed it by before without realizing, you think, as you come to a stop on the cobblestone road that carves through the landscape. Your feet ache with all the walking you have done, especially the shoeless one.

You don’t think the dragon sees you yet.

You think.

You clench and unclench your free hand. Your other one is occupied by the fish you still carry, though it’s slipped out of your grip a few times. Then, you check that the dead rat is still tied to your poor excuse for a belt by its tail.

You stretch your neck, looking down the road. Then, you look back at Hull.

You are stalling.

You look back at the hill where-

The dragon is gone.

You blink, and then realize you’ve forgotten to breathe for at least a few seconds. You force yourself to breathe in, unsteadily, and then out.

You step forwards.

You creep slowly towards the meagre shelter the farmhouse provides, though you have little doubt a single jet of flame would see the whole place going up in smoke in a second.

With a hand on the damp wood of the house, you slowly step around the house.

The dragon is coiled like a spring on the ground, not even ten yards away. Its eyes, huge and blazing, are fixed firmly on you. This close, the stench of rotten eggs, burnt flesh and something deep and leathery is overwhelming.

The lips of the beast curl back, baring its long, black teeth. Your breathing quickens and your palms turn clammy, your heart pounding against your ribs.

Your eyes catch on a silvery glint of something.

Your blood runs cold at the sight of a piece of bent metal wedged between two crooked fangs. It looks like it might have been a helmet once, though its been dinged up so badly as to be near-unidentifiable, or perhaps a poleyn.

Evidently, the dragon has no qualms about eating humans if it can get to them.

This dragon will not think twice about devouring me, you think, sparing a thought for the poor owner of the item in question.

The only thing that saves you is the pungent smell of the fish in your hand.

You can feel the dragon’s eyes shift from you to it, like a physical weight moving off you. Behind it, its spiked tail swings from side to side.

You jerk your arm forwards, holding out your offering, and the dragon snarls. It is a dry, terrible sound – it is the grinding of a ship’s anchor chain, the rattle of a corpse-cart rolling over cobblestone, the deep crashing of the sea when it is dark and roiling. You freeze in place, the cod held out awkwardly in front of you.

You are at a standstill, staring into the eyes of a creature of death and fire. The logical part of your mind is screaming for you to turn tail and run, to stop being such a fool with notions of grandeur and to stop tempting the Stranger any further.

If I flee, it will burn me and devour me, you think, a cold calm settling in your mind. You have never been as certain of anything in your life, looking into the slit pupils of the dragon’s molten eyes.

Wet and slippery, the fish slips from your fingers and lands on the ground.

The dragon blinks, a transparent inner membrane gliding across its molten eyes.

You take a step back.

Then another.

You dare not turn your back on the beast, slowly backing away from your offering. The dragon remains in place, tail swinging uncertainly back and forth, still emitting a low rumble from deep in its throat.

Slowly, awkwardly, it hobbles forwards.

This close, you can see the long wound on its side more clearly, as well as the object buried in the joint between wing and body. The scab is long and black, pulling at the skin and scales of the dragon whenever it moves. Your best guess is that the head of a broken-off spear, or a particularly long arrow, is what is sticking out of the dragon, like a hostile flag.

Though you half-expected it, you still jump when the dragon’s hacks forth a burst of flame at the fish on the ground. The fire comes easier than yesterday, you note, uncertain of whether to be satisfied or alarmed. You hurriedly pull the rat at your hip free, tossing it forwards as the dragon gulps down the fish.

That cod could have fed you for a day, maybe even more if you had traded it. The dragon swallows it whole. It is barely enough to count as a single mouthful.

Standing in place feels like tempting fate and so you keep steadily backing away. Slowly, you move around the dragon as it struggles forwards towards the rat, able to take it in from the side.

It is, for lack of any more fitting terms, terrible. Splotches of different shades of brown, grey and dead green intermingle, creating a confusing blur for your eyes when paired with its multitude of asymmetrical ridges and spurs. It is wet from the rain, creating the impression of an enormous, wet, half-rotten log. The dragon is thin, beneath its spikes and scales and thick hide, you think, but you can still see large muscles working as it heaves and spits fire again.

From this angle, you cannot get a good look at its injured wing-joint and you lean down, still walking slowly along its long flank. You wrinkle your nose, as the smell of smoke and burnt rat tears at it.

With another slow step, leant down, you can finally get a good look at whatever is lodged in the dragon. You have to get close to see it in the rapidly falling darkness, the hour of the eel fast approaching.

You are certainly no healer or maester, but years of living on the street has forced you to learn the most basic, brutal methods of keeping yourself alive. Your best guess, from what you can see, is that the shaft is lodged stubbornly in-between bones, the length of it broken off so that only about two hands’ length sticks out.

You take another careful step forwards, squinting at the injury.

Up ahead, the dragon swallows the rat. Considering the dragon’s size, it must be even less filling than the cod, and that hardly counted for anything.

It heaves a heavy, rumbling sigh. Sweats beads on your forehead and rolls down your temples; this close to the dragon, it is like standing in the heart of a roaring smithy. You can’t say that you mind it too much. It’s been an awfully long time since you were truly warm.

You reach out your hand, fingertips brushing the raised, swollen area around the shaft buried in the dragon’s flesh. Your lips part, a soft exhale escaping you. A warm flame blooms in your chest.

A shiver rushes down your spine. The back of your neck prickles. Instincts honed from years of fighting for scraps and knowing when to recognize danger instantly have you jumping backwards, and not a moment too soon.

Black teeth snap closed with a glomp right over your head, a furious roar cutting through the damp air. Your breath quickens into a series of gasp as the dragon turns on you, teeth gnashing and tail thumping up against the side of the farmhouse as it whirls around. It spits and hisses loudly at you, any fragile serenity gone in the face of your touch.

Your fingertips burn where they rested against it, a buzzing sensation that radiates up your arm.

The dragon heaves and its furnace breath washes over you in a wave of heat so intense it makes your head spin. Staring down its gullet, you can see the warm glow of fire deep within.

Without thinking, you once again scramble away and turn tail. Flames explode behind you, barely catching on the edges of your threadbare clothes. Your only saving grace is that the beast is still too weak to pursue you. Its furious screech behind you cuts the air like a blade, as you are once again forced to flee for your life.

– – –

Fire. Fire.

Is the fire within? or without?

Where are you? Where am I?

the FIRE

is WITHIN and WITHOUT

for dragons are fire made flesh

help me

the GRIEF and GLORY of your house

Wings. Wings on the wind.

Fire and blood and F̵̪̤̦̃̏̅L̷̙̲̳͍̈́̀͠Ȅ̸̢̢͈̞̲̹͓͍̍̎̆͌̋̚S̷̛̜̭͐̊͌̑ͅH̷̱̱̪͂̅͋̄.

Are you coming?

In his chambers, in the castle of Summerhall in the Dornish Marches, Prince Daeron Targaryen jerks awake.

It is not so unusual for him. Whenever he does sleep in his own bed, he does so fitfully and in short bursts, more unconscious than truly asleep.

In the dark, tangled in his own sheets, still clad in his wine-stained doublet from the day before, the prince exhales shakily. His watery eyes dart around his bedroom, coming to rest on the first pale slivers of early sunlight that have begun to slip through his windows and the heavy curtains. It is still early, far too early for any but a few servants to be out of their beds and starting their day. It is that precious, quiet hour before dawn, when the morning dew has yet to evaporate and the entire world seems to hold its breath.

The only sound in his dark chambers is his quick, heaving breaths.

The receding fear is an old companion by now, the kind of guest that turns up unannounced and consistently overstays its welcome. It has made his heart pound and pale skin clammy, but he is so used to the fear by now that it is routine to compartmentalize and put it aside, to separate it from himself and put his attention elsewhere.

The prince tumbles out of his bed with the grace of a newborn foal, and cringes as he sends two goblets on his nightstand crashing to the floor. He staggers, then rights himself, and attempts to locate his trousers.

It does not have to be the pair from yesterday, he negotiates silently, as he leans too far forwards searching behind the chaise lounge and nearly falls on his head, any pair will do.

He has dreamt of dragons before. They are one of the returning features of his dreams, but always had they seemed great and terrible, larger than life and inescapable as death.

This had been the same, and yet somehow… different.

From what little sense he has managed to make of his dreams over the years, they foretell of things to come, such as when he dreamed of the fate that would befall his late uncle at that accursed tourney months before.

Now though, he knows, he knows, somehow, with a certainty that feels as though it is vibrating through his very bones, that this not a thing to come, but a thing that has come.

He shuffles through the collection of linens, doublets and mantles that are strewn haphazardly through his bedroom, as the sound of the heavy door to his bedroom clicking open sounds behind him.

The prince swings around to face it, hurriedly pulling on the first pair of pants he’s managed to find. The room keeps spinning for a second longer than he moves for as he struggles. Ordinarily, a manservant would assist him with his clothes, but it’s too early for them to be up.

A housemaid stands, with a bucket of brushes and coarse soap in one hand and a broom in the other, looking mighty concerned at the sight of him up and awake.

“Is… everything alright, m’lord?” The girl asks hesitantly. He cannot fault her surprise at seeing him up, he supposes. He detests getting out of bed almost as much as sleeping in one.

He blinks owlishly at her, mouth opening and closing again.

“I need a horse,” he finally manages.

If anything, that only seems to move the girl from concern to outright alarm.

Again, he supposes he cannot fault her. His disdain for the dreadful creatures is well-known.

“A horse, my prince?”

“Yes,” he confirms, somewhat manic, as he rifles through the clothes strewn about and grabs the first suitable mantle that he sees, “A horse. Preferably saddled and living, though I’ll make do, I suppose.” He brushes past the young woman, who scampers out of his way and stares after him as though he’s declared he’s Aegon the Conqueror reborn, “And a skin of wine for the road, if you please!”

A flush of heat washes over him.

He can almost feel the tongues of dragonfire licking at his heels, urging him forwards.

“Yes,” he breathes, “Wait for me. I’m coming.”

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