A Bitter Dawn
Prologue: The broken promise
When King Daeron the Good canceled the betrothal between the youngest Dayne daughter and his grandson Daeron, she was stripped of the quiet life she wanted and forced to marry Prince Baelor Breakspear instead.
While she grew to deeply love Baelor for his kindness and devotion, she could never forgive the realm for taking away her choice. That lingering bitterness permanently fractured her heart with the birth of their son. Looking at the boy, she saw only the painful reminder of a life forced upon her.
Warnings for this story: Explicit (18+ is suggested), Heavy angst, mental instability, Maternal resentment, Verbal abuse, Forced marriage and smut
Author's Note:
Welcome to this story! Please pay close attention to the tags before reading. This fic deals with heavy themes of psychological distress, intense marital and family conflict, and a mother's emotional disconnect from her child. If these themes are difficult for you, please read with care. I’m not responsible for what media you consume
The air at Summerhall was sweet with the scent of pine and blooming fruit a sharp contrast to the arid winds of Dorne she had left behind. After years away, returning to the sprawling summer palace felt like stepping into a beautiful dream. It was always meant to be her home.
She found Daeron exactly where she expected him to be, slumped in a heavy armchair in one of the sunlit solars, a half-empty goblet of arbor gold dangling dangerously from his fingertips. He looked up as she entered, his violet eyes a little glassy, but a soft, genuine smile spread across his face the moment he saw her.
"You made it," Daeron mumbled, his words slurring just at the edges.
"I did," she said softly, crossing the room to gently pry the goblet from his loose grip. She set it out of reach on a nearby table and pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, carefully wiping a stray drop of wine from his chin. "It’s barely past midday, Daeron." She said as her fingers waved through the sandy hair of the drunk boy.
"I was celebrating," he protested weakly, leaning into the cool touch of her hand against his cheek. "My future bride has returned to me. That calls for a cup. Or three."
She couldn't help the fond smile that tugged at her lips. Daeron was not the fierce, commanding prince the realm expected of the dragon's blood. He was soft-spoken, prone to melancholy, and entirely too fond of the drink. But their bond ran deeper than anyone else in the castle understood. Years ago, when his mother and her sister, Dyanna had passed away, Daeron had been completely shattered, drowning in a grief he couldn't carry. She had been the only one to stay by his side through the darkest nights, holding him when the tears wouldn't stop and pulling him back from the edge. He had loved her ever since, fiercely protective of the one person who truly knew his broken pieces.
To her, Daeron was safe. In his quiet company, there were no brutal expectations, no courtly games. When he looked at her, he didn't see a political piece on a cyvasse board, he just saw her.
"We have the rest of our lives to celebrate," she murmured, taking the seat next to him and letting him rest his head on her shoulder. He smelled of sweet wine and old parchment.
"The rest of our lives," Daeron echoed, his eyes fluttering shut as he let out a long, content sigh. "Just us. Here at Summerhall. We won't ever have to go back to King's Landing. We'll have a quiet life. Our children can run in the gardens, and I'll... I'll try to drink less. I promise."
"I know you will," she whispered, sitting next to him, resting her head against his shoulder.
It was a simple, beautiful picture. She could already see it: a handful of silver-haired children chasing each other through the halls, the warm sun on her skin, and Daeron by her side, safe from the crushing weight of the Iron Throne. For the first time in her life, she felt entirely at peace.
That peace lasted exactly until the plates were cleared at dinner.
The evening meal had been a quiet affair. Her brother-in-law, Prince Maekar, brooded into his cup from the head of the table, his heavy brow furrowed in thought. She hadn't thought much of it—Maekar was always brooding.
But as she rose from the table, intending to help a stumbling Daeron back to his chambers, Maekar’s booming voice stopped her.
"Leave the boy to the servants," Maekar commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Walk with me. We need a word."
A flicker of unease curled in her stomach, but she nodded politely, following him out of the dining hall and down a dimly lit corridor. Maekar’s heavy footsteps echoed against the stone, stopping only when they reached his private study. He closed the heavy oak door behind them, the click of the latch sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet room.
For a long moment, Maekar didn't speak. He walked over to his desk, staring down at a piece of parchment bearing the broken wax seal of the King.
"My father has written from the Red Keep," Maekar began, his voice unusually strained. He finally looked up at her, his expression grim. "You know that my brother Baelor’s wife, the Princess Jena, passed some years ago."
She blinked, confused by the sudden shift in topic. "I do, my prince. It was a great tragedy. I know, but-"
"But he is the Heir to the Iron Throne," Maekar interrupted heavily. "And an heir needs a queen to stand beside him when he takes the crown. The realm demands it."
"I... I don't understand."
Maekar looked entirely uncomfortable, the harsh lines of his face tightening. "King Daeron has made a decree. He believes Baelor has mourned long enough. A new match has been made for him. One the King believes will secure the realm and bring honor to our family."
The unease in her stomach rapidly hardened into a block of ice. She stared at Maekar, her breath catching in her throat. "What does this have to do with me? I am betrothed to Daeron."
"Not anymore." The words hung in the air, blunt and suffocating. Maekar looked away, unable to meet her eyes. "The King has broken the betrothal. You are no longer to marry my son. You are to ride for King's Landing at the end of the week. You are to marry Baelor."
The room seemed to tilt beneath her feet.
"No," she breathed, the word escaping her before she could even think. Panic flared hot and sharp in her chest, breaking through her usual courtly composure. She took a step forward, her hands trembling as she reached toward Maekar clutching to his red attire.
"No, please, Maekar. You can't let him do this. Speak to the King. Daeron needs me—you know how he gets, you know I’m the only one who can help him! Please, don't do this to us."
Tears blurred her vision, spilling over her cheeks as she began to plead in earnest. She sounded small, desperate, stripped of all pride. "I don't want the crown. I don't want King's Landing. I just want the life we were promised here. Please, Maekar. For the love you bore my sister, don't let them take me away."
Maekar’s stern, stone-carved expression cracked. He closed the distance between them and pulled her into a sudden, tight embrace. He had loved his dead wife fiercely, and as Dyanna's youngest sister, he had always held a quiet, protective affection for her, treating her more like a daughter of his own blood than a sister-in-law.
He held her close, his massive arms wrapping around her shaking shoulders as she wept into his chest, clutching at his heavy velvet doublet.
"I am sorry," Maekar growled softly against her hair, his voice thick with a rare, painful emotion. He squeezed her tightly for one long, agonizing second. "I am so sorry, child. If I could change his mind, I would. But it is the King's decree. I cannot save you from this. Baelor is a good man he will not treat you in any dishonorable way I swear it."
Slowly, heavily, Maekar let the hug go. He stepped back, his hands resting on her shoulders for a brief moment before dropping to his sides. The weakness in him vanished, replaced once more by the cold duty of a prince.
"It will happen at the end of the week," Maekar continued, his voice returning to that blunt, unyielding cadence as he explained the logistics of the journey, the royal escort, and the upcoming ceremony in the capital.
She stood entirely still, but she wasn't listening anymore.
A strange, thick buzzing filled her head, drowning out the sound of Maekar's voice. The intricately carved bookshelves, the flickering candlelight, the heavy drapes—it all blurred together into a wash of meaningless colors. The heat of his embrace vanished, leaving behind a profound, icy numbness. Her hands hung limp at her sides. She couldn't feel her fingers. She couldn't feel her own breathing. It was as if her mind had simply detached itself from her body, drifting far above the room to escape the crushing weight of reality.
"Do you understand?" Maekar's voice broke through the static, distant and muffled, like he was speaking from across a vast ocean.
Slowly, completely severed from her own mind, she nodded. A blank, empty motion.
"Yes, my prince," she whispered.
She turned around. She opened the door. She walked down the hallway, putting one foot in front of the other with the precise, mechanical rhythm of a ghost. She passed servants who bowed to her. She didn't see them. The walls of Summerhall, which only hours ago had looked like a sanctuary, now looked exactly like what they were: stone walls. A cage.
She turned down a narrow, unused servant’s corridor and blindly grabbed the handle of the first door she saw.
It was a small, dark storage space, smelling of old lavender, dust, and mold. She shut the door behind her, plunging herself into total darkness.
For a second, she just stood there in the pitch black.
Then, her knees gave out.
She collapsed onto the cold stone floor, her hands flying up to cover her mouth as a shattered, agonizing sob ripped its way out of her chest. She choked on the air, her nails digging into her own skin as the shock shattered completely, leaving behind nothing but pure, devastating reality. The quiet life. Daeron’s soft smiles. The children in the gardens. Gone. Stolen by the stroke of a king's quill.
She curled into a ball on the dusty floor of the dark room, weeping for the life that had just died, and the suffocating crown she was now doomed to wear.
