Summary:
At four and ten, Daeron dreams of a maiden kneeling before a weirwood.
At eight and ten, he ventures North for a marriage not of his chosing, but of the crown's command.
A Pact was made when dragons danced. A Pact is honored when Blackfyres are a constant threat. And the bonds between House Targaryen and House Stark are strengthened when the eldest of a fourth son marries the youngest daughter of a Warden of the North.
Some things change for the better, others for the worse. A few stay the same. But when one with dragon dreams meets one with greensight there are bound to be repercussions no one thought would happen.
Warnings:
18+, mature themes, more to be added
Main Characters:
Daeron Targaryen (son of Maekar), Alysanne Stark(daughter of Beron) , more tba
Pairings:
Daeron Targaryen (son of Maekar) x Alysanne Stark(daughter of Beron)
Prologue - Part One: The Raven & The Decree - Part Two: Northern Bound - Part Three: Beginnings Start At the End - Part Four: A Song For Wolves - Part Five: Days Counting Down- Part Six: Before The Old Gods - Part Seven: Where You Go, I Go - Part Eight: Snapshots of a Day - Part Nine: Prayers for the Broken Ones - Part Ten: Valar Morghulis - Part Eleven: Interludes - Part Twelve: Convergence - Part Thirteen: Tipping Point - Part Fourteen: The Hard Place - Part Fifteen: The Old Gods Smiled
[Cross Posted AO3]
Prologue
It starts, as does most occurrences in his life lately, with a dream. The only difference in this is that this particular dream does not seem particularly cruel. Downright pleasant, it even is. No death, destruction, or mayhem. No fires burning an unearthly green. No dragons looming over fields. No mothers dying in sick beds. No castles melting all around him.
He dreams of snow, the unforgivable chill of winter, and a heart tree observing a godswood. A maiden kneels before it, clad in a grey and white grown. Furs wrap around narrow shoulders, topping a cloak that covers the rest of her and on the back is the snarling figure of a direwolf in silver threads.
He knows he is dreaming, truly, without any doubt. A kind dream. A soft one. He wonders, eyes never leaving the maiden’s still body, what sort of tricks the gods have in store for him this time. What sort of cruelties they can conjure up to torment him.
One step forward towards the maiden. And another. And another. More and more till he is close enough he can nearly touch a fur-clad shoulder, see the way her north-dark hair is braided and the tiny strands that fall out from the sides, and holds his breath as she turns.
Grey eyes meet purple. Confusion blooms and is mirrored in her gaze as he looks, and for the first time he does not wish to wake.
Lips part. He goes to speak. Say something. Anything. But no words come from his lips.
A slender hand reaches out now to hover over his face, as if this dream maiden can see him as he sees her. As real and true as the waking world, not a conjuring of the mind nor a prophecy-laden delirium filled with horrors; as he sees her, she sees him.
Is this truly just a dream?
Winds howl in the distance and snow falls gently around them, the world going a soft white, then colors shifting and turning till everything spins in his head and he is plunging towards darkness simultaneously.
And when he opens his eyes, it is not his chambers, but of a vision of a large, inky black direwolf standing guard over dragon eggs. Four eggs. A dragon’s screech comes from above, and down swoops a large, sandy-colored winged beast, curling its great form around the direwolf.
When he wakes it is not with a pit of dread in his stomach. Nor is it cowardice. Instead he opens eyes and wakes to a chill deep in his bones, despite the fuzzy golden hues of sunshine invading his chambers. For a split second he would swear he sees his breath on his lips.
At four-and-ten, in the comfort of his chambers in Summerhall, Daeron Targaryen dreams of a wolf maiden in the snowy godswood, of dragons and direwolves in the snow, and something much sweeter than the terror that is fire and blood of his house.
Kingdoms away, at three-and-ten, Alysanne Stark wakes in her bed, dreaming of a dragon prince with hair the color of sand and purple eyes so haunted they might just bring a person to weep.
At four and ten, Daeron dreams of a maiden kneeling before a weirwood.
At eight and ten, he ventures North for a marriage not of his chosing, but of the crown's command.
A Pact was made when dragons danced. A Pact is honored when Blackfyres are a constant threat. And the bonds between House Targaryen and House Stark are strengthened when the eldest of a fourth son marries the youngest daughter of a Warden of the North.Some things change for the better, others for the worse. A few stay the same. But when one with dragon dreams meets one with greensight there are bound to be repercussions no one thought would happen.
Main Characters: Daeron Targaryen (son of Maekar), Alysanne Stark(daughter of Beron)
Other(s): Maekar Targaryen, Baelor Targaryen, King Daeron II, Aegon V, mentioned Dyanna Dayne, mentioned Beron Stark, Valarr Targaryen, Kiera of Tyrosh
Pairings: Daeron Targaryen (son of Maekar) x Alysanne Stark(daughter of Beron)
Prologue - Part One: The Raven & The Decree - Part Two: Northern Bound - Part Three: Beginnings Start At the End - Part Four: A Song For Wolves - Part Five: Days Counting Down- Part Six: Before The Old Gods - Part Seven: Where You Go, I Go - Part Eight: Snapshots of a Day - Part Nine: Prayers for the Broken Ones - Part Ten: Valar Morghulis - Part Eleven: Interludes - Part Twelve: Convergence - Part Thirteen: Tipping Point - Part Fourteen: The Hard Place - Part Fifteen: The Old Gods Smiled
[Cross Posted AO3]
Part Two: Northern Bound
A ship takes them from King’s Landing to White Harbor. Rather than go on horseback and caravan, it was decided that speed and efficiency in this case would do better than pomp and circumstance. It also limits their numbers.
Daeron, of course, and Maekar. Little Aegon has followed as well, with Aemon already sent away to the Citadel, and the girls are left with Dyanna. Aerion, by some divine intervention or need to have some sort of male figure at home, is left at Summerhall with the ladies, though the spectacular tantrum that he had thrown at being left behind has earned him punishment this time. No jousting, no horse rides, no trip to King’s Landing to bask in the glory of court. No fun, or whatever it is that passes for fun in his brother’s mind. Just what had finally set his younger brother off in front of their father, he does not care to think about it.
But he had seen the aftermath.
Aerion losing his control right in front of Maekar had been glorious. So much for charming their father with his behavior. Even just thinking about how that lie had shattered right in front of their father, it was easily something to bring a smile to his face.
Daeron’s a bit giddy at that part. He is the good child at the moment, even if there has been more than one attempt to smuggle a few more wineskins than usual. Confiscated but still there. Somewhere. His crimes were expected. Aerion’s not so much.
Still, their little party had enough members as it was.
Baelor goes as well, as representative of the crown. Valarr and his wife Lady Kiera are in attendance too, closer to his age than most of their attendants. Two of the Kingsguard round out their number, a small party for a royal visit, but the distance they are traveling creates this, as well as the time allotted for their travels.
Besides, most of the guests will be attending the ceremony in King’s Landing rather than Winterfell. Northern houses will pack the halls there instead, and a few from the Vale. Proper Northern wedding and all that, he supposes.
Winds favor them. They make good time, the weather holds, and in nearly a fortnight he is waking up from blissful darkness, to find they are docking in White Harbor. Strange that he has not yet had a dream in the last few days, of any sort be it good, bad, or downright horrific, but he knows his luck will run out.
It always does.
No wine. Nearly two weeks drying out, painfully sober, and on his father’s command to act as a prince of the realm and not a drunken whoremonger; more than once he has been told he is wedding the daughter of one of the oldest, if not the oldest families in the land, and that he is damn well lucky to be getting such a sought after bride.
Why the Starks are marrying outside of the North is a question that keeps being asked. He has even asked that, when first told by his kingly grandfather, and the response was that the others were to be staying put while they honored a Pact. Or something like that.
He was only slightly sober when presented to the king so that this news could be shared with the whole of the court. So maybe the wine might have clouded his memory a bit.
Daeron had gotten through the worst of it in his cabin, the shakes, the pains, the dying thirst for even just a single cup to take away the sheer physical agony. It hurt to move, to speak, to think; a torment and a half, agony and delirium. More than once he had hallucinated his father before him, a cool rag on his forehead, telling him this was for the best, to fight through the pain and he would come out stronger, a man grown, to be something he would be proud to call a son. Fever-dreams, not that his father would be so kind as to do that.
Perhaps for the girls and little Egg, Aemon had he been there, and if Aerion were ever to turn himself into a disappointment like Daeron; but he could only remember the last time his father had shown any sort of softness when he was ill being when Daeron little more a babe.
Sheer luck had the gods had taken pity on him and thankfully his sleep had not been plagued by the terrors that normally drove him to drink in the first place. Darkness, mostly, but a few good things.
Such as when he dreamed of a maid with north-dark hair, kneeling beneath the red leaves and white bark of a weirwood tree. A maiden cloak around her shoulders. He’s dreamed this before, he thinks, when he was younger, except this time the girl never turns around.
He saw a wolf too, too large and looming to be any sort of normal wolf. A direwolf perhaps.
Still, the lack of terrifying dragon dreams has done something for his health, and the bags under his eyes are better than they had been in months, and his skin is not so pale as it had been. Even being able to hold down solid food has done wonders. At least he thinks so when he catches his reflection in a Myrish looking glass.
Sober and relatively level headed; this is something new for him lately. The last time he had been remotely like this was nearly a year ago, and trying to get rid of the new moniker that had been dumped on him, in an attempt to please his father.
Daeron the Drunken.
Well… it was true.
And that attempt lasted perhaps a moon’s turn before the nightmares and visions became too much.
Yet, he did leave his cabin and is on the deck of their ship, breathing in the cold Northern air. They’ve already gone past Three Sisters and The Bite two days ago, and should reach White Harbor proper before midday. A captain had let them know when they broke their fast this morning, all Targaryen princes gathering in Baelor’s cabin.
No wine there either. Just boiled lemon water or a warm spiced tea the captain swore helped with battling the cold.
Tremors still shook in his hands every now and then, and the craving, oh the cravings, those were evident when they ate together. But the only beverage served had been water, at the request of his father, or if they were able to have it, that strange tea.
Musings are cut short by the arrival of one tiny little brother and arms going to wrap around his legs. Aegon is far more excited for this than any of them, and Daeron’s the one to be wedded.
“Will there be a tourney, brother?”
Ah, there we go. A hand goes to ruffle Egg’s silver locks. “No,” he responds, voice calm and clear. “Far too cold and snowy, I think.” And there is snow now, lightly falling as they sail. Aegon is pouting at that. “Perhaps a hunt though, they do that up there.”
It's not the end of winter just yet and there is still snow falling. He holds out his free hand, catching snowflakes, and watches as they melt.
A wolf bride with snowflakes in her hair for a dragon prince clad in red and black, a weirwood before them both as they bow their heads in silent prayer.
“Brother?”
A direwolf as black as a starless night standing watch over four dragon eggs. A screech in the distance.
“Daeron?”
A sandy dragon resting its bashed-in head on that direwolf’s belly, the pair on a muddy field splattered with red.
“Daeron!”
His head snaps up and he looks away. Blinks back the scenes ripping across his visions and focuses on the childish voice besides him. Aegon, pressing up against his leg, warmth and weight in the cold. Little itty bitty Egg tugging on his arm. Concern shines so brightly in his lilac eyes that he cannot but help to ruffle his brother’s hair once more.
Not a horrible dream. Not terrifying. Not till the end. Curiosity lingers more than caution.
A disappointment and drunk he might be, but he does love his little brother. Aegon, he muses, would be the best of them if given the chance.
“Come now. No doubt father might want us to freshen up before we dock.”
~~~
They are hosted and feted in New Castle when finally docked and leaving the ship, the Manderly’s wealth on full display in the Merman’s Court. A feast after bread and salt is offered, albeit a small one for time’s sake, is held in their honor and for the first time since they started this journey, Daeron has that long awaited cup of wine.
Glorious, full bodied, warmed and spiced Arbor Red, and he takes his time to savor the full goblet rather than consume it with desperation.
His attempts at a second cup are cut short when Maekar takes the goblet away and shoves one filled with that blasted lemon water again. How they managed to bring a crate of lemons without them going bad is yet another question. “Drink,” is curtly ordered and under the glare he receives he does so. “We leave early tomorrow and I will not have you embarrass yourself before the bannermen of your bride’s family.”
Which he means to say, as Daeron guesses, is that the Manderlys will be escorting them to Winterfell.
All three weeks of that leg of the trip.
A rough estimate, of course, but he gathers bits and pieces from the conversations around him to figure out that they are going on the slower end of an estimate, barring any sudden storms or mishaps along the way. Sailing up The White Knife, then on horseback till they reach the oldest keep in the Seven Kingdoms.
All this for a girl’s family to be appeased.
If the weather holds then they would be there sooner.
Why his kingly grandfather agreed to give in to the Stark’s demand of a ceremony at Winterfell when they easily could have shipped the girl south, he was sure he was told at some point. Perhaps a bit too deep in his cups to remember just why but they are now in the barren North in all its snowy glory.
It might be nearing the end of winter, they might be traveling with a northern house now, but this was ridiculous.
And not even to have wine to warm him through; well he was out of luck.
There was even no sneaking away out of this because he would surely freeze to death in the wilderness before making it to any remote civilization. Also he would be surely caught and the consequences of that were not to be pretty.
“She is a comely young woman, my prince, a true Northern beauty.”
Daeron snaps his head to the side, not entirely sure which lord he may be talking to. A slightly round one, certainly, with a great appetite judging from the volume of meats laying on his plate. “Excuse me, my lord?” he questions, not entirely sure if names had been exchanged already.
Valarr would have remembered. Aerion too, if only to play proper, dutiful son in front of their father, the little monster.
“Lady Alysanne, your intended bride, my prince? Between her and her elder sister, she is the far prettier one, and far more warmer in temperament, though I ask you not to tell that to either Lady Berena, her husband, or Lord Stark. Lady Berena takes after her mother and is a cold one who does hold grudges, and not quite as pretty. Lady Alysanne is the opposite in temperament, or at least when I have been around.”
“I.. she… you have met her?”
“Well, my lady aunt is also her lady aunt, though hers by way of marriage. Aunt Myriame was wed to Lord Rodwell, but they had no child, so when Lord Rodwell died it was his younger brother Beron who became Lord Stark, my prince.”
“So you are….”
“Ser Wyle, the third son of my father, Lord Manderly, my prince. An almost kin to the lady you are to marry, if only by way of our shared aunt. I spent some time in Winterfell fostering as well.”
At this he flushes, a shaky hand running through his hair. But here is a person who knows his bride, at least has met her, and knows of her temperament and appearance.
It would not hurt to know more about Lady Alysanne.
If anything it would be a distraction from the craving of wine, to learn about her, and perhaps be more prepared once they meet.
Maybe his father might be proud of the initiative taken.
Knowing Maekar, most likely not.
“Ser Wyle, could you tell me more about Lady Alysanne, then? If only so I avoid making a fool of myself in front of her, or better yet, my father,” he asks, leaning towards the other man to size him up. Around his age, maybe a year or two younger. A knight, which was not found often in the North save for White Harbor, if Daeron remembered his lessons correctly. Not prince, but a third son. Not a drunk, but someone who looked to be able to function properly without the need of liquid courage.
Not a dreamer with a curse of terrifying visions that were unchangeable.
Easily someone who could have been a possible contender for the lady’s hand.
A better suitor.
“Of course, my prince.”
“Daeron, just… Daeron. If I may call you Wyle in return.”
The smile he gets in return is a good enough agreement.
~~~
Once he had given a description of the lady in question, though he had confessed it had been some time since they had seen one another and it was quite possible she had grown and changed slightly since then, Daeron was pleasantly surprised to find out just how good a conversationalist Wyle was. Or rather just how at ease he was Wyle, who seemed not to care one bit that he was talking to a prince.
Wyle was talking to Daeron, the person, not the prince, and while there was a certain amount of leeway Daeron was granting, it was just easy to pretend he was not a prince but just another lord. No expectations or desires, just good conversation.
It was unlike him to gain a friendly acquaintance so quickly. Or rather, one that is not a whore or barfly, and Daeron was oddly at ease with that particular fact. Ser Wyle seemed to know everything there is in the North, having not been the heir or the spare, but a third son who might not have a place other than one he would make.
A short fostering in Winterfell while his aunt was still the Lord’s wife, and then into his service with his father. Ferrying messages for his father across the North had been one of his tasks. Another had been heading from port to port with trading ships that the Manderlys had interest in. Business in Braavos for his father, closer to the North than the other Free Cities, and he had been to other kingdoms for a few tourneys if only to show yes, the North did have some knights, and no, it was not a backwards weakling when compared to the others.. He had even journeyed to The Wall, if only to see if the Night’s Watch might prove a place for him to go when he outlived his usefulness.
As much as it would be an honor, Wyle had confessed he might not want to be a Black Brother, as there was still so much to see and do, and that he feared he might be too old when the time came. Nor did he truly have the drive.
Daeron had listened to the other young man’s history, and his own interactions with the Stark girl with careful curiosity, but was more interested in the conversation that came after they spoke of the girl.
Not that he was not interested, only Wyle was interesting too. And a good distraction with good conversation, to keep his mind from focusing on other things.
Such as the wine and ale that was in everyone else’s cups but his own. Or how his hands were slightly shaking, and the sour taste in his mouth at the beginning of the feast.
Wyle talked and laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, a friendly and nonjudgemental face, who either ignored the signs all was not well, or was willing not to bring it up out of respect for Daeron’s own struggle.
In turn he had offered up his own few adventures, the ones that were safe for polite company. His experiences in the Red Keep, the boyhood romps of fishing by the edges of Blackwater Bay, how he had fallen from his first horse after it had charged quite suddenly without warning, the knighthood that he thought was only due to him being a prince, his own sisters and brothers aside from the youngest brother in attendance; it was easy to talk to Wyle, who listened and knew what it was to grow up in a rather large family and never really feel like this was the place he was meant to be.
Daeron held back that thought, that while he loved Summerhall with all his heart, he felt as if he was not ready to actually be the heir everyone needed him to be. Or he would never truly feel like he was the heir that his father wanted.
They had talked, it seemed, for the majority of the feast. Time had passed and Daeron had not even noticed the sideways glances of his father, or from his uncle. Both had been in conversation with Lord Manderly about the trip, or rather his uncle was, while his father merely listened and grunted out a gruff response or remark every now and then. But had he been not as absorbed in conversation he could have caught either of their eyes.
Valarr seemed at ease making polite small talk with others around the take and Kiera seemed quite capable of being the dutiful wife of the second in line to the Iron Throne, gentle compliments and sunny smiles to all who might have spoken to her. But both of them too had cast glances at Daeron, confused as to the lack of drunkenness and sheer sharpness with comments and questions in response to Wyle’s own commentary.
Aegon was the only one bold enough to push himself into the conversation Wyle and Daeron were having, peppering both of them with questions. Wyle, for his part, laughed and answered every question that the littlest of their party had.
Yes, there is snow even in the summer.
The Wall does stretch from shore to shore and is higher than any building you might have in King’s Landing.
No, I have not seen the Others, thank the seven.
I squired for my elder brother before I was knighted, and he was a mighty hard task master.
No one is too short to squire, little prince, but you might need to be a bit older before you start.
You might need to ask the lady if she does have a pet direwolf.
All in all it was a good night, even if he could not actually have any more than a single cup of wine. So much so that there were no tremors in his hands, and the sour taste in the back of his throat never once was noticed before he went to bed.
And when he slept, he dreamt of grey eyes flecked with green and a direwolf curling around dragon eggs.
Summary: A dragon courts a direwolf as a union approaches.
In where Targaryens walk amongst the snows, Wyle is a good friend, Daeron and Alysanne manage to sneak off, Lonnel Snow is a threat, a menace, and a teacher, Valarr gives a lesson in expectations, and fathers speak to their children on what makes a man and woman.
Main Characters: Daeron Targaryen (son of Maekar), Alysanne Stark(daughter of Beron)
Other(s): Maekar Targaryen, Baelor Targaryen, mentioned King Daeron II, Aegon V, Beron Stark, Valarr Targaryen, Kiera of Tyrosh, Lonnel Snow
Pairings: Daeron Targaryen (son of Maekar) x Alysanne Stark(daughter of Beron)
Prologue - Part One: The Raven & The Decree - Part Two: Northern Bound - Part Three: Beginnings Start At the End - Part Four: A Song For Wolves - Part Five: Days Counting Down- Part Six: Before The Old Gods - Part Seven: Where You Go, I Go - Part Eight: Snapshots of a Day - Part Nine: Prayers for the Broken Ones - Part Ten: Valar Morghulis - Part Eleven: Interludes - Part Twelve: Convergence - Part Thirteen: Tipping Point - Part Fourteen: The Hard Place - Part Fifteen: The Old Gods Smiled
[Cross Posted AO3]
Part Five: Days Counting Down [Cross Posted AO3]
207 AC - Winterfell, Five Days Before The Wedding
If she had slept poorly last night, it was not due to any nightmare but more so due to the anxiety of having to show the entire royal party around the grounds of Winterfell, the Hand and Prince Maekar included.
Escaping to the library or archery yard was not an option. Not when the ones she was escorting were to be her new family, especially royals.
Somewhere before they even stepped foot outside, Prince Aegon was allowed to head off to take part in lessons with the other younger children. Being around children his own age seemed to cheer him up, as well as the promise that he would be allowed to train with her youngest brother and little nephews in the training yard today. Prince Maekar was pleased with her suggestion that his youngest son do that rather than dragged along with the adults. Mostly she assumed it was so he could focus on her and Prince Daeron.
Her future good father had been taken to watching when she and the prince interacted, any time they were within close proximity with one another. He, along with Prince Baelor, seemed unusually interested in those interactions.
It made it harder to get to know the prince properly. Despite walking next to him as she gave the tour, conversation was carefully kept light and proper. Nothing about the toast from the prior evening nor about just how close they had been in the courtyard before. Instead, her arm was looped carefully in his, but that was the extent of the closeness, and she spoke so all could hear her voice.
They had started after the morning meal, and had started with the grounds outside. From the South Gate, through the Guest House, then the kennels, and finally the Godswood. From there she had shown them all the Heart Tree where in four days time they would all be gathering to witness the ceremony.
At that point it was easy to see that the cold was starting to affect all of the southerners despite the heavy cloaks and furs they wore. No one was quite shivering as much as poor Lady Kiera yet the discomfort was plain even if not a single one was voicing their complaint. Prince Valarr would sometimes blow on his gloved hands, standing closer to his wife than what might be proper had they not been married. As for Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar, they both kept rubbing their hands together, and more than once she had caught a wistful look back at the Great Keep.
Prince Daeron seemed the only one not outwardly showing any signs of a chill, save for how he kept his hands in his pockets at all times.
Alysanne had then decided to pivot. They were to originally go to the armory but instead decided elsewhere would be far more suitable.
So she had led them through the doors of the glass gardens, hoping the temperature would be more to their tastes.
“And these are the glass gardens. Crops can be grown even during winter and help to supplement our harvests from the surrounding lands. Underneath the ground runs natural hot springs, keeping the gardens warm even when we are deep into winter.”
“Are they connected to the ones in the godswood, my lady?”
At least he listened, Prince Daeron, and asked the questions every now and then even when cold, after they had dropped Prince Aegon off with the rest of the children. Prince Valarr and his wife seemed a bit too preoccupied with trying to keep one another warm. Prince Maekar was gruff and more likely to watch them like a hawk. Only Prince Baelor was left to help with more conversation along with his nephew once inside.
“Yes. And that same water is piped into the walls as well. The keep was built over the hot springs and grew over time. That would be how it stays warm even in the coldest of winters. And since the Great Hall can house many, it also can be used as refuge in dire times.” Her explanation, as thorough as she could be without giving away too many of the secrets held by her family, got the interest of Princes Baelor and Maekar, and under both of their watchful gazes, a flush crept up her skin.
It was strange to have the attention on her now. For so long it had been Berena that craved to be the center of attention and require all who were with them to focus on her. Even after her marriage and leaving home, with so many brothers, Alysanne had not been the focus of most of the family, preferring it that way. But it was a disadvantage now, being thrust into the complex matter of this marriage.
The urge to run and hide had been creeping up the longer they walked. Latching onto her very being and refusing to let go.
It had been warmer in the glass gardens so she had taken off her cloak and held it folded over her hands then, slowly pointing out which plant was what, the crops that had been used in last night’s feast, the various herbs that the maester specifically requested they grow, alongside the plants used merely for decoration.
“Winter roses. They grow here as well, I see. We saw a few on the trip here, my lady,” Prince Baelor had suddenly commented, leaning over one of the famed blue roses that were only found within Northern soil. His fingers were gently running over one of the delicate petals, a curious look within his eyes. “Are the ones here cultivated from the wild winter roses, or are they a different breed?”
Alysanne blinked, not expecting that particular question. Though she was not sure that he would have seen the roses now, even if winter was ending. Far too soon. “You would be correct about the ones we have here. These are specifically bred within the garden though the original would have been from wild winter rose seeds. It is nearly impossible to grow outside of the North, and if you happen to see blue roses down South, it would more likely be due to dye or they were painted,” she responds lightly, moving to stand next to the Hand of the King.
He is not quite the imposing figure he had been yesterday, but there is something in the way he moves, the air around him, that commands authority without demanding it. Alysanne wonders if he had ever seen the roses before. “If you had seen them elsewhere it would be a trick, and someone trying to pull the wool over you, so to speak, my prince.”
That earns her a pleased grin in return. “So say House Tyrell claimed they were able to have them in their gardens? Winter roses, specifically?”
“A boast that could be misconception or leans more towards a lie than anything else. Either they used dye in the water or it is not a true winter rose. Another blue flower, perhaps, or a misjudgement on their part. They might have been swindled by a gardener that holds too much ambition, and has a willingness to lie to get what they want.”
“Yet if they claimed they were true?”
“I would be surprised. And unlikely to trust them at their word afterwards for the claim."
“Over a flower?”
Alysanne shakes her head. “No, over the attempt to trick a Stark over something any Stark would know to be a lie. And the shamelessness of it,” she replies honestly. “Such a silly thing, to lie about something so small, but if they were willing to do that, what larger lies would they tell to get their way? Or perhaps why? To prove a point? It also shows they think us ignorant, easy to fool. That would be a mistake in their case.”
“Uncle, I do not remember seeing any winter roses on the road,” pipes up Prince Daeron, from behind her. A soft warning, heavy weight in his words.
At that she realizes her misstep, speaking without thinking carefully. A trap, a smart one, and she had walked right into it. Once more heat rises to her cheeks, and she bows her head. “I apologize for my presumption, my prince. It is only… we are not entirely unaware of what others may think of the North, no matter what tales may have been told. Barbaric and easily led seem to be common assumptions. Isolated and unaware of matters below the Neck, as well.”
At that moment Alysanne dares to lift her head and meet the gaze of the Hand of the King and Crown Prince, finding the steel in her spine. Stubbornness perhaps. And an unwillingness to let there be anything but brutal truth.
“And by barbaric, you mean what exactly, Lady Alysanne?” Despite the pleasant tone, she knows now that this has turned into an interrogation, a judgment of her character. They have heard of her from others and are now waiting to see if the stories are true.
Well, she might as well take a leap of faith and not hide away, fighting the very ingrained habits she has learned when it comes to conflict. Not if she wishes to survive this family and down South.
“My homeland is a brutal place. Our climate is harsh, unyielding, unforgiving. You may think us as cold as the land we are from, but it is not the case. We sacrifice creature comforts for our survival. And when it is dire, the old and sick sacrifice themselves, for the preservation of the young and healthy. We may not be rich in gold or fine goods, but we make due with our lot. Unyielding in some ways. Adapting to others.” Arms raise to gesture around to the glass gardens, before her gaze falls towards the direction of the godswood.
“Brandon the Builder may have founded my house, but it was along with others we conquered the rest of the North, defeating any who may have claimed the title of king, that the Starks could lay claim to the title of Kings of Winter. Through warfare and slaughter in many cases. Marriage in a few. And in the rare ones, the entire extermination of a rival house.” She turns back to the prince, grey eyes as hard as stone, mouth set in a determined line.
“Your house did the same. Before, conquest, with dragons by your side.” Here she shifts and looks at Prince Maekar, her future goodfather. While his brother may be contemplative, he himself is stone. “And without them, at Redgrass Field. In that, I believe there are some similarities to our houses.”
Prince Maekar’s face is absolutely terrifying. Steel. Hard. Every line of his form is unyielding brutality.
He might have made a good northman in another life.
“And, pray tell, what those might be, girl?”
Alysanne swallows thickly but refuses to back away. Her tone is factual, as if reciting out a history book rather than a conversation. “Like the Blackfyres traitors at Redgrass Field, House Greystark of the Wolf’s Den turned traitor and allied with the Boltons, in an effort to control the North and kingship. The difference, I believe, is that every last Greystark was killed to ensure no more uprisings or rival claimants.”
Oh. Well, this is awkward. No one else is talking now and there are eyes all on her, and she fidgets slightly, hands gripping the fabric of her cloak lightly.
Perhaps a change in topic?
“If you wish I can take you all to the library next, and recommend several texts on Northern military campaigns. Or perhaps others on the history and lore of the North?”
Thankfully it is a cough from Prince Daeron that brings everyone else out of their stare, and he is the one to offer his arm once she has her cloak back on. Perhaps she should have not gone off the way she did, tongue loose and rather foolishly speaking of the thoughts in her head. Yet it seems not like scorn from both Prince Maekar and Prince Baelor. Not quite approval either, not yet, but something.
“Your lord father lets you read about military history?” It comes out softly, though not like a secret, and hardly hiding it from the elders in their party. Prince Daeron really does have a lovely voice. Almost wistful, if a tiny drop sad.
“And many topics of interest. All of us were given free reign in the library, though it was my two eldest brothers and myself who found ourselves in there long after the lessons were over. My lord father disagreed with my lady mother over limiting access to particular texts solely based upon my sex.” A confession, and she leads them all out and into the cold once more, trekking towards the castle.
“Perhaps then we should commission copies of these works, for Summerhall’s library, my lady? Northern histories and lore, magic, myths, and truths?”
A smile, wide and true, is sent his way, and it cannot be hidden. Let the Others take anyone who says it is improper, be it commoner or king alike.
~~~
Maekar has a headache, and one that is not caused by his children.
No, this headache is entire due to being in the fucking North, in this barren, snow-covered hellscape of a place, and dealing with a strange mix of political subterfuge and cold warfare, as well as wedding that is looming in five, wait, no four days if it is already past the hour of the wolf. The only saving grace is Baelor is the one who can deal with people, charm them and put them at ease, and his brother is here with him.
There are many things he envies about his brother, truly, but in this he is far more grateful that the political handling of this whole enterprise is being shared between them.
“You normally do not barge into my rooms without a reason, brother, or drink more than two cups of any sort or wine or spirit.”
Which is right, Maekar would limit himself in drink and vices, disciplining himself in a way his grandfather had never done. Yet right now, he needs something to soothe the tension headache that is surely what is plaguing him.
“Maekar, you are brooding.”
Ah, well, if he is rubbing his temples and drinking at the same time, while outright glaring at the window showing off the dark, starry night, it may be that he is, in fact, brooding, and not exactly hiding it.
“Brother, really?”
“Battle strategies from the submission of the Skargosi. A bloody tale from how the Wrag King was slayed. A fucking scroll on Dothraki mounted combat, because she thought I might enjoy it.”
Baelor, the traitor, snorts at that. Seeing amusement in his headache, of this predicament, bloody favorite of the family, never dealing with headaches from his own son’s wife.
“What the fuck has Beron Stark been teaching his children? Who the fuck lets their child read about ancient practices of human sacrifice?”
“Maekar, you have an entire section on Valyrian blood magic in Summerhall’s own library. Along with several tomes on the military tactics from the Dance of Dragons, critiques over the Conquests campaigns, and scrolls for contingency plans should there be another rebellion.”
The only thing he can do is glare at his brother, take a long sip of that plum brandy Baelor was hoarding, and go back to his rant.
“A fucking half hour, they were talking over a fucking half hour, about dragon riders and comparing them to northern skinchangers! As if no one else fucking mattered.”
It is clear Daeron is enamored and the girl is the same with his son. At the bare minimum they are both curious about each other, that the physical attraction is there, and something else is bubbling underneath the surface that no one else seems to understand, let alone want to make heads or tails of.
“There is a short hunt tomorrow. The eldest two sons, along with Lord Beron himself. We were invited, along with Valarr and Daeron, though I suspect Daeron will fake some sort of illness to get out of doing so.”
“And insult his future goodfather like an idiot?”
“No. Lord Beron assumes Daeron will seek out his daughter to speak without eyes watching them, per his son Donnor’s explanation, and does not mind it happening. I suggest we give Daeron that chance.”
Seven help him. Maekar takes a long, final drink from his cup and shakes his head, free hand pinching the bridge of his nose. It would give the pair a chance to sneak away and do gods’ know what alone. Yet he does doubt the girl would try anything, and his son would know better than to attempt to defile his bride before the wedding.
“The girl is what they say she is. Smart, though bookish and a bit too direct for some, beautiful if in a northern way, faithful to the old gods; all as promised, brother, though I suspect she is not one to seek out any sort of attention from others save those she is close to, and would prefer to avoid tempting scandal. Let them get to know one another a bit before they are wed. It is the least we can do for them.”
A hand is on his shoulder and he looks up to see Baelor’s easy smile slightly strained. Ah so his unflappable elder brother is worried. Something akin to righteousness swells in his chest.
“We will go, get some air, and let ourselves be distracted by a hunt, and not worry about what may or may not happen for a day.”
~~~
207 AC - Winterfell, Four Days Before The Wedding
It was most improper. Highly improper. And should her lord father find out, there would be more than a stern lecture. Gods forbid her uncle saw them, that would be worse.
But she wanted to be alone with Prince Daeron and speak to him without the shadow of chaperones.
That opportunity had come the day after the tour.
Thank all the gods for Donnor and William’s suggestion, and their insistence on taking out the other elder princes on a quick hunt with their father and letting Lady Kiera keep warm in Winterfell. Her dresses were lovely, rich and fine fabrics in so many colors and patterns, but highly unsuitable for winter. And while she did lend some of her finer warmer weather to the lady, it was very clear that Lady Kiera was not fond of the cold weather. It was easy then to make an excuse and slip away.
Prince Daeron had a feigned headache and pleaded to stay behind. Or so he had said he would, and while not a single person actually believed that, they were under the assumption that Alysanne had been whisked away for more wedding preparations and packing for the long journey ahead, that she would not have any time to sneak out.
Which was why this worked in the first place.
Just to be on the safe side she had brought along the custom built bow her uncle had gotten her during her last name day. If anyone asked, she was practicing and the prince happened to be taking in the cold air in hopes of relieving his pains.
So when the prince had finally made it down to the archery yard, the raised eyebrow was expected. Curiosity in those haunted purple eyes bloomed brightly and she had a sheepish smile. “Should we be found, we might avoid their questions by simply saying I wished to practice and show you my favorite places in Winterfell,” she explained, shifting into a neat and quick curtsey.
Daeron waved a hand in response, dismissing the gesture with a light smile. “No, no, none of that my lady. Not when we are alone together. I may be a prince but I suspect I am a rather poor one. And you will be a fine princess once we wed, I believe.”
A flush once more creeps into her cheeks.
“Then it should be Aly, or if you are not yet comfortable yet, Alysanne is fine, when it is just the two of us.”
“Then I insist you call me Daeron.”
He offers his arm to her and she reaches out, looping her free arm around his and carefully tucks her body close. Closer than propriety would allow for but they are alone without anyone to judge. All the better to keep their conversation quiet and private. They walk slowly towards the edge of the yard, just out of most eyesight. They speak of light topics, of favored songs and stories, foods they enjoy, what they each prefer for keeping busy, and his journey north.
“Truthfully, it is unlike what I thought. Vast. Barren. Brutal, like you had said yesterday. But beautiful and peaceful too, at times. Perhaps a tad too cold, but when one is accustomed to warmer weather, it is only that anything north of the Dornish Marches is considered too cold.”
He has a dry wit, she finds, and wonders what else he is hiding behind those haunted, beguiling eyes.
“Have you dreamt of the North, my… Daeron?”
He goes quiet. Too quiet.
Wandering, she leads him where the keep might cast enough shadows to shield them from any interlopers, giving her time to study the young man who is to be her husband. He does not answer the question, but she is not willing to press him on that if the dream was something terrible. Instead, she studies him.
Tall, is her first thought, nearly as tall as some of the Northmen that will be attending. As tall as her father and uncle both, and she remembers he might be slightly taller than his father, if not as bulky. His hair is not silver like she suspected, but a sandy blond she suspects comes from his mother rather than his father, and today it is loose and frames his face
”Why here, Alysanne?”
The questions brings her out of her musing and she looks towards the practice targets worn with use over time. “When I was little, my uncle took me out here after… well… you know, and he had told me to focus on the moment rather than the dream. Step by step, over and over, till the dread had passed. When it becomes too much, the nightmares, I come here.” Fingers trace over the recurve bow, along the etched images of a snarling wolf. Eyes dart down, her head nearly up against his chest when they both move and she turns her body towards his own.
“My lady mother said it was improper, but my lord father merely told her that if it clears my mind and gives me a little peace, then there is no harm. You must think it terribly barbaric, that a man’s sport-
“No. I think it is quite marvelous.”
Alysanne tilts her head back up, temple brushing up against his chest, and for a moment she can see his breath. Make out the various shades of purple in his eyes. See the faint shadows under his eyes, from constant poor sleep. Boldly, she raises her free hand and brushes away a few locks of hair from his eyes, and lets out a soft oh when he takes the hand in his own and places a soft kiss on her knuckles.
The sheer gentleness of his gesture has her heart beating rapidly.
“I drink to forget. Daeron the Drunken, they have dubbed me. A poor knight, I suspect it was merely the princely title that led to the knighthood. A coward. So I drink to numb the dreams, and the terrors they bring me. Block out the terrible endings, the death and destruction, for how can I truly be able to change those fates?” he murmurs softly. Shame bleeds through words. “So it is quite a feat, I believe, for you to have a similar affliction yet do something so productive about it.”
Would they be elsewhere, she might wrap him up to soft blankets, and whisper hushed words to him. He would not be alone. As it stands they will be together come the full moon, and neither without someone who understands them ever again.
“And yet the dreams I have seen lately have brought me some relief. I may crave to drink, my dear, and do so often. That may never go away, but the night was not full of terrors for the first time in so long. And perhaps it is here, in the North, that I may have found something sweet to close my eyes to.”
His forehead presses gently against her own head as he leans down, their breaths mingling in the chilly air. She could not tell which is which for how close they are. Perhaps if she were bolder she might press her lips against his own.
“Tis a heavy burden we both carry, and I fear I hardly have the strength to carry it most days. Would you share yours with me, Alysanne?”
With eyes like that and a voice so sweet, so broken, how could she say anything else but yes?
~~~
207 AC - Winterfell, Three Days Before The Wedding
Wyle had helped them both out. Making an excuse to meet up with Daeron at the same time he was speaking with Alysanne, and volunteering to act as a responsible chaperone for them should they meet; he was just like that. Explained he would tell him how northern weddings go and what to expect, and oh, yes, he could use the help and who better to do so than the bride.
And when he had the chance to flee, he had done so, with a laugh and a grin, whispering just loud enough so they both could hear, “Do not do anything scandalous, my friends, while I am away.” He had run off then in search of gods knows what, leaving Daeron and Alysanne to their own devices without prying eyes.
Alysanne had taken the chance given and Daeron was more than happy to go along for this particular adventure.
At first he thinks that perhaps she is leading him back to the archery yard but they take a few confusion turns. Perhaps to throw off any minders, or avoid the judgemental eyes of parents and family. Eventually Daeron notes they make it back outside at one point, in the godswood, and his hand is in her own. Content to be pulled, he watches the back of her head, the way she let her hair down today and the movement of locks over her shoulders and down her back.
He wonders if she will let him play with it, after they are married.
How it would look splashed across pillows.
Loose and draped around her as a curtain while she is above him.
What it would like on her pale skin, shining with sweat.
That particular thought gets him to smile wide.
Alysanne seems bold enough, at this rate, to take the lead. Eventually they make it to the heart tree, and rather than stand in front, she drags him behind the massive old weirwood to shield them from the face. “Some things I do not want the gods to see just yet,” she says brightly, and pulls him close.
When they sit, it is he on a thick root wider than many chairs, and feeling rather bold himself in this moment, pulls her into his lap. Daeron lets out a small chuckle at the surprise across her face, and proceeds to take a gloved hand in his own, bringing it up to his face for inspection. Upon settling, he notes that she has tucked herself carefully so he may wrap his other arm around her and that her legs are both across his own.
If she wished for it, she could use him as a pillow, resting her cheek against his own chest, were it not covered under layers of fabric and furs. Daeron is rather content to see that this happens to be the case and puts a soft kiss once more on her hand before letting it go. “Would you tell me a tale from the North?” he requests softly, “And I would tell you a story of my own?”
It earns him a hum in return and a snuggle in closer. No one else is here so they are free to be as improper as they wish, though the cold is something to work around.
“There once was a man, the Thirteenth Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. He fell in love with a woman he saw from the very top of the Wall. But this was no ordinary woman, for she had skin white as the moon in the night sky, shining eyes like blue stars, and her skin was cold as ice when touched. He was fearless and chased and caught and loved her. Declaring her a queen and he a king, he bound the Black Brothers to his will with dark magic and ruled from the Nightfort on top of the Wall. When he lay with her, he gave her his seed and his soul, and all manner of unholy and godless terrors were committed during their rule.”
Daeron blinks, not expecting such a tale, but oddly enraptured as she speaks. Something shifts and he holds Alysanne close in his arms, nuzzling his face in the top of her head, smelling cinnamon and smoke.
“King Brandon the Breaker and Joramun, the King-Beyond-the-Wall put aside their differences and banded together. For they had heard of sacrifices being made to the Others by the Night’s King and his Queen, and together they broke the hold the pair had over the Black Brothers and defeated the Night’s King. His name was stricken from all records, and no one truly knows who he was. His Queen vanished, never to be seen.”
“Truly, no name?”
“Some whisper it was a Bolton, a Dustin, maybe a Flint. But the tale I head from my uncle says it was a Stark, and Brandon The Breaker’s own brother at that.”
Daeron shivered despite himself.
“And now your turn.”
Ah, well, he lets out a huff and a laugh. Closing his eyes he settles in and thinks carefully. “I fear my story would pale in comparison,” he admits, and occupies himself by playing with a lock of her hair closest to his hand while he ponders.
“Before the days of Targaryen kings, we were one of many dragonriders. Not even the most powerful, mind you, just one of many. Before the Freehold, they whisper that Valeriya was merely humble herdsmen and nomadic peoples. They made their way across the lands and settled near the Fourteen Flames, seeking a home and safety. Only there were great beasts afoot, terrorizing and destroying all they set out to create.”
One tale of how dragons came to be. Daeron knows several, bound in thick books, and while Aemon might be the scholar of the family, Daeron was not able to escape knowing his own lessons.
“Valyrians tamed the dragons with magic, deadly blood rites taught by a vanished people from the Shadow Lands, sacrificing their own blood and kin to control the great beasts. They bound them to their souls. Of those original riders, forty families rose up and would form an empire, built on the backs of dragons, blood magics, and slaves. Yet we angered the gods too, for centuries ago The Doom would happen, and only the gods had seen fit to warn the Targaryens, giving dreams to the maiden daughter Daenys. And every so often there is one among us who has those same dreams.”
At this he holds her tighter, content to stop speaking for now and let the sounds of the godswood blanket them. In here, it could almost be as if he were finally at peace. In another life, perhaps, he could have stayed.
He could be happy here, he knows it.
Perhaps Alysanne knows it too.
~~~
207 AC - Winterfell, Two Days Before The Wedding
“Do you often make a habit of lying in order to sneak away, dragon dreamer? To seek out pretty young maidens and the pleasure of their company?”
There is a man with, tall, dark haired, with a long face and mossy green eyes waiting for him in the chambers when he gets back from the little side adventure in the archery yard with Alysanne.
Daeron wonders if he is there to threaten him with bodily harm. He has heard rumors from Wyle when they managed to find one another, who has been kept busy by gods knows what. Rumors had said that this man was Lonnel Snow, just as deadly as his brother with half the restraint, a penchant for slipping in and out of dark corners, and no one is entirely sure what his role is within the Stark household. That and apparently his favorite niece is, in fact, Alysanne, and he prefers her over his favorite nephew, Donnor. He was sure that this was going to be the threat of bodily harm, if he did not keep her safe.
“It is a shame you were not born in the north and to one of the old families. You might have had an easier time with the nightmares.”
Daeron’s eyes widen, huge and blinking rapidly in disbelief. “I… how… ser…”
“Not a ser. Your Seven have no power here, boy, and the Fourteen Flames never were capable of truly taking root in our lands. Fuck the Lord of the Light too. The Old Gods have held the North and beyond The Wall in their grip long before men fucked their way to this place. Sit down.”
He is lounging like a cat, sprawled all over one of the overstuffed armchairs that had been placed near the fireplace, flask a dangling temptation between long, callused fingers, eyes raking over Daeron’s form and assessing him as if he were a piece of meat. A tone of voice that books no argument leads Daeron to follow through with the direction. Assuming he meant second chair, that is where he goes and the fire lets light flicker over both their features.
Daeron has the sudden sensation that he has been judged and perhaps found wanting in various aspects.
That, unfortunately for him, seemed to be the story of his life thus far.
“My niece seems quite taken with you, dragon prince, and you with her. No doubt she knows bits and pieces of who you are when you are back in the comforts of the South, but I wonder if you’ve told her the whole truth of it. Dreams, yes, cowardness at them, the drinking problem, but not the extent of it. Drowning yourself in so much wine so not to think that it takes several bottles to get you truly gone. To numb yourself. And the black outs in brothels, balls deep in some girl’s cunt you’ve paid for the night to make it so you can focus on pleasure. Not the horrors you see when you close your eyes.”
So this is an interrogation. Grimly he shifts, body not quite shrinking, but the discomfort is apparent. He keeps his mouth shut though and listens. Waiting for the right time to speak because this man does not seem to want him to speak. Not yet.
“I suppose that Manderly boy has told you who to be wary of and that I happen to be top of the list. Under my brother Beron, of course. What do you think?”
What he wants is to bolt out of there like the coward he is. Ask Alysanne about her uncle and how he knows the truths easily spoken of. Purple eyes flicker to the flask, his hands flexing, then back up to Lonnel’s glowing green gaze. Not wildfire green, but a mossy, otherworldly green, and the slow wolf-like grin on the man’s face feels like this one is less of a man and more of a monster.
Daeron chooses his words carefully. They might make or break this whole enterprise if he does not. And gods, this man is frightening, yet all he is doing is talking. How does he do that?
“Equally terrifying. Does Lord Stark know?”
“Everything. More truth for him than for my shrew of a goodsister and yet she is the one who fought against the match he arranged. I pity you for that, having Lorra as a goodmother and Berena as a goodsister once you’ve said the vows. You lucked out, dragon prince, that the best of all of us shall be your wife.”
“The flask?”
“A test. But you guessed that already.”
Daeron nods slowly and looks down at his hands. They’re shaking now, tremors reminiscent of the horrible time when he had dried out on that ship, locked away in the cabin. The pain. The fever. The shakes. The hallucinations.
“No more dragons around to anchor you. That’s the problem, boy, and the shame is your lot did it to yourself. Maybe if you Targaryens thought of yourselves as men and not gods, more of you would’ve respected the beasts as more than just companions of conquest and war. Then they might have been alive now.”
Daeron swallows thickly and shoves his hands back to his sides. Forces his gaze to meet Lonnel’s. No quips or snappy comebacks today. No drunken courage or anger. Fear, he feels that, true fear. Ice cold and freezing the blood in his veins.
“Yourself, a greenseer. And a wrag?”
“Mmmhmm.”
“And Alysanne?”
“Wrag? If she has, then she’d kept that bit to herself. Does have the sight though. But you’ve known that all along, haven’t you? Dreamt of her? Seen her in when you’ve slept? She has too, only she’s dreamt of you in return."
Lonnel lens forward then, a sharp, toothy smile that sends a jolt up his spine. Daeron stills, not speaking.
“Not dreams that a man has of a woman when he wants her so thoroughly it invades his sleep, though I gather you will have those soon enough. My niece is quite beautiful. Yet you managed to mostly behave yourself in the archery yard. Impressive.”
He opens his mouth and then shuts it abruptly. Waits and lets the silence fill the room, the only sound is the crackling of firewood. Clarity strikes as lightning through the sheer terror within him. Daeron knows it is a risk but if anyone would know what he has dealt with, it would be Lonnel Snow.
“I’ve dreamt of a fire. Green flames. Summerhall melting and death all around me. I’ve seen a large dragon fall from the sky dead and crush a knight, who comes out alive. I’ve seen death and chaos and woke up choking on smoke that isn’t there. And yet when my dreams come true, no one really believes. A prophet thought mad. And I am terrified, in truth, of the madness being real.”
Lonnel fiddles with the flask in his hands, more a contemplative man than a predator. “The Wall. She has seen it fall. Not now, and not in her lifetime, but a dragon rises from death and its icy breath takes down The Wall, and an army with unearthly blue eyes marches forward to kill us all. Bits and pieces strung together over time.”
“And yourself?”
At that the slow, lazy grin reemerges. Inhuman. Madness. Something older than himself, than this place, shines brightly through. And it is contained by the love Lonnel Snow has for his brother and his niece. A monster, but the Stark’s monster.
“Smart question. Everything. I see it all. The before, the after, and everything in between. The possibilities. Endlessness."
A breath of silence.
“Will I hurt her?”
Later, when he is alone, Daeron will thank himself for not flinching when that unearthly green is settled on him, and it looks almost like praise. For the right question, for staying and not fleeing. For resisting the urge to take that flask and drown the contents.
“In my experience, we rarely ever hurt the ones we love in the ways we think we might. You wish to be better, dragon prince, then take the leap and find your courage to do so. It will be hard, bitter work, and you will stumble. You will fall, and need to pick yourself up again, but the gods have already seen fit to meddle in our fates in bringing you two together here. Had they not then I suppose you would be miserable till the end of your days, short as they were to be. Instead you might end up soaring through the sky.”
“Dragons?”
“It all depends on your choices and hers.”
“The dreams?”
“Will come back when you leave this place. You won’t be alone, though. And that might make all the difference.”
Lonnel gets up then, in a way a lazy predator might, sufficiently sated with whatever blood has been drawn and meat consumed. The grin he sends towards Daeron is utterly terrifying and the flask lands in Daeron’s lap with a light thud. As he saunters out of the room, there is one last look back. One nearly of pride.
“Good job not asking for a drink. I want that flask back, this time tomorrow. Not a moment before, not a moment after.”
~~~
207 AC - Winterfell, The Day Before The Wedding
Valarr had walked into his room and taken a spot near the windows, looking out at the grounds with characteristic silence. Not a single word, no hello, no good day, just entering with a mournful look that seemed directed towards anyone who looked in his way.
Daeron felt the weight of the flask in his pockets, the urge to open it and drink whatever contents were inside stronger than ever. Yet eerie green eyes flashed in his mind and terror ran through his body when he even held the damn thing. Instead he settled for pulling a chair and taking a seat near his cousin.
“Your father will expect an heir, you know. Grandfather, father, our family, they all will want to see you get the lady with child as quickly as possible,” he said softly, wistful sadness tainting the words.
Kiera had given birth before, a stillborn son, nearly a year after marriage, and had been suffering an inability to even have any babe put in her belly ever since. Daeron knew that it weighed heavily on the pair, the expectation that they would continue their line. Baelor’s line.
King Daeron’s line.
The Iron Throne demanded it.
Daeron knew, as did Valarr, how Maekar would compare his sons to his brother’s and found his own offspring wanting. None of that was Valarr’s fault, yet at the same time, they both knew that in the end it had been Daeron and his brothers who were hurt the most. Still, he would not wish to be in his cousin’s place.
The Young Prince had heavy responsibilities on his shoulders.
“Is Kiera..?”
“No. We thought before we boarded the ship in King’s Landing but her blood came. Heavily, but it came.”
“I am sorry. I know how much you both want a child of your own, even without the pressure of having an heir.”
And that is all he can say, because he really is sorry that this is happening to the pair.
“Am I the problem? Not Kiera, but me, my seed, my blood?”
Daeron studies his cousin. Eyes looking out over the grounds where there are some of the young children playing, Aegon among them. Throwing balls of snow at one another under the watchful eyes of a few trusted nurses and tutors, building strange piles shaped as various creatures out of the soft white powder; they are playing and being children. Young, happy children, without a care in the world.
“Only the gods would know. Or the maesters,” he says, slipping a hand into his pocket. Fingers touch the cool metal of the flask.
Valarr does not yet respond, not yet, and keeps looking out. A couple with a tiny bundle walking along the grounds. Daeron leans forward to see just where his cousin’s gaze is landing, and he sighs at the predictability of it. Sad yes, but still predictable.
“Valarr, you know-”
“Uncle Maekar will use this, comparing you to me, your marriage to mine. If you were to have a child before I do, an heir, the first great-grandchild of King Daeron the Good, it might put you more favorably into his graces. Unfair, yes, but it might help. You said… you said you saw dragon eggs, four? Four children? All living?”
“Valarr, cousin-”
“Let yourself want them.”
“I don’t un-”
Valarr turns, mismatched eyes meeting his own, and the weight of his grief is etched into his face. Daeron wishes that the pain could be taken away. That he could give his cousin some hope that one day there would be a babe for him and Kiera to cherish. Fingers curl tightly around the flask again.
He wants a drink. Badly.
“Do not use the weight of the crown or being your father’s heir to scare you out of having those children. Responsibility, yes, but also a joy if you let it be. Allow yourself to want, if you wish to do so, and protect them and Lady Alysanne. Especially from Aerion. He will not be pleased with no longer being the spare and doubtless will try something.”
It is the first time someone has mentioned his brother, and Daeron feels cold dread sink into place.
Aerion had been a happy child once. They had often gone fishing, and he was so joyful at that simple pleasure.
Yet as time passed something had changed in his brother. Twisted and rotted and it turned him into a creature closer to a dragon rather than a boy. Oh he had his charms and knew how to act in public but there was always something off these days about Aerion.
Resentment over the fact Daeron, drunken fool and hardly a knight if anything, was the heir to their father. Aerion was the spare. The one that was there just in case, and even their father was not totally blind to the cruelty that had taken root in him.
If Daeron had children…
“He is many things but a kinslayer?”
Valarr just looks at him, a bundle of honor and expectation wrapped in a prince’s body.
“Targaryens have killed kin since Maegor the Cruel’s time. We may be cursed because of that. Do not let your brother bring down the wraith of the gods due to your naivety."
Daeron waits until his cousin is gone from the room, and pulls out the flask, staring at it for what seems to be an eternity. He tosses it from side to side, judging the wait, hearing contents slosh around, and breaths in deeply.
A test.
Alysanne.
Children.
Aerion.
Kinslaying.
He wants so badly to take a sip. Just a single sip. No one would need to know, not even Lonnel Snow, and he unscrews it with shaking hands. Peers at the liquid just visible. Goes to take a whiff of the scent.
Sweet apple and cinnamon.
Something sharp.
One sip, just one sip.
With a strength he never knew he possessed, the flask gets thrown, smashing into the great stone walls, and Daeron sinks down to his knees, burying his face into his hands and shudders violently. Sobbing he does not even notice when another enters and places a warm and heavy hand on his shoulder. He looks up, eyes red rimmed and wet to see Lonnel Snow peering at him with a curious expression.
“There, there dragon prince. Perhaps there is hope for you yet.”
~~~
207 AC - Winterfell, The Day of the Wedding
The dress is as pure white as fresh snow, layers of fine lace, tulle, and silk woven together, held with silver thread. It will cling to the top of her body, shoulders scandalously bare, and the outer cloak is the finest of all woven wool, white rabbit's fur lining the edge. A quilted pattern to provide warmth, and silver snarling direwolves adorn the clasps.
A work of art. One that will be going south with her if she had her way.
Alysanne gingerly runs her fingers over the delicate material, looking back every so often at her mother, who stands stiff yet proud at the creation. Seamstresses have been working day and night since her father had sent the raven and now their hard work has been paid off.
Not even Berena’s own wedding gown was as lovely.
But Berena was not marrying a prince and leaving the North.
“No daughter of mine will be seen as lesser by any dragon,” comes a voice from the door, and she sees her father standing there with satisfaction and pride shining in his eyes. Her mother shuffles out, something hard and unreadable breaking through, and that leaves Alysanne with only her father in the room.
“Pick your jewels carefully, have your hair exactly how you wish, and enjoy this day and night. When it is time I will come to gather you and take you to the godswood.” He walks closer and puts both his hands on her shoulders. Weight of responsibility, weight of expectations, weight of destiny; it all now rests on her.
Her and Daeron.
“You are a Stark of Winterfell, a direwolf who rules the snows, and you have the blood of kings in your veins,” he adds, giving a gentle squeeze. “For more than eight thousand years we have ruled and you, my daughter, bow to no one but the gods. I am proud of you.”
When he says it like this, it almost makes up for the truth that she may never come home to Winterfell ever again. When he holds her close and whispers nothing but praise, she thinks this is one of the last few times she will ever feel like a child ever again. Time now to savor the feeling, for once night comes she is truly a woman in every sense.
And yet she is left standing alone when he leaves, wrapped in an oversized robe, and stares once more at the dress. Perhaps she could ask them not to rip it to pieces during the bedding ceremony.
She wants to bring it down with her. A memory to cherish.
~~~
Daeron is painfully, mindfully, dreadingly sober. Has been for weeks. Despite the cravings the last two days, he has not touched anything, out of fear of inciting some terrible fate worse than the nightmares that await him in the south.
And tonight he is getting married to a girl he has only dreamed of.
He has been thoroughly washed and scrubbed clean, hair washed multiple times and dried, before being styled with something his cousin had brought over to tame his hair, it is now tied back in a low bun. Carefully poked and prodded till deemed suitable to be dressed, he is now in his small clothes eying the outfit that had been laid out before him.
Servants show themselves in, and a pair of younger men start to help him out with the outfit. Black and red, dark pants, stockings, a black silk shirt, vest of woven wool. Black and red on black and red. Even his boots are being shined to the point where he wonders if he could see his reflection in the leather.
Maekar comes in, uncharacteristically silent with approval and with a nod the servants leave so that he can survey their work.
They stand, father and son, looking at one another before Daeron goes to sit down. His father follows suit, moving a chair to face Daeron who sits on the edge of the bed.
“When your mother and I married, we had already known one another for several years,” he starts, voice low and gruff, stern in only the way The Anvil is. But this is his father, not The Anvil, speaking now. “I was able to court her properly. We learned one another in a way few in our position ever do, and made the choice to marry ourselves, irrespective of what our families might have wanted. Your uncle’s was arranged but he had time to know Jena before they wed as well. This is not what I would have wanted for you, or your siblings, to be tied together for a political alliance, but it is what has happened.”
A hand is placed on his shoulder and he meets Daeron’s gaze, looking suddenly older and more tired than he has ever seen him. “There are many ways a man is made. Being a warrior is one. Being a husband is another. You become a man tonight, and honor us all in doing so, but the boy you were now needs to leave.”
Maekar slowly stands, nodding at his own word while Daeron stays quiet.
Dragons do not do well in the cold snows. Winter is for wolves, and it is best remembered that wolves will take care of their own.
~~~
In which Alysanne has her own dreams, Daeron deals with repercussions, Beron Stark wrangles his family into submission with surprising efficency, Lonnel Snow is being put to use much to his glee, and Baelor realizes just how calculating a direwolf is when winter has arrived.
Main Characters: Daeron Targaryen (son of Maekar), Alysanne Stark(daughter of Beron)
Other(s): Maekar Targaryen, Baelor Targaryen, mentioned King Daeron II, Aegon V, Beron Stark, Valarr Targaryen, Kiera of Tyrosh, Lonnel Snow,
Pairings: Daeron Targaryen (son of Maekar) x Alysanne Stark(daughter of Beron)
Prologue - Part One: The Raven & The Decree - Part Two: Northern Bound - Part Three: Beginnings Start At the End - Part Four: A Song For Wolves - Part Five: Days Counting Down- Part Six: Before The Old Gods - Part Seven: Where You Go, I Go - Part Eight: Snapshots of a Day - Part Nine: Prayers for the Broken Ones - Part Ten: Valar Morghulis - Part Eleven: Interludes - Part Twelve: Convergence - Part Thirteen: Tipping Point - Part Fourteen: The Hard Place - Part Fifteen: The Old Gods Smiled
[Cross Posted AO3]
Part Four: A Song For Wolves
207 AC - Winterfell, Three Days Prior
There were arguments from her father’s solar. Not loud ones, no, but still if one listened carefully by the door they could hear. Servants loyal to the family would never dare eavesdrop even if the gossip was ripe. The same could not be said of the Stark children.
“You are giving our daughter to a drunk!”
“I am giving her to a prince of the realm, Lorra, a prince!”
“Who is a drunken mess, already at eight and ten. And there are rumors he constantly frequents brothels and is little more than a whore himself. How could you think this would be appropriate?”
“He is a prince, and the king, the boy’s father, and the Hand all say the same thing. He is young, he can change, just like any other boy his age.”
“Truly, are you that blind?”
“No. I’m practical. She will be a princess and lady of Summerhall, a wife of a prince, and gods be good, those blasted dragonlords will finally honor what they owe us, after decades, no, centuries of loyalty. We have done our duty over and over. Now let them finally give us what they owe us. The lords will see that the Warden of the North, that Beron Stark, makes dragons keep their vows, and force an upstart family like them to bend to our will.”
“At our daughter’s expense. You would give her away to faithless backstabbers that kill their kin.”
“No, Lorra, for her future. Our family’s future. House Stark’s future. The North’s future. And they will remember us and their obligations to us. No northern sword is on that blasted throne. We knelt for dragons. They have none now. Either they give us what we need and want, or we leave. And the North will follow me.”
“You’re reckless and gambling with her! With all of us! Rebellion and treason from you?”
“No. I aim for the North to be strong. And with this marriage we will have a foothold into getting what we need to keep it that way.”
Alysanne knows fully well that to eavesdrop is to run the risk of her parents' wrath with the royal family soon to arrive, part of it anyway. But the raven from Lord Manderly had been more illuminating than the assurances sent by King Daeron II, and by the time her parents’ voices had been raised, there was little stopping her from standing just close enough to the solar door to catch what they were saying.
Apparently Prince Maekar had taken wine out of his son’s hand and shoved water at him instead. Nearby servants had relayed to their lord about the request not to have anything remotely close to wine served near her future husband and to forbid any request from him for a drink, ale and hard cider included. From there gossip had tongues wagging.
And while they may not be aware of all of what happened in King’s Landing, the traders in White Harbor and House Manderly’s own contacts had gathered a more illuminating portrait of the prince. As a loyal bannerman to the Starks, Lord Manderly had sent forth what stories he had gathered to let her father be aware of just what sort of person they are to give their daughter to. Publicly known as ‘Daeron the Drunken’ and sooner to ride a whore than a horse, that was what her mother was worried about the most.
Her father had dismissed it as a youth testing boundaries and then if the rumors did hold true, he was certain with a father like Prince Maekar it was only a matter of time before the son was sorted out.
That or Alysanne could do the sorting out for the royal family; either way, she was to be married, and no argument her mother made would change it.
For the North. Do her duty for the North, as she was the only one left.
Round and round the arguments went. Her mother, hard as she was, worried that they were being duped by dragons. Her father, stubborn as the cold of winter itself, pointed out the need to have their house bound in some way to that of the dragon, to possibly prove that the North would not be forgotten by the South, to flex their own power as to keep their grip on the North.
People would follow them. People needed to. Smallfolk and lords alike looked to the Starks, and Beron needed to make sure that he kept up the reputation he built when his brother was still alive and Lord Stark. Uncle Rodwell was a good, kind man, but hardly an imposing Lord of Winterfell, if only due to his ill health. Beron was his right hand and the one who supported his brother, wielding Ice as if the sword were crafted for him and him alone. Strong, stern, and unyielding as winter itself, a wolf who led the pack.
Uncle Lonnel had said more than once it should have been Beron as the first born but the gods were strange beings. Aunt Arsa would then tell him to shush, that the gods were the gods, and to question them was to bring their wraith. But that had been so long ago.
But that was so long ago, and now she was here, listening to her father and mother going around and around in circles, both of them stubborn as mules.
By the fifth round of her parents arguing, Aly had gathered her skirts and tugged her cloak on tightly, her parents voices fading as she walked away from their rooms and headed far away from the fighting. Away from there, away from her family, where no doubt her siblings would question why she is running in such a hurry.
Running away and hiding when it became too much; yes, that was how she dealt with things.
Her older brothers and most of their respective families are already in Winterfell, arriving nearly two weeks earlier and having settled in. Donnor had been tasked with some of their father’s duties as he would be Lord Stark one day, and William had aided him without question, both having gone out hunting before with William’s sons to help with their stores, and only recently returned. Artos soon joined them on a second quick venture, though his wife was left at Karhold and would join them later for the ceremony and feast if her health permitted.
As for her two younger brothers still in Winterfell, Errold had ranted on and on about running away and joining the Night’s Watch after seeing just how much work this wedding was, declaring himself never to take a wife if this was what would happen. And the Flints had come earlier too, if only to ask for little Rodrik for fostering and speak of a match for him and their daughter, similar age that they were.
Berena had arrived last and set about aiding their mother without even asking if Aly had helped at all, complaining that without her none of the preparations would be completed, as if her sister did not see the sheer work everyone had been doing. And glaring at her every chance she got, if jealous at the match that Aly had made being grander and far more useful than her own marriage.
Aly had hated it. It was not her doing, none of this was, and the urge to run away creeped in every time her sister shared space with her.
Well she had gotten to marry her Dustin, for love she had claimed when the match was made. Nevermind it was only Barrow Hall she presided over, and with no babe in the cradle yet despite the length of their marriage. Though there was a glint in her eyes that put Alysanne on edge, and it was unsettling.
No one else saw it but her.
It had left her wondering what her sister was planning to do.
For all they were sisters, they had never truly gotten along as she could remember. A not-so-silent competition, mostly on Berena’s part for Aly,who had never actually intended to try and upstage her elder sister. It was just that Berena was so cold to the servants and smallfolk, dismissive to many, and blaming Aly for any sort of misfortune. As if she had stolen something from her elder sister by being born.
No man wishes for a wife who can wield a bow. That’s a man’s role.
Mother said there was only enough silver fabric for one new dress and as I am the oldest, it shall be me. You will have my old things mended for your use.
You cannot ride a horse astride, only sidesaddle, else everyone thinks you’re wanton.
Get your head out of those books. Mother needs you to manage the kitchens. Besides, it isn't proper for girls to read so much.
Stop screaming, Aly, it was a nightmare.
No one wants to hear about your wolf dream.
You know what they do to wrags? They kill them. Slit their throats and sacrifice them to the old gods where the heart trees are. But you aren’t a wrag, are you sister? It would be such a shame.
And gods be good, her sister held grudges, remembered every slight, and would not hesitate to use her sharp tongue to set a person down a peg.
Father would make sure Berena was punished though, if he heard the words her sister said. No supper. Dresses taken away. Made to work aside the servants for a whole week on time. Her mother too, if only a little less than her father, and then reprimand Aly for not being a proper Northern lady. Or any sort of lady.
Which was why she was heading not towards where the family’s rooms were. No, her footsteps were turning nearly into a run with how quick they were going, as if she was in a rush to avoid any and all members of her family at the moment.
Instead her path is towards the outside, slipping out to the godswood. Cold winter air carries just the hint of snow in its scent, and she picks up the pace as quickly as possible so as not to be seen. Someone might notice a missing bride-to-be, but given the hustle and bustle of the past few weeks, it was to be expected she might need some sort of reprieve.
As she walks, she wonders, idly, if there is a proper godswood in Summerhall. Would she be able to keep her gods? Or would the prince demand she worship the New Gods, the Seven-Who-Are-One that the Andals brought over. Her lord father had asked for weirwoods to be planted, she knows that.
Would he hate how she wakes in the middle of the night, shaking with sweat on her brow and the metallic tang of blood on her tongue? Of how she dreams of running along the snowy fields of her home, or when she sees a boy with sandy blond hair curled up in pain? Or when she mumbles words in her sleep that mean nothing and everything at the same time?
Alysanne lets herself be lost in thought; she brings herself to the middle of the godswood, before the heart tree, and kneels down to sit on one of those large, gnarled roots. Eyes slowly close and she rests her head against the ancient tree, not minding the bite of the wind or the cold bark against her cheek.
There is a grassy field covered with ash. In the middle she stands, alone, dressed in fine cloth of red and black, and a circlet made of hammered bronze on her head. Screaming sounds in the distance and she picks up her skirts and runs.
A bow on her back and a quiver of arrows at her hip, she runs and runs and runs, but can never get close enough. Fog rolls in. Swords clashing, horses whining, and men yelling, all of it building to dread. The smell of blood, metallic and heavy, in the air.
When she stops and looks at her hands, they are covered in red.
With a jolt, Alysanne wakes, and instinctively looks down. Her hands are clean.
Huffing, she gathers herself and looks up, seeing a darkening sky, and knows that there is a lecture waiting for her when she gets inside the keep. No doubt her lady mother will be wondering where her wayward daughter ran off to.
One more look though.
Clean hands. Clean air.
But it felt so real.
~~~
207 AC - Winterfell, The Morning of Arrival
They were early by nearly a week. A rider had come ahead to give a warning during an early morning meal with nearly the whole family in the Great Hall, and the boy had been given bread, salt, and a hot meal and drink in thanks. Both her parents were unbreakable masks of solemn duty, though the flex of her mother’s right hand as she gripped the knife and the slight narrowing of her father’s eyes were the only clues they had to what her parents were truly thinking.
But the quiet was broken by her father’s voice, stern and as unyielding as the winter winds themselves. Orders to ensure the stables were ready, that the guards were to be stationed, that the Targaryen banner fly next to the Stark one.
And her lady mother’s, oh, how she set about getting the keep ready. Rooms in the Great Keep to be furnished with the best linens and furs for the royal party, set about with new rugs and tapestries. A hot meal and fresh bread for them ready when they arrived. Wine, ale, cider, and even imported brandies to be finally brought up for their pleasure.
Aly had been given the task of raiding their library, for books to leave in solars should they wish to read for entertainment, stocking all of the solars’ desks with parchment, ink wells, and fresh quills, along with having her little nieces, nephews, and Rodrik, all around Prince Aegon’s own age, pick out toys and games they might wish to share with the youngest visiting prince.
“Perhaps if she’s providing entertainment, then Alysanne should visit a brothel and learn a few tricks for her new husband. Given he is fond of whores of course. Surely she would wish to keep his attention somehow when there are far lovelier ladies for him to look at.”
Berena’s voice cuts through the chaos. Of course she too overheard their parents arguments.
In the end Aly does remember picking up the mug. She would remember the weight of it in her hand, how it was filled with honeyed milk as a treat for the younger members of House Stark, how Aly had decided on that rather than watered down cider. She remembers just how strong she is when she pulls her arm back before the swing.
She remembers the cracking sound when the mug makes contact with her sister’s face and the high yelp followed by sobs echoing in the silence.
Her parents, father and mother, but Lord and Lady Stark, and the rage building between them both. Their daughters make spectacles of themselves, in front of the entire family.
William, Artos, and Errold stared, shame in their eyes, knowing that this was not how ladies were supposed to act, and how embarrassing it was.
Rodrik asked what a whore was, and why his sister might need tricks to entertain.
Aunt Arsa, who had her own husband who was not faithful to her before he had died, looked at Aly with something like pity in her gaze.
It was all too much. Far too much, and in a fit of tears, she had fled the great hall, seeking somewhere to be left alone.
~~~
It was Donnor, because of course it was her eldest brother. He perhaps knew what she was feeling, the weight of this great honor being more of a burden these past weeks. Firstborn son, married off in an arrangement with a loyal house, weight of expectations of having an heir and spare. Hounded about the lack of children with his Reed wife before her untimely death due to complications with a stillbirth and wish not to remarry.
He found her, hiding away in the crypts of all places, behind the statue of their grandfather, who had died before either of them met.
I have brothers. William, and then his sons. Artos should the others fall, and Errold and little Rodrik too. Let me mourn my wife and her sacrifice properly.
He throws an arm around her shoulders and pulls her in close, letting her bury her face into the soft fur on the edge of his cloak. He had not been at the morning meal, but had heard what had happened.
“Did you really swing a mug at Berena’s face in front of the whole Great Hall, including our parents, and break her nose this morning?”
“... maybe…”
A long sigh echos. But no chastising, no admonishment, just a tighter hug.
“Little direwolf, why?”
Because she is a horrible person. Because she made me feel less like a bride and more like a bargain. Because she cannot keep her mouth shut for a moment. Because she hates me for being born and taking away what she thought was rightfully hers.
But she said none of that. Instead it a pathetic whine let out and she buries her face into the now damp furs, ignoring the tears streaming down her face.
Donnor, may the gods bless him, truly and without any repercussions, just held her close without demanding any more answers. Because being the eldest he saw everything that his younger siblings had gone through, more than their lord father and lady mother. Murmuring quiet reassurances that Berena’s spite would not ruin the day, and that while she might look a bit off, the nose would heal in time.
Not one word was about apologizing to her elder sister, and Alysanne could love him best for that. Because he knew more than anyone that this match was already stressful enough as is. Those words in the Great Hall had been meant to cut and send her running in tears. And while they had done so, it was only after Alysanne had thoroughly broken her sister’s nose in response to yet another cruel jape.
Only it was not about the idea of taking lessons from brothel workers but more on the idea she would not have a faithful husband and would instead have one who would humiliate her the worst way a lady could be.
Or maybe her sister meant for Alysanne to lose her temper and then lose the match itself.
Either way, those were the thoughts running through her mind while she snuffled and cried softly. “S’not fair. I-I-I d-d-don’t get w-why she d-does this. Or or or why it-t-t h-hurts.”
Donnor made soothing circles on her hand, fingers drumming lightly in a pattern only he could know. “Jealousy makes a person do harmful actions. But you, little direwolf, must keep your wits and temper about you, especially when you leave us. The royal court and the South will eat you up and spit you out if you give them spectacle,” he whispers softly. A hand is in her hair and there is a light tug to pull her face up to look at his.
Grey eyes meet one grey and one green, mismatched pair her brother has, and she nods slowly, taking stock of the lesson there is to be learned. “That said, do not apologize unless she does first, and only if it is meant. Otherwise let Berena learn her lesson the hard way and look like a fool.” Well, that makes her laugh, if only it sounded like a choked up sob.
“My sweet good half-sister should’ve taken a heavier hand to that one. Perhaps this will finally teach her to keep her mouth shut. Good job on that, little one.”
Both siblings whip their heads to the side, tears forgotten, to stare at their newly arrived uncle.
Lonnel Snow, bastard half-brother to Beron, steps forward to greet his favorite nephew and niece, a dark smirk on his clean-shaven face. Casual amusement at the whole debacle is plainly written on his face, though more at Berena than any sort of insult paid to Alysanne. Already dressed in dark leathers, raising an inky eyebrow as if to ask what his two favorites are doing when they could be more productive, better it be found by him than their father.
“Best hurry it up and head back to the chaos. Berena saw the maester and has already been given a chewing out and warning. Not even her fake tears and claims of being with child can save her. Or her idiot husband for that matter.”
Oh. A frown settled on her face and Alysanne was right about there being something Berena was hiding. Well, too bad for her, if the family now knows and she used that to avoid a dressing down, she cannot use being with child as an excuse to ruin this wedding.
As they all start to make their way back, that smirk grows and her uncle is leaning forward, holding back his laughter.
“Excellent aim, by the way. I’d hate to see what you can do with a bow and arrow now if that is how deadly you are with a mug.”
It almost makes her feel better. Almost.
~~~
They had gathered in the yard, dressed in some of the finest clothes they all owned. House Stark might not be as wealthy as the other Great Houses, but they were still once kings and queens. Protocol had to be observed, and while all relevant parties were introduced, she had let her mind wander up until Prince Daeron was introduced.
And the dawning realization she had seen him before. But his voice, not once has she heard it.
“I have dreamed of you, my lady. Have you dreamt of me as well?”
Something is off about him. Something hidden deep inside his person, and when he looks at her with those purple eyes, the saddest eyes she had ever seen, eyes with weight behind them, and speaks those words, it is as if everything she has dreamt about shifts into place. She knows him, she swears she has, seeing him before even though this is the first time they have met.
I dreamt of you. I dreamt I was a direwolf, running through grassy fields. I dreamt you were a dragon, flying by my side, last night.
A boy drowning himself in a pool of dark red wine, and falling into an abyss, trying to reach for an outstretched hand; I dreamt of that too. Two nights ago, and I woke up sobbing, not knowing why.
Did you see me, before a heart tree? I saw you in a grand sept, in black mourning clothes, older than you were now. Nearly a moon has passed since then, but I know it was you.
But she says none of that all she can do is place her hand into his, never once letting her gaze leave his.
“Yes.”
No one speaks and everything is silent save for the sound of snow gently falling and the sudden howling of wolves in the distance.
The urge to run creeps in. Screaming inside her to flee, hide, do anything, and drag this boy with her, because he is just a boy as she is just a girl, and there is a terrible, horrible, giant weight of responsibility on both their shoulders now.
Someone is speaking now, perhaps her father, but it sounds more like buzzing than anything else. Something about the Great Hall, bread and salt, and then letting guests finally rest before a welcoming feast. All her focus is on the prince who is holding her hand and those eyes, purple and sad and haunted and they hold knowledge just like her own do.
“You were a dragon. Your scales were the color of your hair and you were flying, with a direwolf running through grass, by your side,” she whispers quickly, words tumblring out as both their eyes widen at the implications of what is being said.
At some point they both had stepped closer to one another. She does not know when or how, but he has her hand and they are so close, she can make out the stubble on his chin, and the different shakes of purple and violet in his gaze. The slight lines under his eyes, and the scent of ginger on his breath.
Both of their hands are now intertwined. His grip is stronger than she thought it would be and he is bringing up their hands to his lips, leaning forward, and-
“Alysanne!” “Daeron!”
Reality snaps back and both of them turn to face all of the assembled members of both their houses, the entirety of the Stark household, and all of the guests currently within the wall of Winterfell. Heat rises to color her cheeks and she peeks to see the same happening with the prince.
Prince Maekar and her lord father shouting at the same time for both of them. The closeness that is entirely improper even if they are betrothed. His hand is still holding hers despite all of this and they both have the decency to look properly chastised at the breach in etiquette.
Judging from both the confusion and frustration on both faces, the pair of fathers shouting are not quite sure what exactly is going on with their offspring. Enough of a spectacle that all eyes are on the pair now and waiting on them to actually move rather than stare at one another. As if on instinct she moves to step to him, pressed up closer than before.
And then she sees it.
Her Uncle Lonnel’s gaze from the throng of onlookers, a single eyebrow raised, and a slow, knowing smirk on his lips. As if he knew this would happen when the pair of them finally met.
His sharp green eyes always saw everything.
~~~
In the safety of his solar, Beron Stark pours himself a cup of warmed hippocras from a pitcher one of the serving girls had set out. His head is pounding already, and after the antics of his children this morning, combined with the stress of the Targaryens arriving early, the spectacle his daughter and prince put on the courtyard was just one more headache after another to deal with.
Lorra had come in earlier but he had put his foot down. No arguments over the marriage while they were hosting. It was too late to do anything anyway, and she had given him such a dark look that he explicitly had to tell her that her actions were unbecoming of a warden’s wife and not only was her honor at stake, but that of the whole family.
She had left then, and he knew that his bed would still be cold for at least a moon’s turn more. Perhaps longer.
Yet now, as he settled down to his desk and rubbed his temples, he could only say that after Alysanne’s introduction with Prince Daeron and their subsequent highly unexpected and blatant shamelessness of intimate display, everything else had gone smoothly. All of the royal party had gotten bread and salt. His daughter redeemed herself by showing not just Prince Daeron, but the entire royal party to their rooms and arranged for hot baths for them all, as well as refreshments to tide them over till the feast in a few hours. After which she offered a tour of Winterfell tomorrow to all, accepted with enthusiasm.
“The boy is being questioned by his uncle over that little stunt he pulled with Aly in the courtyard, while his father reigns in the tiny one. Prince Aegon had taken to needling his elder brother over the mooning over Aly while she showed them up to their rooms.”
Beron looks up to see his bastard half-brother leaning up against the doorway, arms crossed, and meets that catlike green gaze.
“This needs to be worth it, brother, binding her to them. All this trouble we’re going through. Once they say the words and consummate, there is no going back.”
Lonnel was useful. Information was vital and while there may not be an official position he held, Beron had put his younger brother to task even when Rodwell was still alive. They both had seen how the North was weakening under their brother’s rule, and knowing how chaos would reign when Rodwell died and Beron came to power, they both knew that plans had to be made. Many nights they had spent, some with Rodwell, discussing plans.
Lonnel could go where Beron could not.
Useful in a spymaster.
Lonnel could see things he could not.
Another useful tool that his brother had.
“The king knows he does not have the power for an army to head north. With the threat of breaking away, and the Wall coming under our control completely, as well as the fact we are the largest kingdom, he knew he had to do something to appease us. The Wall gets its funds, the Starks better trade routes and the ability to build a new fleet, and my daughter is a princess. He gets security and the fact he does not end up being remembered as the king who lost the North.”
Power plays. Beron watches as he brother saunters over and takes a seat, then pours himself a cup and tops off the one Beron had been drinking from.
“Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar know just how important this alliance is, from what the whispers say. None of the younger dragons do yet, though I think Prince Daeron might have been told something that made him think to make a good first impression. He met your gaze right away, didn’t he?”
Beron huffs. Yes, the boy did, and while it might not have been the sure, sturdy thing the elder princes had, Daeron had tried, which said something especially after all of the reports on the prince had said the opposite. “Clever boy. Wyle Manderly returned, and from what I’ve been told, struck up a friendship. Confirm that for me.”
“Good. But I also suspect he is like Alysanne.”
Beron freezes, looking up at his brother, eyes narrowing and dread slowly dawning.
“Others take me, are you serious?”
Lonnel just looks at his elder brother, green eyes glowing in the candle light. “The boy mentioned seeing her in his dreams and from the tone of voice, it was not meant to be flirting. He had a conversation with Wyle on the barge that was overheard by a sailor in my pocket, and they spoke about Daneys the Dreamer, the Old Gods, and magic. And I saw them. Together, at the end.”
Beron pours himself a second glass at that and slowly sips, turning to look at the fireplace rather than his brother. Letting himself think carefully about their next moves.
It might not complicate things so much that Daeron might be a Dreamer. Lonnel knew better than to speak when Beron was pondering over their circumstances, and the possible hiccups along the way.
Better Alysanne than Berena. Even if Berena was not married, it would have still been Alysanne anyway, as her temperament was better suited. Yes, she was not quite perfect, hiding away in libraries, the godswood, or the archery yard when the dreams were too much and people overwhelmed her, and while she was slow to anger, when she did rage it was a sight to behold. And when she was scared of her dreams, she bottled it up and preferred not to make it anyone else’s problem, throwing herself into whatever work to make her body and mind so tired that none of it would bother her once her eyes were closed and sleep was a black abyss.
But there was something softer in his younger daughter that might suit Prince Daeron better than Berena’s coldness and need to be the center of attention at all times.
“Well if we must, you made the right choice with this. Even if Berena were free to marry, she is too much like Lorra in her stubbornness and far too easy to manipulate with her desire to be the center of everyone’s world. Given what we know about Prince Daeron, Aly will be able to handle this marriage much better. And she is sharper than most give her credit for. Even if I am losing my favorite niece to dragons.”
And it was true. Between the hoard of nieces and nephews, little Alysanne was his favorite, swiftly followed by Donnor. The potential those two had within them had caught his interest while they were still barely out of the cradle, and Beron had taken note. Using that interest, not to say Lonnel would have just ignored his brother’s requests, but his brother rarely let something useful go to waste.
Resources were precious in the North.
They were a team, more so sometimes than Beron’s own wife when there were concerns regarding the North.
“You will go south with them. For the wedding there, and to help set herself up properly, before returning home. Ensure that both weirdwoods are planted in the godswoods and that Summerhall has one to begin with, that it is adequate for her needs.”
Beron does not bother to look at Lonnel. But he does keep staring into the fire, watching the flames dance and slowly sips from his cup.
“And Lonnel?”
“Brother?”
“Send Donnor to me when you see him.”
“You intend to bring him into the fold?”
“Only what he needs to know regarding this visit. If things go sideways he will need to be able to take charge and manage the family while I sort out our guests.”
“And the dragon prince?"
“... I will let you handle Prince Daeron as you see fit.”
~~~
Uncle Baelor looks, well, not upset, but rightly concerned. Aegon is being lectured by their father in the next room for his antics and snickering at Daeron in front of Lady Alysanne when she had showed them to their rooms, and two of the three Kingsguard sent with them are outside guarding as is their duty. Rotating out guards so no one will be too tired, a smart idea on his uncle’s part.
All of them had gotten cleaned up but there were strict instructions to meet in his uncle’s rooms once that was done.
The reasoning was clear enough.
Valarr and Kiera are in the corner by a fire, trying to get warm. His cousin keeps piling more and more furs and blankets on his wife, but every now and then the pair turn to look at him and Daeron rightfully shrugs back.
“Tell me, from the start, in a way we all might understand. You have never met her before but the way you behaved, the pair of you, I do not understand how either of you thought that display was appropriate.”
By then Valarr, who is getting his fifth blanket, has stepped forward, if only for a moment. “Cousin, you both looked like there was no one else in the whole of the keep aside from the lady and yourself. We all called out but neither of you acknowledged it until Uncle Maekar and Lord Stark both yelled your names.” Concern flashes across his face, normally a mask of polite ease.
Daeron knows what they are trying to do, and he slumps down into a rather poofy chair, resting his elbows on his legs and his head in his hands, shaking it every now and then.
The door opens and in comes both his father and brother. He manages to look up, and confusion is shared amongst everyone in the room, save Aegon who looks more sulky than anything else.
“We know you haven’t touched a drop of wine since White Harbor. You haven’t drank anything that was not water. So explain to us, what was that display all about?” his father asks, purposely keeping his voice low. Maekar looks understandably put out at all of this but his language sets off warning bells in Daeron’s head.
The lack of fucks in that sentence is a warning.
Yet there is a nagging voice in the back of his head that he refuses to ignore now.
What is the point of all of this?
Daeron knows that no matter what he says, no matter the excuse, they will believe what they wish and ignore that he speaks the truth when it comes to what haunts him in his sleep.
“You never believe me,” he manages to mutter, staring past everyone and into the glow of the fire. The weight of his dreams clings to every word and the circles under his eyes are much more pronounced now than they had been in weeks.
“Every time I try to say what I have seen in my dreams, every nightmare, every bloody prophecy, you never truly believe. You look as if I am mad.” He swallows and keeps his gaze at the flames, watching sparks dance and twist, the colors mixing together.
No green. Blissfully not green.
None of them speak, and he looks up, catching the gaze of his father, then his uncle, and goes back to looking at the fire. Misery laces into his voice and he shakes his head again.
“I am not mad. My dreams have come true before. Impressive for someone so utterly unimpressive, I know. Sometimes they take days, others moons. Perhaps years, but they will always come true, one way or another. I may be bound for some sort of hell, but I am not mad. And for so long I have only seen horrors, night after night, day after day.”
He lets out a bark of laughter, hollow, haunting, and at odds with the anxiety building in the room. Maekar’s fists clench so tightly they have started to go white. Even Baelor is not immune, worry and tension building in his frame.
“But her, oh, how sweet it was to have a dream of her. Someone good and kind and I have seen her so often these past weeks when I close my eyes, I need not to fear sleep while I am here. A direwolf and a dragon, soaring through a meadow of tall grass together.” He turns to his father, a broken grin on his face so full of anguish and fear. “And the eggs, they guard dragon eggs. Four of them, father, four eggs, and I heard children' s cries too.”
Daeron leans back then, starting up at the high ceilings, eyes glazed over. And that melanochroic, wistful grin still on his face.
“She has had them too. And she has seen me as I have seen her. Do you understand?”
“Daeron…”
“Do you understand me now? Will you believe me now? Or is all I have seen a false prophecy? I fear it will be, don’t you see? I have never had a good dream come true. Never, until now.”
Daeron tilts his head to the side, facing both father and uncle, misery etched into his features as if it had never left. “I will try my hardest and do my duty, act the proper prince for everyone. None of you need to worry.” At that he forces his body up, standing his full height, ignoring the trepidation on the others’ faces. His steps are solid when he walks to the door. No swaying, no shaking, and he turns then, locking haunted eyes into the heir to the Iron Throne and the heir to Summerhall.
“Now if you excuse me, father, uncle, everyone, I will gather my wits and prepare for the welcome feast.”
And with that, he leaves them all, stunned into silence and disbelief.
~~~
If one were to compare this welcoming feast to the ones held in the Red Keep, Baelor would say it could hardly even be called a feast in the first place. The selection of dishes was limited to what could be caught in the wild, found in the stores, or grown in the famous glass gardens he was to tour in the morning. The wine was not the finest he had ever tasted, and the ale was stronger than he would prefer. Even the entertainment was limited to the musicians that had found themselves arriving early for the wedding feast and the music mostly northern songs and dances.
But for what it lacked in finesse, there was quality. The meat was prepared excellently, the plum brandy that Lord Stark had provided specifically to him and his brother top notch, and anyone who bothered to set out to the dance floor was swept into a large group dance more often than not. Smiles on the people below them were not hidden away.
What was interesting was that a number of attendees were members of the smallfolk, sitting at the lower tables of course, but they had been invited by their liege lord. Many merchants or folk that tended to what was dubbed Winter Town outside of these halls had accepted an invitation, fully aware that come the wedding, they might not be invited but given provisions from the Starks to hold their own feasts and celebrations.
It was a smart move.
Most of the northern nobility would be arriving by the end of the week to take the smallfolks place. Here, the Warden of the North showed he cared for all his people regardless of rank. Not a single member of the small folk had spoken anything negatively about their lord. Their escort had only praise.
Lord Stark clearly was no backwater savage, rumors that tended to fill gossip in the South.
He was calculating when it came to his demands for the betrothal. He had the love of his people. He had the backing of his lords.
Beron Stark was dangerous.
They are sitting at a table raised above on a dais, and giving everyone there an excellent view. Lord Stark, Lady Stark, himself, and Maekar all have spots on there. Valarr and Kiera are seated near Lady Stark, who is next to her husband, and Daeron is with them. Oddly enough little Aegon is put in between Maekar and Lady Alysanne, who was given a place of honor due to the impending nuptials.
He knows his brother is assessing the girl, all while Aegon keeps up a steady stream of conversation between both the lady and his father. A young boy’s curiosity is indulged by the girl who will be his goodsister, though every now and then she and Daeron sneak curious peeks at one another when they think no one is watching.
“They are not as subtle as they think they are.”
Baelor tilts his head in the direction of Lord Beron, giving a slow nod of agreement. “No. But they are young and curious. So long as they do not go too far before the actual ceremony there is no harm, I believe. And that is only a week away.”
“Even so, if we can see it, others can. No rumors should be allowed to taint this match. We both know how important this wedding is, my prince. Much more than merely a prince and a lady being joined in marriage. My daughter understands that weight of responsibility. Does your nephew as well?”
Baelor hums, studying Beron’s face. The man is stone and ice, giving nothing away with his eyes nor the quirk of his lips. Not even knitted brows to show concern for his daughter.
Maekar would be no good at this particular conversation. His brother is forthright, bullheaded, and quick to judge. And reading someone like Beron Stark would frustrate him to the point of headaches.
“He understands it perfectly. But if it will ease your thoughts, myself and my brother have spoken to him at length about what this marriage means to the good of the realm, and to both our families in particular. Especially after that display of enthusiasm for the match during the introductions.”
Worded carefully, that had occurred between the pair could be written off as two young adults, charmed by one another.
Love at first sight. The Crown could work with that. House Stark as well.
Baelor had tasked Valarr just before this feast with ensuring anything served to Daeron was not to intoxicate his cousin. If possible, to swap cups and water down any wine that might be served. As it stood Daeron had only one drink served to him so far and Valarr yet to intervene. He thought it might be cider, of all things.
Gods be good, maybe this match might actually work in bettering Daeron.
And he was not the only one who noticed this as well.
Beron was watching Daeron as much as Maekar and Baelor were, and a green-eyed man who sat amongst the extended Stark brood had done so as well. Lonnel Snow, perhaps? He had been studying the current Stark household on the trip north. More than once this evening he had caught that gaze on himself, and managed to match those lovely orbs with his own.
But before he could ask a question, Beron had stood up, raising his cup upwards. The hall, previously loud and joyfully noisy, quieted in an instant.
“My lords. My ladies, My people. I welcome you to Winterfell on this auspicious night. For the first time in nearly eighty years, we have the honor of hosting members of the royal family, welcoming them into our home for a most joyous occasion.”
A round of cheers echoes. Beron holds out his free hand and the crowd quiets once more.
“For my precious youngest daughter, Lady Alysanne, shall be marrying Prince Daeron, heir to the Prince of Summerhall, at the end of this week. Together, they will be honoring a pact made by their ancestors, ushering new bonds between not just House Stark and House Targaryen, but between the North and the realm itself.”
Baelor can only watch and smile, and tilt his head as Beron turns to raise his cup to both himself and Maekar as the cheers roar. The expression the man wears is jovial, a proud father glad to see his daughter raised high up, and entirely at odds with the man he was talking to previously.
“To Prince Baelor, Prince Maekar, and your respective families, I offer the hospitality of Winterfell and the North, welcoming you to my home and into my family. The North remembers and House Stark takes care of their own.”
Baelor keeps his smile. The North remembers. Yes, they remember; they remember it took this long for the Pact to be honored, how the New Gift came to be, how the crown failed to aid them in the rebellion at the Night’s Watch. Most of all, they remember kneeling, and that they only knelt because of the dragons.
And then Beron is turning to Daeron, thankfully sober Daeron, who has kept to the promise he made earlier.
“And to my soon-to-be-goodson, Prince Daeron, I welcome you most of all. Our words are ‘Winter is Coming’ and in winter, such as now, we take care of one another. When you take my daughter as your wife in the godswood come the full moon this week, you become part of this family, part of this pack, and we will take care of you just as if you were one of our blood. As I know you, and your family, will do the same for my daughter.”
By now Maekar has realized just what is happening, Baelor can see it in his very posture, the set of his face. A powerplay. They are being honored but in a way that shows Beron Stark’s careful planning and execution. Nothing he has said is out of line. Nothing is treason. They are hosted and honored above any other guest, welcomed into a family, and Daeron will have the backing of the Starks, and the North, should he ever need it.
So long as Alysanne is kept safe, treated with respect, and happy, and the King honors all the demands the Starks have made.
So long as they are not forgotten and slighted as they have been again and again.
“So I ask you, everyone gathered here tonight, to raise your cups in honor of House Targaryen, House Stark, and welcome the future they will be building together. To Alysanne and Daeron!”
At four and ten, Daeron dreams of a maiden kneeling before a weirwood.
At eight and ten, he ventures North for a marriage not of his chosing, but of the crown's command.
A Pact was made when dragons danced. A Pact is honored when Blackfyres are a constant threat. And the bonds between House Targaryen and House Stark are strengthened when the eldest of a fourth son marries the youngest daughter of a Warden of the North.Some things change for the better, others for the worse. A few stay the same. But when one with dragon dreams meets one with greensight there are bound to be repercussions no one thought would happen.
Main Characters: Daeron Targaryen (son of Maekar), Alysanne Stark(daughter of Beron)
Other(s): Wyle Manderly (omc), Maekar Targaryen, Baelor Targaryen, King Daeron II, Aegon V, mentioned Dyanna Dayne, mentioned Beron Stark, mentioned Valarr Targaryen, mentioned Kiera of Tyrosh
Prologue - Part One: The Raven & The Decree - Part Two: Northern Bound - Part Three: Beginnings Start At the End - Part Four: A Song For Wolves - Part Five: Days Counting Down- Part Six: Before The Old Gods - Part Seven: Where You Go, I Go - Part Eight: Snapshots of a Day - Part Nine: Prayers for the Broken Ones - Part Ten: Valar Morghulis - Part Eleven: Interludes - Part Twelve: Convergence - Part Thirteen: Tipping Point - Part Fourteen: The Hard Place - Part Fifteen: The Old Gods Smiled
[Cross Posted AO3]
Part Three: Beginnings Start At the End
The trip up the White Knife is nothing like sailing from King’s Landing to White Harbor. Even Daeron, who absolutely detested riding horses due to his own lack of horsemanship, would take riding over the barge they were on. Oh, their escort was perfectly at home on this leg of their journey, and his uncle was a poster child for a serene prince for whom nothing rattled. But his father was most definitely not enjoying this, even if his lack of grumblings came out of sheer stubbornness and unyielding desire not to lose his meals. Lady Kiera looked rather green half the time, contrasting terribly with her particular shade of pink hair.
He would have thought she of all of them, save Uncle Baelor, would have some semblance of sea legs given the distance she had traveled to get to Westeros in the first place.
Little Aegon was determined not to lose any sort of meal he ate while they traveled except that he was hardly able to stomach putting anything in his mouth while they were heading upstream. Instead the youngest of their party was firmly in the tiny quarters they left him in, doing his best to emulate his favorite elder brother and sleep away the queasy stomach plaguing. Given the suffering and his age, Maekar had relented and let little Eggy do as he pleased, so long as he was up and well by the time they needed to mount the horses.
Horses would get him well enough. The little rascal loved them well.
Even his perfect princely cousin was miserable and ill with the roughness of the ride, more so than his wife, which was saying something. Daeron did feel pity for Valarr in that respect. It could not be easy.
He nearly jolts out of his musings when a hand thumps him right on the back, and there is Ser Wyle, grinning from ear to ear. Daeron had taken refuge towards the center of their barge and was leaving against the edge, watching the waves as they cut through the rapids. “You are handling this better than I would have thought, my friend,” he cheerly announced. The damn knight looked even positively gleeful at the fact.
Maybe it was all of those nights and days he had been out of his mind, filled to the brim with drink and bad decisions, but unlike the others he had dealt with unsteady feet and spinning heads on a regular basis, especially when heading back to either the Red Keep or Summerhall. Handling a rocky ride while sober was rather easy compared to that.
“Practice.”
“Of sailing northern rapids?”
“Of spinning rooms and walking on surfaces that wobble. Perhaps I shall run away and be a sailor.”
Mercifully, the knight does not question him on that particular statement, though seemed hopeful instead. Rather there is something being pressed in his hands and he looks down to see a satchel, the merman sigil on the fabric standing out against the dark cloth. Along with that a snort of laughter and a friendly grin.
“Ginger candy. For your family. Tis only a few more days but this will help with the queasy feeling and settle any stomachs.”
Daeron grimaces as memory of the recent complaints floods his mind. “No doubt little Egg will enjoy being able to eat,” he remarks dryly, thinking of his poor brother all bundled up under blankets as he tries to block out the swaying of the ship. It earns yet another bark of laughter from Wyle and another friendly pat on his shoulder.
It is easy to speak to this young man, far more than most of his traveling party.
He turns out to let his gaze drift, eyes not focused on anything in particular. They stand next to one another, comfortable in silent companionship. A friend, Wyle had said.
Friends could be trusted, yes?
A thought crosses his head again, the image of a dream he had the night before.
A direwolf guarding dragon eggs from a large red dragon. A sandy colored dragon swooping in and claiming all the eggs and the direwolf as his own.
A dragon the same color as his hair. Is he the dragon here? And the direwolf, his betrothed? The eggs, their children?
Would he be able to trust Wyle to guard them if he could not do so himself? When he inevitably would fail at his duty?
Gods above, he dreams of them now when he sleeps. It was hardly a terror to behold but he wanted to know with certainty. If they were not surrounded by that awful green fire, of melting walls, but of the dragon version of himself, did that mean he was able to stop the horrors before they began? When he had never been able to do so before?
Or was it a false prophecy and the gods were merely cruel?
Dangle something that he might cherish just to rip it away from his grasp.
He swallows thickly. And when he speaks, it is with a soft, serious tone, so out of place on his person that one might think him just a tad bit possessed.
“Do you think dreams could show us the future? That someone could dream the future and it comes to fruition? Such as… Daenys the Dreamer? When she saw the destruction of Valyaria in her dreams?”
Wyle, may the seven bless him, does not laugh in his face. Instead the look he gets in return is thoughtful, as if someone is taking him seriously for once. Brows knit together and Wyle leans over the edge as well, arms crossed. Sunlight causes the deep, dark green tint in his hair to shimmer.
A green unlike the toxic colour of wildfire flames.
“Valyrians aren’t the only ones with magic in their blood. There is magic in the North, old magic, in the very ground beneath our feet, the rivers we drink from, the stone we built our keeps out of,” Wyle starts, fiddling with the cuff of his glove. “Old stories tell us of green dreams and greensight, those who saw the prophecy in their dreams before Valyrians even bound dragons to their blood. Before the Age of Heroes, before Bran the Builder raised the Wall, and before the First Men came to Westeros, there were the Children of the Forest. Greenseers, they had, and saw things through the faces and eyes of a Heart Tree. And skinchangers who could take the skin of any animal, and make them do their bidding. Somehow that magic, the First Men learn to channel it too.”
Cold creeps into his spine. It snakes its way as Wyle talks and he listens, feeling the chill take root. A bone deep chill he has only ever felt once more.
“Something to speak about with Lady Alysanne when you meet her. She loves that sort of thing, histories and lore, magic and tales. You can woo her with tales of Valyrian magic and history and dragons, and she can tell you all about the North’s own myths.”
A tiny spark of hope blooms inside of him. If the lady were fond of magic and myths, then perhaps he might find someone who would understand the terrors that plagued him. If only for practical purposes.
It would be a shame to tell the lady why her new husband screamed in his sleep, if she were not to understand the possibility of just what was wrong with him.
“House Manderly was from the Reach, originally, as you know. But the Starks, well, they are the North, if one were to argue,” Wyle continues, not stopping the lesson even as Daeron is silently gazing out at waters, “And there’s something of magic in the old families, even if they never speak of it, I’d gather.”
Daeron would be hard pressed to disagree.
Rummaging through the bag, he pulls out a piece of that ginger candy, and pops it into his mouth, not expecting the flavor to have been so strong, and yet, here he is, wincing lightly. But a good wince, and there’s a quirk of a smile.
“We were dragonlords, once upon a time, and we destroyed them with our greed, our jealousy, our own desires. For the crown, for recognition, for something. They used to say Targaryens were closer to gods than men, for we controlled and rode those great beasts when there was no one left after The Doom. Perhaps we believed it too, to be above those we were sworn to protect, better for having creatures of fire, flame, and magic bound to our blood and our blood alone, and the gods themselves paid for that hubris, for no one should think themselves their equal to the gods.” He turns to face Wyle, eyes wide and clear.
“What do you say, Wyle? Were those beasts our salvation or our damnation? Magic in our blood still in our veins or a curse that took away the one thing that made us special?”
And there, he can see it, the turning of his words over and over in Wyle’s mind, the careful thought and consideration in his answer. The better option; to either best satisfy a prince or tell the truth to a man that may be a new friend?
“I’d say only the gods would be able to answer that. Perhaps there is a fine line between madness and greatness. Or that men were never meant to bind such powerful beasts and they might have been alive today. Perhaps they should have been left to roam free and men were to be men, not gods amongst the rest of the world.”
Shoulders relax at that answer and he looks away from the Manderley knight, eyes back on the waves. A hand is on his shoulder, a warm squeeze and he looks to see Wyle’s dark eyes, searching for something on his own. For what exactly, he is unsure of.
“You, Daeron, hide a wickedly clever mind more than anyone, even your own father, realizes. Save your littlest brother and myself of course.”
And with that the dragon lets out a bark of laughter, and drags his newfound friend down below the decks to find the littlest brother in question and give some relief to his seasick family.
~~~
He would never claim to be an exemplary horseman. At best, passable, if not forced into participating in a joust. Leisurely rides are the extent of his skills, and he would much prefer a wheelhouse to horseback any day.
A person could easily nap in a wheelhouse. They could eat and drink to their heart’s content in a wheelhouse. And even fucking in a wheelhouse, though he will admit not to doing that particular act yet, if only because there was no need to take one to a brothel. But oh, how a wheelhouse would be lovely right about now. Blankets and pillows and warmth would be in a wheelhouse.
The point was Daeron was not only painfully sober, utterly ill prepared for the cold of the North, but also spending a significant amount of time in the saddle, and by the end of this there would better be a long, hot soak in a proper bath when they reach Winterfell or he was calling this whole damn wedding off.
Aegon having the time of his life on top of his stead, well, which made the whole journey a tiny bit better. Sort of. Let him revel in riding his own pony, sent by the Starks ahead of time.
In fact they had not only lent out their own hardy horses for travel, creatures built and breed that were used to the harsh climate, but supplied thick, heavy furs for the royal party to keep not only for their journey to Winterfell, but down to King’s Landing after the wedding. “A gift,” Wyle had explained after Daeron had taken the heavy winter cloak and fur-lined gloves. “During winter, one needs to take care of those around them, and now that will include yourself and your family.”
The gods seemed to favor them though as the weather did hold out as they traveled up towards their destination. With the final leg of the journey nearing the end and the party making excellent time, they had shaved off nearly a week, as everyone had proven themselves capable of staying in the saddle long enough to make it from scattered camps already set up along the path.
A featherbed, he was nearly dreaming of sleeping in an actual featherbed, with pillows and blankets, and real rugs to put bare feet on; Daeron could almost see it.
Actually, if he was squinting right, he could see something. A town? Well, it looked a bit like a town, on the horizon, and the tops of a large keep.
Sweet salvation. Warmth was within reach. Even better, a chance to escape his father’s ever watchful eyes and perhaps finally get some privacy from both uncle and father.
And even better, there would be wine and cider and ale and all manner of drinks, he was sure of it.
Once again, he would thank the gods, old or new at this rate, for keeping the dragon dreams at bay. The need to block out the nightmares had been muted by this point, and he thought back to the conversation he had with Wyle on the nature of magic in the North. of how even dragons were not able to cross The Wall, their powerful beings repealed by whatever Bran the Builder had done with the Children of the Forest?
Did the old gods eclipse the new? Or perhaps they were soundly ensuring whatever valyrian magic that was in his blood was no longer able to torment him so long as he was on their soil, wedding one of their faithful.
“We’ll be going through the great main gates, as befitting your station. Two walls, with a moat between them, are before the keep proper. And even then, we’ll head through winter town, where you’ll see the smallfolk gathering to greet you all. No doubt they’ve gotten to celebrating one of their liege lord’s daughters becoming royalty.”
Wyle had kept up a steady stream of conversation during this day, if only to keep Daeron from making a run from the party as they grew closer to the final destination. That or he seemed to understand Daeron would die if he escaped the impending marriage. He seemed to have taken on the role of minder out of some newfound friendship and Daeron would be grateful if he was not daydreaming of blissful cocoons of blankets at the moment and only half listening to what was being said.
“After the introductions there’s bread and salt in the Great Hall. Make sure you observe the guest right to the letter. I shan’t be able to be there with you all the time to help you out so if you think any action might offend or hurt, just don’t do it, whatever it may be.”
Daeron blinks then, head cocked to the side. A sandy blond eye brow is raised at that, and he is somewhat confused about the lecture. “Even drunks and fools do not violate guest right. Thankfully I am both a drunk and a fool, as well as a prince,” he quipped back, a wiry grin on his face. “No worries, Wyle, I already promised the king himself I would be on my best behavior.”
That only got him a hearty laugh in return and a shake of the other man’s head, green-tinted dark curls shining in the sun.
And just as the sun was passing the high point in the sky, they were, in fact, passing through what Wyle had called ‘winter town’, smallfolk lining along the road to catch a glimpse of the travelers heading towards their lord’s castle. Names were being called out, for both Targaryen and Stark. Bright cheer, as their liege’s younger daughter would soon be a princess.
By then Wyle had gone to join the rest of his kin behind the Targaryen group, and Daeron took up a post behind his uncle and next to his father. Even though Valarr, as second in line, would normally be taking a spot behind his father, as it was Daeron’s wedding he would have that honor along with Maekar as the father of the groom and royal prince in his own right.
Aegon was between his cousin and his wife, carefully being watched and guarded, else he attempted to catch up with his elder brother.
“Sit up straight and do not slouch. You have height so use it to your advantage,” came the gruff comment out of nowhere, low enough so only he could hear. It caused Daeron to tilt his head just enough to see his father’s gaze land on him and he followed through, spine slowly straightening up and his head rising to rest squarely on his shoulders.
Just for a moment he could have sworn he saw a gaze that looked almost like approval from his father.
“I might have married your mother for love, but your grandfather married for duty. Courtship, companionship, friendship, love, all of that came later but it was to bring Dorne into the fold that your namesake did his duty first.”
And just as before, he looks this time to meet his father’s eyes. Something about them, less harsher than before, eyes that looked at him as if he were a small child again and could do no wrong in his father’s eyes. In this moment, it had been so long since they had looked upon one another like this that Daeron was speechless.
Maekar had taken that silence for understanding, the lack of protest or snark an agreement. “You follow in his footsteps, bringing the North back from its isolation, and in doing so become a man.”
It was as close to pride as he ever heard from his father.
The part in him that was still that little boy who wanted to make his father proud, who would swear on the Seven do no wrong and be the best prince there ever was, even if he was terrified of the dreams that haunted him, or could barely figure his footing in the training groups, it is that boy who bubbled to the surface in that moment.
~~~
Maekar remembered the little boy Daeron had been. Happy. Delightful. His firstborn son, his first child, the child that he and Dyanna had made together, in the blush of their youth and reveling in their love. It was not duty that had led him to Dyanna, but love, a deep bond that they shared from their first moments together that was still present to this very day. Masking it well, but truly, he wished he were in Summerhall with her than anywhere else in the world. And Daeron had been the first born of that love.
But something had happened to his boy. Something twisted him up inside and sought to ruin him.
Dreams. Visions. Nightmares that would have a child screaming in their sleep. Scenes in a child’s mind that only grown men would create.
Maekar knew of Daenys, of dragon dreams, but there were no more dragons. Only eggs turned to stone. And even if Daeron had been given that gift, he should have been able to tame it. He had tried to help in the only ways he knew. Training yard spars. Riding lessons. Sending the boy to squire. Make him a man so that his heir could be fit. So no taint of so-called Targareyn madness would infect his son.
Yet that same son had drowned himself in wine and debauchery, the only things he claimed truly muffled the terrors that haunted him; those same vices claiming him time after time till there was nothing but a shell of the child he had once held so proudly.
Seeing Daeron on that ship, curled up in pain, calling out in desperation for salvation, while the only thing he could do was push cool rags on feverish skin, it made Maekar briefly question if this had been his doing. His son’s slow poisoning of himself, was it because of him or because of those dreams?
Or was it of Daeron’s own choosing?
But watching Daeron now, away from court, away from the temptations of drink and vice, sleeping soundly when the nights had been usually dark and full of terrors for his son, even as they crossed the barren, frigid, death trap of a land, it was seeing that little boy come alive again for the first time in what felt like a lifetime.
As they ride in silence through this tiny town, heading towards the main gates of Winterfell, he watches with a careful gaze. No doubt his brother is aware of the change too. They had briefly spoken of Daeron’s behavior and the way that there seemed to be a lightness in the boy that had long been snuffed out. Baelor had pointed out the lack of escape attempts, the way every day hands shook less and less, the clarity in Maekar’s eldest’s eyes. How he held conversations with another and kept a watchful eye on Aegon's antics.
Perhaps this is what he needed after all. You softened when Dyanna came into your life, if only for her. Jena, my pillar I draw strength upon. And no doubt father relies on mother in ways no other can provide.
As much as he wanted to believe his brother, there was still the nagging voice in the back of his head. That this would all collapse, that somehow, someway, something would attach itself to Daeron and find a way to ruin his son once again. If Daeron let it. If the girl was not able to help him, the task being far too great in the end.
Everyone who has met her, seen her, spoke to her, said she is rather beautiful. Intelligent, dutiful, loyal, and faithful to the Old Gods, seems to be what most of them speak of. That Lord Stark raised his children to be proper northern nobility, if in the ways of the old Kings of Winter. Perhaps that is what Daeron needs, Maekar, not someone who is a snake in silks, like we see so often in court.
Perhaps his brother was right. Baelor often was.
Then there was the Manderley knight by Daeron’s side. Not a barkeep to support his habits, a fellow drunkard to cheer him on, or a whore to take his coin; a knight, even if that knight was a northern man, and one around his age as well. A friend.
Daeron never had many friends, he realizes as they finally make their way through the gates, and the few he did deserted him when it became apparent the young man was a mess of a royal rather than a true prince like his cousin.
A northern wife. A northern friend. Some semblance of peace in his son, with the little bits and pieces of the boy he had once held in his arms showing through.
Maekar could only hope that this might last long enough till the marriage was complete.
He could only dream it would last after the vows were said; long after the pair wedded and bedded.
Damn them all if it didn’t.
~~~
It was two long, low horn blasts that heralded their arrival. Not the fanfare often in court, or the ornate trumpeting noble houses would do to announce royalty arrived. Something low and ancient, like this very place, and Daeron felt it in his bones that something lay on the grounds of Winterfell the moment the horses stepped through the second gate.
The belly of the beast. Middle of the North. A place where old kings resided, conquerors who brutally fought in the harshest of all the Seven Kingdoms, and laid claim to a place that was as deadly in truth as the songs said they were. He had been filled in on just how truly bloody the Starks could be. Wyle had given him some prime examples of the brutality of the former Kings of Winter.
Beron is the second son but more dangerous than his elder brother Rodwell was. A hunter, a wolf in a man’s skin, when he feels the need to be. I’ve seen him hold their Valryian steel greatsword, Ice, and if there was ever a man who it looked at home with, it would be him.
Everyone had dismounted by then, and Daeron was pleased to note he did not trip or fall, his legs steady. Even Aegon had managed to do so without any aid, much to the pride of their father.
Good, let that put Maekar in a better mood.
Baelor stepped forward, an easy smile on his face. A mask of pleasantries, no doubt, as Daeron was assuming he too would like respite from the cold. Yet duty demanded this.
“My Lord Stark, I am Prince Baelor of House Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, and Hand of the King. We thank you, and House Manderly, for the escort to Winterfell, and for the honor you have given my house. May I present my party; Prince Valarr, my eldest, and his wife Kiera of Tyrosh. My brother, Prince Maekar, Prince of Summerhall, and his sons; Prince Aegon his youngest son, and finally Prince Daeron, heir to Summerhall, prince of the realm, and your daughter’s intended husband".
He knew beforehand that he would be announced last. An honor, his uncle had said, as this was his time to shine. A duty. A responsibility. Daeron breaths in and steps forward, hands clasped tightly behind his back. No shakes today, not from the cold. Maekar's words about his height rang in his head and he straightened up, mindful of the eyes now on him. With his hair tied back, the rich furs, and the black and red of his house on display, for the first time in a while he knew he looked the part of a prince of the realm.
A man stepped forward, dark of hair, long face, a thick bread that was neatly trimmed speckled with greys, the only hint besides the wrinkles of his forehead sharing the truth of his age. Grey eyes scanned them, judging them, and he found those eyes to be nearly as cold as the snows they had traveled through. A hint of warmth bleed though, when they fell on Aegon, and curiosity when the man’s gaze reached his own.
Daeron looked right back, trying to find the steel in his own spine.
One breath in. And out. He bows deeply then, making sure to give this attention to the Lord of Winterfell, deference to the man who would be his goodfather, and looks up, meeting those eyes and searching for something, anything. Approval. Resignation. Something. Anything.
“Lord Stark, I am Prince Daeron of House Targaryen, and I am here to honor the Pact of Ice and Fire, bringing honor to both your house and mine, and tie our houses together in the bonds of marriage,” he says, voice as clear as the air they were breathing. He straightens up then, slowly and waits.
And waits some more.
Skies start to darken with clouds, and moments tick by as snow starts to fall slowly on them all.
And then a voice, deep and echoing across for all in the yard to hear.
“My honored guests. Be welcome beneath my roof, and at my table, for you have the protection of Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, Beron of House Stark. Bread and salt await you all in the warmth of the Great Hall.”
And if practiced, a woman steps forward, curtsey respectful towards the royal party, even if her eyes were like ice chips. “My lady wife, Lorra, formally of House Royce,” he says then, and the rest of the family is slowly introduced. A large family, seven in total, and while Lord Stark does not go beyond his own children and their respective wives and husband, he does point out the children that stand further back.
They bow and curtsey in respect, deference and respectful. But even it is clear that this is not exactly what anyone expected, for a dragon prince from the South to come up to the North.
Yet Lord Stark stands tall. Does his duty. Daeron thinks he would make a fine King of Winter solely by presence alone. It clicks into place just why his grandfather agreed easily to the match. Something about Beron Stark made him a king in all but name.
If the Starks and the North wanted independence, it was quite possible they could do it under this man's guidance. And there would be no dragons to worry about this time should Beron Stark go forward with that desire.
Daeron files away that thought though, when the last introduction is made.
Just like with Daeron, the bride-to-be is saved for last.
“Finally, may I present my youngest daughter, Lady Alysanne of House Stark, as your future wife.”
The girl in question steps forth. Dark hair bound in a long, thick braid that runs down her back. Pale skin, full rosy lips, and a face that holds a similar long face to that of her fathers, if only softened slightly in the cheeks, and a nose straight and narrow. Clad in furs that wrap around narrow shoulders, and a cloak that covers her up, a snarl wolf clasp holding them together. As she curtseys, low towards him, he can see the embroidery on the back of the cloak, a snarling direwolf in silver thread across her back.
He has seen that before. He knows he has.
A dream, so long ago, when the horrors were too much, and he wished for something more, something better. When he woke up and his breath showed despite the warmth of the room.
Time stands still as he looks upon Alysanne Stark, and his breath is caught in his throat.
A maiden kneeling before a heart tree, snowflakes melting in her hair. Wolf girl, my direwolf bride, and howling mingles with dragon screeches in the distance.
Dragons and direwolves guarding eggs.
A child’s cry as a dragon lays its head on a direwolf’s belly.
Daeron slowly remembers how to breathe, uncaring of the others around them. His world narrows down to just the two, the lady before him and himself, and he holds out his hand, sure and steady. He speaks before thinking, uncaring if anyone knows or hears.
“I have dreamed of you, my lady. Have you dreamt of me as well?”
And Alysanne of House Stark lays her bare hand on top of his, confusion mingled with recognition in those grey eyes of hers, eyes that are familiar and foreign all at once.
“Yes.”
Somewhere in the distance, as snow falls around them all, a direwolf howls.
Between A Dream & A Hard Place: Where You Go, I Go
Prologue - Part One: The Raven & The Decree - Part Two: Northern Bound - Part Three: Beginnings Start At the End - Part Four: A Song For Wolves - Part Five: Days Counting Down- Part Six: Before The Old Gods - Part Seven: Where You Go, I Go - Part Eight: Snapshots of a Day - Part Nine: Prayers for the Broken Ones - Part Ten: Valar Morghulis - Part Eleven: Interludes - Part Twelve: Convergence - Part Thirteen: Tipping Point - Part Fourteen: The Hard Place - Part Fifteen: The Old Gods Smiled
[Cross Posted AO3]
Summary: "Do not go where I cannot follow."
In which Daeron does his best but sometimes old habits start to creep up in the face of something he cannot change, Alysanne has a waking dream, a thousand eyes are upon them, Maekar finally gets back to Dyanna much to his relief, and Aerion wonders who is this creature in his brother's place.
Warnings: nudity, mentioned sexual content, drinking, alcoholism, unhealthy coping mechanisms, mental health struggles, depression
Main Characters: Daeron Targaryen (son of Maekar), Alysanne Stark(daughter of Beron)
Other(s): Maekar Targaryen, Baelor Targaryen, mentioned King Daeron II, Aegon V, Beron Stark, Valarr Targaryen, Kiera of Tyrosh, Lonnel Snow, Dyanna Dayne, Aerion Targaryen, Wyle Manderly
Pairings: Daeron Targaryen (son of Maekar) x Alysanne Stark(daughter of Beron), Baelor Targaryen X Lonnel Snow
207 - King's Landing
If he were honest and perhaps more deep into his cups, Daeron would admit he did not particularly care for the Red Keep. King’s Landing was entirely a different manner, but the Red Keep was a mix of complicated memories blended with expectations, and a gilded cage on many a day until he learned of a few passages that could take him out of it without anyone knowing. A spoiled prince’s take, but the truth nonetheless.
They were docked in the harbor just as the sun was peeking from the horizon, waiting for the sailors to finish tying the ship’s mooring lines.
Daeron was up only due to the simple reason he had slept absolutely terribly the previous night; it had been so bad that he had taken to pacing the cabin, waking Alysanne from their shared bed, and stealing a cup of wine before anyone else save her could notice. He had downed the contents as if he were a man dying of thirst, and then had collapsed to his knees. Of guilt and shame, or sheer tiredness, he could not say, but it was not the first time this had happened.
From Winterfell to White Harbor had been easy. Despite the addition of his wife, along with Wyle Manderly and Lonnel Snow, they made excellent timing yet again by horse, and going down the rapids of the White Knife was much smoother and quicker than going up. They had not stopped this time to stay overnight in White Harbor, but rather boarded the ship as quickly as possible. Alysanne’s own personal items had been sent ahead several weeks ago by her father, and would be waiting for her at Summerhall, with a single trunk the exception that was to the Red Keep. That alone shaved off a chunk of time.
Daeron had been perfectly fine at that point, where they had even turned a blind eye to his consuming of a glass or two of wine, ale, or cider at meals. As long as he was not slurring his speech, stumbling around, and content to bed his new wife on a regular basis, everyone else seemed secure enough to let him have his drinks. Even that madman uncle of Alysanne’s had nothing to say.
Once they sailed past The Neck, that was when things had gone wrong. Or returned to his version of normal to some degree, much to his own terrible fate.
He had dreamed of Summerhall and the green flames first, woken up choking on nothing but air, and shaking as if he was going through drying out yet again. That he shared a cabin with his wife did nothing to change the stumbling out of the narrow bed, and searched for something to drink. At that point Alysanne had woken too, given him water, and proceeded to spend an hour ensuring that yes, she was real, yes he was alive, and no, Summerhall was fine, his family was fine, everyone was alive, they were on a ship headed to King’s Landing now.
He had admitted then and there just how far he had gone to manage the dreams, all the dirty little secrets kept hidden, calling himself a whore and a drunk and fool, a terrible husband, and that she deserved better, he would only drag her down to the dirt he laid in.
From now till the end, husband. I promised you that. You share your burdens with me, I will share mine, and we will go forward together.
He had laid his head on her chest then, soft and warm and wrapped his arms around her, as fingers ran through his hair and she hummed some northern tune from her childhood. At some point he did manage to fall back asleep, in black oblivion much to his comfort, and when he had woken both his wife and the wolfdog pup Shadow were curled around him. When they both had awoken, they had whispered to one another just how to manage this going forward.
Daeron would tell her when he had a dream, terrible or not, and Alysanne would do the same if it happened to her. She had admitted, eyes glazed over with deep memories, that she had struggled greatly when younger. Had it not been for the intervention of her uncle, she may not have made it, too consumed by the dark and cold that tended to torment her when it was least expected. Few things made sense in the present, she said, and that there were days when she thought she was not quite out of the dream itself.
What a fine pair we make, my darling, broken dreamers and seers, having sweet dreams of one another coming true. Said in morbid jest, but from there on they had both agreed to tell one another when they had a dream, be it good or ill.
For two weeks they shared that cabin. Time was well spent then, learning one another in ways that a married pair might, and discovering things that they each needed from one another. Daeron, in particular, tended to need to be bone tired, if not drunk, when going to sleep. Alysanne had gotten creative then, much to the displeasure of those around their cabin, figuring out just what might work best for now in the tiny space.
Aegon was more than happy to watch Shadow when that happened.
Other than more pleasurable activities, they had explored the ship from top to bottom, engaged in plans with Wyle who sought to explore more of the southern parts of Westeros now that he was out of the North, broke bread more often with Valarr and Kiera than Daeron had in the past year, and tried to ignore the obvious glances thrown their direction by his father, uncle, and her uncle. His father said nothing on the subject of children, thanks sent to the Old Gods and the New. Both elder princes were more often than not in deeper discussions, with Valarr pulled away from time to time.
He saw Lonnel Snow speaking with his uncle Baelor several times before as well, but Alysanne had said not to worry about that, and more likely her uncle was trying to figure out how quickly they would have the weirwoods planted so he could head back to the North as soon as possible. He hated large cities, she explained, and tended to stick to more rural areas aside from Winterfell and the smaller towns in the North.
Daeron was not so sure if she was correct in that respect, with the number of times he had caught Lonnel’s eyes on himself.
But now they were finally docking, the trip almost complete, and Daeron was awake, mostly coherent, and watching the sun rise while his arm was around his wife. “A star flickering in the night sky, not quite shining so brightly as it once did,” he whispered softly, the despair a weight in his words in conflict with the scenery before them. “Not yet, not quite, but soon, I fear…”
Even softer still. “My mother is from House Dayne. A white sword and falling star crossed on lilac is their coat of arms, and I worry… if she is ill, could it have been prevented?”
“Some things are unable to be changed, dragon prince, no matter how badly we want them to. The best we can do is make peace with that, and try to change what is in our control instead.”
They turn to face Lonnel, already dressed for the day as they are, in the finer traveling clothes afford to him, looking every inch the Stark his blood afforded him, despite being a Snow himself. “It will drive you mad if you continue to think every little crisis can be averted. Focus on what is in your ability now, else you may twist yourself up inside,” he explains, words deadly soft. Speaking from experience? Daeron does not ask but for him it feels like this was a lesson Lonnel had learned first hand.
“And Aly?”
“Uncle?”
An amused grin slips onto Lonnel’s face, and Daeron feels the urge to hold Alysanne just a bit closer than he had moments ago.
“If you are going to make your husband beg for release while on top of him, at least ensure you both do it softly for the sake of others behind thin walls. Or warn your poor, old, easily woken uncle so he might stuff his ears of wax and cotton beforehand.”
At which then he sauteers off, humming a cheery tune that sounds suspiciously like a dirty tavern song Daeron had heard before heading up to Winterfell.
Daeron buries his head into Alysanne’s hair to hide the flush of red on his cheeks. While no stranger to debauchery, his own escapes in brothels having made public knowledge, this goes beyond what was done there. This is his wife and somehow it seems much different to know those private moments between are now knowledge. Because they were too loud.
Oh no. Nope. Not good.
It means that of course his father, his uncle, and just about anyone who was actually near heard them.
No wonder they were getting strange looks from time to time.
“Your uncle is a menace and absolutely terrifying to us mere mortal men, Aly.”
All she can do is pat his head and give him a kiss on his cheek in return because he knows she agrees with him on that front.
~~~
King’s Landing smelt awful. It may be due to the sheer number of people packed into the city. White Harbor was a city itself, and yet it smelled mostly of the sea air and the wildness that she can come to associate with the North. In contrast, the sudden smells reminded her more like a cramped wheelhouse that had been soiled by animal dung. Cleaned but with the lasting stench stuck within the cushions, never to truly be cleaned.
Her only hope was that the Red Keep had some fresh air she could breathe in.
At least it was only a temporary stay. After this second wedding, which she did not think needed to be done given all that had taken place, they would head to Summerhall for an extended time.
Wyle slides right up next to her as Daeron speaks with his father about travel from the docks to the Red Keep. A formal procession is being sent for them all and then they are to be welcomed in open court. “For the life of me I cannot tell if it is the harbor I smell, the city, or some sort of pit of waste,” he comments, wrinkling his nose. Like her, he is not used to this place and the stink of too many people in a small, dense space. It came from being born and raised in a place where even in a large town, fresh air was a short walk away.
Shadow had taken refuge in the large canvas bag she had somehow bartered for, curled up and resting her tiny head on the edge. The pup was more content to sleep away the discomfort of smells and Alysanne was not about to let a wolfdog puppy loose due to having no leash.
“Perhaps things will be better when we head to court and the Red Keep. One would think of all the places they would want to ensure it did not stink would be where the king and his family resides,” she answers back. Yet she is drawing out a handkerchief from a pocket sewn into her cloak and brings it up to her nose. A sleepy whine comes from the bag, and it looks like her new companion is trying to hide away from the scent in her sleep.
Wyle shakes his head and starts to laugh, only to be cut off midway by choking on the scent.
“Thankfully we are only here for a fortnight at the most.” That would be Daeron, looking more relieved than herself at the prospect. The circles are back under his eyes, she notes, and she steps towards him to allow the outstretched arms he has to wrap around her. Giving up on the handkerchief, Alysanne buries her face into his chest and breathes in Daeron’s scent, the citrus soap he had used on the ship, the something spicy like ginger, and one other she cannot place at the moment.
Wyle looks about ready to laugh again, but at the last moment switches tactics and goes to steal the handkerchief for himself, unafraid to look foolish holding it up to cover his nose. Alysanne would stick her tongue out in jest except it stinks too badly to do so, and instead is contemplating burying her face in Daeron’s chest.
“We are to ride to the Red Keep on horseback rather than open air wheelhouse,” Daeron adds as he leans his whole body on top of her and rests his head over her own. She is now tucked in and holding onto him for dear life. “A short ride, but both Uncle Baelor and my father insist we show off in triumphant return.”
Alysanne hears the edge to his voice. While she is not horrible in the saddle by virtue of having grown up in a rural area, Daeron had said he had no love for being on horseback and that the creatures were off putting to him. Mildly put. Given the terrible night he had, she would assume part of the problem is that he wished to close his eyes for a bit but now cannot unless he wishes to fall from his horse. Yet that means she too will have her own stead and be unable to avoid the horrible smell.
Old Gods save her, all she wishes is to just snuggle close to Daeron and use him to block out the terrible, horrible, headaching-inducing smells. “Would I give anything to ride on the same horse as you,” she manages to say, muffled from keeping her face still smushed against his body. How long do they need to stay here till there is some relief?
“Ride on the same horse, or ride him, Aly?” asks Wyle, keeping his tone like. From behind her a loud yelp sounds and she is sure that Daeron had none-to-gently given a shove to Wyle for that comment, even if it was technically true.
It seems they do not need to wait long, as gentle orders are given from Prince Baelor as horses are brought over. Woefully she is forced away from Daeron, stealing back her handkerchief and wincing when the onslaught of scents hits once more. Someone everyone manages to get upon their horses. She and Lady Kiera are to sidesaddle rather than astride, as it is a formal occasion. It takes a few minutes before they are lined up, the eldest princes giving up positions of honor at the front of the column for her and Daeron. Yet the bag stays on her still, for she is not about to lose Shadow to this place.
Their marriage, a celebration, and she does have to admit it was a smart move on Prince Baelor’s part. Not ideal as now she cannot hide her face behind cloth to muffle the stench, but still smart.
There is the sound of a single loud horn, and the standards are raised. A booming yell from Prince Maekar, her new goodfather, and they are off.
When they make it past the harbor entrance, there are loud cheers and hollering for the royal party. Blessings sent by the smallfolk who have come out to see the show. Daeron looks a bit uneasy at this, a hand reaching down for a wineskin that is not there, and the way his shoulders are tensing, it is obvious he is not particularly fond of this display. “A short ride, and it will be over soon,” she reminds him, and the strained smile she gets in return does nothing to smooth over worries.
They call out names. The Hammer and the Anvil, for the elder princes, and the Young Prince for Valarr. Daeron has his own name called out, and more than once she hears her own. A mask, she needs a mask, and lets her face slip into something pleasant, a smile that she would wear when dealing with her elder sister works well enough, and hides her own discomfort with all these strangers’ eyes on her. Shadow pops her furry head out every now and then, and Alysanne does her best to have one hand on the reins and the other idly scratching soft fluffy ears. Perhaps she could have let the wolfdog pup ride with Daeron.
They manage the procession, and as they get closer to the Red Keep, the air seems cleaner, much to her relief. Everything else is a daze while she follows the black and red standards ahead, not truly seeing where they are going.
Running. Howling. Fog is around her. The scent of blood heavy in the air. Someone is screaming, and she looks down to see her paws a sticky red.
The smile she has is slowly slipping, gaze half lost in empty space ahead of them, half elsewhere in a dream, and there is a buzzing in her ears.
“Alysanne.”
Her head snaps to the side, and brows knit together in confusion. A yard, they are in a yard of some sort, and there is a stool for her to use next to her horse. Shadow whines from the bag, head poking out and a cold wet nose is bumping against her head. She looks down to see Daeron by the stool, already off his own steed, hand outstretched.
There are eyes upon them.
Understanding mingles with worry in his gaze. Similar experiences, her mind supplies. She swallows thickly and puts a hand into his own, taking the offered help to get down. The last part of the ride is barely remembered. Somehow they had gone through the gates without her even noticing.
The air is, in fact, cleaner here. Good. She can focus on that and how his hand feels on her own.
“We are to be presented before court, officially,” he explains softly, pulling her closely without care for propriety’s sake even though they really should be more vigilant. Even Shadow seems to understand that this is no longer the safe haven of their cabin. Or even worse, no longer the North, and she wonders if the pup feels as out of sorts as she does now. Sadly she has to hand over the bag with Shadow in it, her uncle coming over and arms stretched out to retrieve the little creature.
Gods she feels naked without the pup now. Strange, and it has only been less than a moon’s turn. “You’ll get her back, niece, no worries. And we will have someone fashion a fine collar and I shall teach you how to train her so you need not worry,” her uncle says. Lonnel is being too gentle. Concern flashes in his eyes as well, and she wonders what exactly she had said or done to have him act like. It had been so long since he had.
A child, she had been a small little child, and sudden cold washes over her.
“Not here,” he whispers, and he locks eyes with Daeron, a mutual understanding of what might have happened.
Still in half a daze she lets herself be lead, arm now looped with Daeron’s own. Alysanne swallows again, trying to pull up the mask she had let herself use while they rode in, and feels the gentle pressure that Daeron is using to keep her mind in the present. “We will go last,” he says, voice purposely low, “And then the king will make some announcement about the ceremony in the Great Sept, with all pomp and circumstance, and we can escape court soon after before meeting my family for dinner.”
There is no bread and salt here. Not yet. Where is the bread and salt?
Eyes dart quickly around, but there is no one, nothing, not even a pageboy with a tray, and she looks at Daeron, confused at the lack of such items. He seems perplexed now, and frowns. “Aly?”
“Bread and salt.”
Comprehension blooms. A quirk of his lips just up. “Later. Evening meal, and your uncle and Wyle shall be invited too.”
Prince Baelor’s voice cuts over the chaos in the yard, and Prince Maekar’s gruff response has them all heading inside. Wyle and her uncle are led to a separate location, and she meets her uncle’s eyes. All she earns is a small nod before he is gone with Shadow by his side. Wyle gives them both a lasting, lingering look, full of worry, and she puts the nagging feeling into the back of her head.
Everything seems so different. Stiff, formal, and Daeron holds her arm tightly. They say nothing, the silence a companion to them both, but she can tell he is breathing in through his nose, out through his mouth, and holding his breath in between every so often.
Just as nervous as she is.
They are at the edge of something, they both feel it in their bones, and Alysanne looks up at him.
“His highness, Prince Baelor of House Targaryen, Crown Prince, heir to the Iron Throne, and Hand of the King.”
They all watch as the man moves, easy, charming, and every inch the heir. Cheers erupt for his return.
“His highness, Prince Valarr of House Tarygaryen, the Young Prince, heir to Prince Baelor, and his lady wife, the Lady Kiera of Tyrosh.”
Both the prince and his wife give a pair of encouraging smiles, and Alysanne resolves to invite Kiera to tea or hawking or something that ladies do here. Kinship, of sorts, of their situations. Far from their homelands, in a court that is like to whisper about them no matter what.
“His highness, Prince Maekar of House Targaryen, Prince of Summerhall, and his son, his highness Prince Aegon of House Targaryen.”
Little Aegon looks oddly composed, at odds with the lively boy that had spent so much of his time with her nieces and nephews, who had peppered her with questions about her life and living in the North, who played with Shadow on the deck of the ship.
Yet it is the last look Prince Maekar gives them both that stays. Something akin to pride, it seems, though twinged with worry. He had not missed what had gone on during the ride from the harbor to the Red Keep. How could he not? But then she sees the slight nod he gives to Daeron and herself, and he is gone.
“Do not go where I cannot follow,” she finds herself whispering as they take their place by the entrance.
“I promise, Alysanne, I truly promise.”
Daeron leans over, using his height to slightly cover her, and breaths in deeply.
“His highness, Prince Daeron of House Targaryen, heir to the Prince of Summerhall and his lady wife, the Lady Alysanne of House Stark.”
They step forward, and enter the hall.
I am a Stark of Winterfell. I can be brave. Do not let them see your fear.
Daeron leads them both down, arm carefully looped and holding her. His back is straight, his eyes clear despite the lingering circles underneath, and he is neatly put together. She thinks he looks every inch the prince he was supposed to be, and perhaps this is what court truly is; a place to play the roles society has attempted to force him into a role at odds with what plagues him.
So many eyes. Thousands of eyes. Pairs of them looming over, and the hushed whispers are white noise as they continue to walk. So many whispers, and she cannot get over the feeling of the eyes ever watching.
Somehow they make it down the hall and stop before the Iron Throne. Targaryens a plenty surround it, standing in ceremonial finery, and at the center, seated uneasily, is the king.
No northern sword was taken for that monstrosity. The voice sounds like her father’s.
Alysanne drops into a deep curtsey before King Daeron II, before the Iron Throne, and holds utterly still as Daeron, her Daeron, does a deep bow before his kingly grandsire. A thousand eyes’ gazes are burning on them as they stay low, respectful, and wait till they are given leave to straighten up.
“Arise, Prince Daeron, Lady Alysanne, and be welcome to the Red Keep.”
They both move slowly to stand up straight, steel in their spines. In a break with protocol, her husband goes to take her hand and keep her close to him, announcing to all just whose protection she is under. There can be no question. Daeron turns them both around so that they are facing a sea of strangers.
So many eyes.
“House Targaryen congratulates you both on your marriage in the tradition of the North, before the Old Gods. Yet the North is far from King’s Landing and the Southern kingdoms, and in a show of gratitude for House Stark parting with their most precious daughter, we will be holding a ceremony in the Grand Sept of Baelor, in the light of the Seven two days henceforth, and a large feast to be followed. We invite all here to help my house in celebrating the match made between two fine young people, and the future of both House Targaryen and House Stark.”
The applause and cheers are quite loud. Perhaps it is the numbers of those assembled.
Alysanne cannot help but judge though, from the sea of faces, it looks more like disbelief than anything else, and the polite clapping and cheers seem less enthusiastic than what had been heard in the North.
Her head turns again to the side, and she tilts it up to look at Daeron, looking down back at her. It’s a tired smile, a worried smile, and she nods. He brings her hand up to his lips to give it a reassuring kiss.
Together. They can do this. They will not fail.
Simply put, they cannot be allowed to.
~~~
Daeron takes her to the godswood, leading them both’ beneath the ancient oak that passes for a heart tree. Compared to the one in Winterfell, there is something less wild about this particular godswood. More orderly. Contained. Winterfell’s godswood like the old gods were watching down on the ones who came to worship. Here parts of it felt more like a garden and less like a sacred space, though he supposes it may change with the addition of an actual weirdwood.
Along the journey Shadow had been retrieved from Lonnel, and despite the lack of words said, the understanding he had was nevertheless felt. Shadow, now out of the bag and content to just walk alongside, seemed utterly intune to her mistress’ mood, and kept pace with both himself and Aly.
He says nothing when he sits down on the ground next to her, and leans back against the hard trunk of the tree. A hand goes to lace her fingers with his own and he gives a gentle squeeze to remind her that he is there, in the present besides her, but says nothing. Silence, he thinks, is appropriate now. Silence for her worship and silence to quiet both their minds. The furball of a creature takes a spot up next to him, her head resting on his thigh, and he runs the free hand over soft fur.
Daeron knows first hand what it is to be tortured by your own mind. He would not begrudge her the silence needed in order to settle herself. So he sits and holds her hand, following her gaze with his own up to the stars, and lets the quiet settle in his head as well.
They stay like that for some time, in the godswood, not speaking, merely sitting and watching as the day shifts from a sunny afternoon to the reddish pinks of twilight.
And then Alysanne moves, her body twisting so that she is on top of him, legs straddling his own and staring at him with wide grey eyes. Her free hand comes up to gently touch his face, running fingers reverently along his cheek and chin, before pressing her forehead against his own and closing her eyes. When she finally speaks, her eyes are still closed, and voice so soft he can barely make out the words himself.
“A wolf with bloody paws, on a foggy meadow, howling. Not here, but… somewhere. I don’t know. Pain but the wolf was not the one hurt. I think. Or maybe it was.”
From there he gently maneuvers her body so that she is curled on top of him, tucked carefully into his arms and laying her head against his shoulder. This much he can do. Hold her in his arms now as she held him back in that cabin.
“I will show you the archery yard tomorrow,” he murmurs softly into her head, and rocks her back and forth, praying for an easy night for them both. He wishes they could both just stay there but other obligations and as much as he despised responsibility being a price his blood thrust upon him, he knew that for her sake they both would need to move soon.
“Until then… I’m sorry, sweetling, but we need to go. They will expect us for dinner, the family.” A kiss to the top of her head again, and he sighs, looking at both his wife and the creature peering up at him from his side. “And yes, you too, sweet pup, we will find a hearty meal for you. I daresay you will be rather spoiled by most of my siblings as well as your mistress and I, in the next fortnight."
A soft laugh is muffled by his body, and he kisses her again, humming that tavern song he heard this morning.
~~~
Maekar is bone tired. After the frivolous prompt from court, the announcement his father had made, and subsequent dismissal of the rest of the courtiers, he and Baelor had been summoned to their father’s private chambers to brief the king on how everything had gone.
Baelor talked, mostly, with the occasional side comment from Maekar. He had done an admirable job of whittling down every interaction with Beron Stark, the family, and most importantly the girl herself, and even offered up suitable explanations for the two men that had tagged alongside them. The wolfdog pup had her own little story, which led to his father shaking his head. Nevertheless, all of them would be staying until Daeron and Alysanne would depart to Summerhall.
“He seems taken with her. Deeply taken with her, and vice versa,” was what their father replied, and neither himself nor Baelor could disagree with that assessment. That little display, the sweeping and in sync curtsey and bow, the closeness of their stances, Daeron kissing the girl’s hand as he held it and how he led her away after everyone had been dismissed; none of it had missed.
“And Lord Stark is appeased?”
“He is. We should have no issues with the North in the near future and if the marriage proves fruitful, then possibly a reciprocal match between one of their daughters and a future Lord Stark would continue this alliance,” Baelor added, taking a long sip of water aftwards.
“Are the weirwoods planted yet?” Maekar surprises even himself by asking that question, but no one has brought it up yet.
His father and brother look at him, matching inquisitive expressions, and if he were a lesser man he would flush under their stares. “The girl keeps the Old Gods, and it could be a problem if they were not. Summerhall needs a proper godswood anyway.”
Ah, there it is again, the stare. Fuck him, he does have a brain, it should not be so surprising he use it and speak up from time to time on such matters. Soft politics may not be his strength but he does know a thing or two. “The one for here will arrive by the end of the week, and be planted as soon as possible. For Summerhall, it should be there by the time the pair settle in.”
His father waves a hand to dismiss them both, content with how every plan seems to fall into place.
“And Maekar?”
“Father?”
“You are dining with your family, Baelor’s, and the two northern guests, yes?”
“Yes father.”
“Give my best to Dyanna and the girls then.”
“Of course.”
Well, that was easy.
Fuck him, he does not want to perside over this idea of family meal, as much as he does wish to gather them all in one place, but not when spending nearly three weeks traveling, and when he had hardly slept last night. He would not complain about the noise knowing that he himself had gotten up to such mischievous activities when first married, but it did give him such a headache. Punishment, perhaps, for the gallavanting he and Dyanna got up to.
Oh Dyanna. Sweet, blessed, daring Dyanna.
They have some time to wash and change before the meal, and he manages to make it to his rooms without any run-ins with other family members. Either his other two brothers, who he did love dearly, or any of his various bastard aunts and uncles.
By the time he makes it through the door, closing it with a thud, the tension in his head is slowly morphing into yet another headache. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Quiet. He needs quiet and his wife, that is all he needs, and perhaps a bed too.
He manages to kick off his boots, and picks them up so he might lay them next to the bed. A firm bed, with solid pillows, thick blankets, and his wife. That is what he wants. Boots drop with a thud as well and he finds the blessed bed, sitting slowly and then fully laying his body down. Head propped up by that firm pillow, thick blankets beneath him, the warmth of the sun warming the keep, he can nearly doze off.
Weight shifts next to him and he smells the lemony citrus scent of her perfume.
Ah, Dyanna.
An eye cracks open and he turns to see the only woman he has ever loved, the only woman that truly understood him, the love of his life and beyond, and lets out a small, secretive smile he has just for her.
Dyanna, with her sandy golden locks loose over her shoulders, her purple eyes meeting his own lighter lilac ones, and tanned skin glowing in the midafternoon sunlight; Dyanna with her considerable height and ample curves he so loves to grip. Dyanna with her laugh like music, her grace, her charm. Dyanna, his goddess amongst all, his dream, his lovely one, his wife.
She climbs on top of him, staring down with that smile of hers, eyes twinkling, and he reaches out to place a heavy hand on her hip. Just to hold her again after the long trek North and back, to have her in his arms, he will savor this.
After all this time Maekar does not even need to say a single thing. Her hands move to his neck, slowly working tense muscles, and he lets out a low groan of relief as the tension is ebbing away under her touch. Eyes flutter closed. Strong hands for a strong woman, his Dyanna.
“Would I have had you with me, up in those cold fucking snows,” he murmurs, relaxing underneath those fingers. That gets a chuckle in return as she works him over, moving her hands to behind the base of his skull.
“You were successful even without me there,” she says softly, voice husky and he cracks open an eye, and gives her yet another small grin.
“Mmmhmm and yet I wish it all the same. Still, we are here now, and they will be sent home to Summerhall, away from this place and hopefully Daeron will finally learn some responsibility governing in my stead.” He sighs happily as she digs into a particularly painful knot, working it slowly, methodically, and he can feel his body turning soft underneath her touch.
Gods be good, this woman is the best thing that ever happened to him.
“Will you keep Aerion here with you? Aegon, the girls?”
“Mmm I think so. Let them have some privacy. Perhaps we may have a grandchild within the year, if the gods bless them as they did us.”
Ah, that earns a laugh, and he opens his eyes to take in his wife. The way laughter lines crinkle around her eyes. How there are a smattering of dark freckles along her chest, easily seen in the gauzy gown she wears. The way little slivers of silver are starting to creep into her golden sandy tresses.
“You think him ready for such responsibility?”
Maekar sighs, and pulls her close to his chest, letting her rest her body on top of his own. Solid, whole, and ever present Dyanna. “I think,” he says, carefully weighing the outcomes, “He has it in him. But the damn drinking, the nightmares… He dried out on the ship, and did not touch any wine until the wedding feast. Even then, the boy kept his cups down to three.” His hand goes to softly stroke his wife’s hair, and he presses a kiss to her temple.
“And the girl?”
“... do not ask her about northern practices of fucking blood rituals in the Age of Heroes and beyond.”
Oh another chuckle. Well it gets him to slowly laugh too, and he holds Dyanna close, enjoying the peace of his own chambers. The quiet of it.
“Really, though, how is she?”
Maekar huffs again, thinking carefully on the choice of wife for his eldest son. His heir. A future Prince of Summerhall.
“Brilliant and beautiful and everything a Stark should be. Dutiful. Loyal. Wolfblooded, is the term I was told, when it matters. They avoided a bedded ceremony by staging a spectacle and were late to the morning meal afterwards.”
Yet he holds back the few other thoughts he has on the match. Even now, his Dyanna can tell when he keeps his words to himself, unsure if they will be met with serious consideration or played off a joke.
“... when they first met, they stared at one another, as if they had seen one another before, a lifetime ago. Daeron… it was unnerving and I am not a man easily frightened.”
The nightmares. The torments. If they were real dreams or just figments of a mind slowly devouring himself. He had seen what had happened when they rode through the streets of King’s Land, the way Alysanne Stark had stared off into nothing, expression seeing through something no one else could see. He had seen it happen before.
To Daeron.
His son.
“Perhaps it is for the best. Others fucking take me, they kept us up half the voyage down when we all were trying to sleep.”
He leans back on the pillows, his Dyanna in his arms, and keeps her close.
And then the cough.
Not loud. But wet, and it lasts eerily too long for his liking.
“Are you ill, starlight?”
Dyanna, lovely, wonderful, brilliant, blessed Dyanna, gives him a shining smile in return.
“Just a cough, Maekar, just a small cough.”
~~~
Dinner is a pleasant, if strange affair, at first. Daeron is oddly mellow at the moment.
They are all gathered in some of the smaller rooms used for hosting. By the number of their party it is too great for any meal to be broken in one’s solar without moving around tables and chairs, and but they are at same time too small for any of the larger spaces. His grandfather and grandmother do not attend, taking their own meal in their private chambers, along with his uncles Aerys and Rhaegel and their respective families.
Yet Uncle Baelor is there with Valarr and Kiera to his right. Aly’s uncle is present, sitting across from Baelor and next to Wyle, who technically is not of any blood relation but neither himself nor Aly would see him left out. His father and lady mother are on his uncle’s right, and his siblings, baring Aerion, and Matarys have their own spots at the opposite end of the long table. Aegon is regaling them all with his time in the North, taking a bit of leeway with more than a few of the stories.
As predicted, despite having her own bowl of ground raw meats and vegetables, Shadow has been let loose and sneaks away from Aly every now and then to feast on the offerings all the younger children have snuck from their plates. A few gentle warnings from Lonnel Snow has limited most of the unhealthy bits, thankfully, and in lieu the pup gets scratches and belly rubs.
Spoiled little thing.
He wonders how big and vicious she will become when fully grown.
Daeron and Alysanne found themselves with the adults, along with Aerion, and he is seated next to his wife, but Wyle is on the other side of the table. Aerion is across from him as well, and is surprisingly calm, for whatever passes for calm these days.
His brother is looking at him with the oddest expression, and Daeron thinks perhaps he may have something on his shirt.
Uncle Baelor even had the cooks bring up fresh bread and salt, and all three northerns had partaken. Daeron had seen how some of the pent up tension around Alysanne had shifted then, with at least that one ritual out of the way. Not for herself, but her uncle and their friend.
His mother, thankfully, arranged for several dishes to be made. Roasted chickens and vegetables with herbs and spices brought over from Starfall, his father’s favorite. A thick onion soup topped with melted cheese. Fish simply stuffed with fresh herbs and pan fried, a lemon sauce over it. Fresh bread, a bit of softened goat cheese to spread. There was honeyed milk for the children, and for the adults several bottles of Dornish reds, a mix of both sweet and sour bottles.
There are no pages or servants in the room. Just themselves. They serve and help themselves in a casual manner, at odds with what normally occurs when in a gathering like this.
Daeron himself pours a cup of wine and hands it off to Alysanne. “This is the sweet one, a Dornish red, since you said you preferred the sweeter taste,” he says, as he pours one for Wyle as well, and himself. As he does that, Aly is putting some bits of chicken and vegetables on his plate, and Wyle is tearing off pieces of bread for all three. He even offers Aerion a piece, who politely declines in favor of staring some more.
His father is mercifully occupied with his mother, listening to what had gone on in Summerhall while he was away, their hands always touching one another, and Baelor is still having a conversation with both Valarr and Lonnel Snow at the same time as Kiera listens. About horses, apparently, and breeding practices. The man is distinctly less terrifying here than he is anywhere else, and in this setting can be seen as almost normal.
Daeron is calm. He has his wife, good food, and a good drink that he is slowly sipping alongside his cup of water, and is mellow in a way that he had only thought he would be up in the North. He is listening to a debate between Wyle and Alys over the identity of just who the Thirteenth Commander of the Night’s Watch was, which family, and interjecting his own thoughts every now and then, much to the joy of both of them.
“Only a Bolton would do such a thing. You know that. They flayed people! They still do, Aly. Who is to say they would not have dabbled with an Other?”
“If it were a Bolton, his name would be known. The Breaker would have not gone to such trouble to strip away his identity if it were anything but a Stark.” Alysanne seemed very much of the opinion, no matter how bloody, it was the truth of the tale.
“She has a point,” Daeron pipes up, wrapping an arm around his wife, slowly grinning. “As much shame as it was, if it were a Stark, then his brother would have wanted to shield the name from the damage done to the house’s reputation. Why go through all the trouble to do so in the first place?”
Ah, his Aly looks mighty pleased, and Wyle snorts, shaking his head. “You, my friend, are only hearing the one version she learned from her uncle. And she has bribed you to believe her.”
“The true one.”
“How has she bribed me, Wyle?”
“One of many.” At that he points his finger at Daeron. “A song twisted over time, and you know very well how she could bribe you, you kept us all up with such feats.”
“But still, I think she has the right of the legend. A Stark forsaking his vows and binding others to his and his queen’s bidding? There’s power in blood magic and the fact it took both a Stark and the King-Beyond-the-Wall to break it?” And yes, he is blushing now, and taking a sip from his cup, savoring the taste of the Dornish red, thick on his tongue. It is still the first cup, and he paces himself.
He promised he would try, so he is trying.
When the cup goes down, Aerion is looking at him, unashamed, confused, and if he were looking at a stranger. “How do you know about Northern tales?” he asks, and Daeron makes a face at that. While there are no stupid questions, this one is more than a bit obvious.
“Aerion, I just spent nearly two moons traveling to the North, Winterfell, and back. My wife is a Stark, and my friend Wyle is a Manderly from White Harbor. I would think the answer quite obvious, little brother,” he drawls.
“You only had one cup of wine and not even finished it yet.”
Daeron looks down at his cup. Almost done but not quite.
“Is that a problem?”
At this point he is aware of the others watching the interaction. His mother and father, his uncle and cousins, Aly’s uncle.
“And you have had your arms around your wife nearly most of the night. You even served others wine and food, rather than-”
“Rather than what, Aerion?”
It comes out harder than Daeron would have liked but he is starting to see where his younger brother is going. At only two years apart, it is not much of a difference in age, and it is close enough that Aerion had allowed himself to be able to judge Daeron in the manner in which he judged most people these days. Either not worth his time, or something to play with for his amusement. A shame, because Aerion was a sweet boy once.
Aerion closes his mouth.
“Do finish your sentence, brother, because there is nothing you can say here that others have not heard. Family and friends alike,” he adds, voice dry. A tone of a man completely done with this conversation. “And yes, I have told my wife everything. She is well aware of the man I am, or was, and the man I am trying to be.”
Something in Aerion’s expression, the way it hardens, turns his stomach.
A hand touches his arm, and he sees it is Aly’s hand, and looks at her now rather than his brother’s face. A smile curls on his lips, and he puts a gentle kiss on her forehead, just because, before turning back to the others.
“You seemed surprised.” Aly’s voice. Crystal clear and lacking none of the aching from before. “That he would have his arms around me, his wife, and think it odd. When your own lady mother and lord father have done the same several times this evening. When your cousin and his wife have behaved similarly as well.”
Daeron lets his smile go hard then. “Though I do not wish to share all the details, little brother, rest assured, I am as much a husband to my wife as much as father is to our mother. Perhaps even one day you will understand this as well.”
Well that should help Aerion keep his mouth shut the rest of the evening.
But while his brother is not commenting on the state of his new marriage, he is very well aware of his parents’ eyes on him and Aly.
In the end, after they are served sweet cakes and warm cups of tea, he begs off for the rest of the evening, Aly in his arms and Shadow at their heels. An invitation from his mother to luncheon is given to the both of them, though at separate times, as they both are to be visited by the tailors for new outfits at different times tomorrow. Still, he does look forward to seeing her, if only to put the dream to bed.
An early evening. He did promise the archery yard tomorrow, after all.
Between A Dream & A Hard Place - Before The Old Gods
Prologue - Part One: The Raven & The Decree - Part Two: Northern Bound - Part Three: Beginnings Start At the End - Part Four: A Song For Wolves - Part Five: Days Counting Down- Part Six: Before The Old Gods - Part Seven: Where You Go, I Go - Part Eight: Snapshots of a Day - Part Nine: Prayers for the Broken Ones - Part Ten: Valar Morghulis - Part Eleven: Interludes - Part Twelve: Convergence - Part Thirteen: Tipping Point - Part Fourteen: The Hard Place - Part Fifteen: The Old Gods Smiled
[Cross Posted AO3]
Summary:
“Trust me, wife?”
“From now till the end, husband.”
In where vows are said before a heartree, Daeron finally gets some wine, Alysanne proves she has wolfblood after all, Baelor has an unexpected encounter, and in the morrow the trip down to King's Landing adds not just the bride but two others along for the ride.
Warnings: nudity, mentioned sexual content, drinking, alcoholism, unhealthy coping mechanisms
Main Characters: Daeron Targaryen (son of Maekar), Alysanne Stark(daughter of Beron)
Other(s): Maekar Targaryen, Baelor Targaryen, mentioned King Daeron II, Aegon V, Beron Stark, Valarr Targaryen, Kiera of Tyrosh, Lonnel Snow
Pairings: Daeron Targaryen (son of Maekar) x Alysanne Stark(daughter of Beron), Baelor Targaryen X Lonnel Snow
Part Six
Dozens upon dozens of lanterns line the path and hang in the trees. In heavy, fine furs, Daeron can hardly feel the chill of the wind. By his side is his father, unyielding in his stance, looking forward at the path before them. In the front of that terrifying tree is his uncle, Baelor ready to act as head of their family, for he was the heir to the Iron Throne. And in this moment Daeron wishes he were anything but a prince.
A lord, perhaps, so he might wed her without the weight of heavy responsibility on their shoulders.
A chance for happiness.
And then, just as she steps foot on the path, an arm looped around her father, snowflakes, fat and fluffy, begin to fall. Magic of the North. A blessing on this union. Whispers around them hush into silence.
Baelor’s voice calls out, loud, clear, and Daeron never looks away from the path. From her.
“Who comes before the Old Gods?”
Lord Beron's answer comes through without hesitation, as sure and steady as the walls of Winterfell itself.
“Alysanne of House Stark comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?"
Right. His turn. Daeron steps forward, surprisingly steady in his gait. And when he speaks, it is with a clear voice, honest and true.
“Daeron of House Targaryen, a prince of the realm, heir to the Prince of Summerhall. Who gives her?”
Please, please, please do not let Beron whisk his daughter away. He knows that it would not happen, not now, not here, but the tiny part of him thinks that the man knows Daeron is not good enough for his daughter, will never be enough for her, and is terrified he will never see this one good dream come true.
“Beron of House Stark, Warden of the North, Lord of Winterfell, father of this woman.”
He lets out the breath he was holding, eyes never leaving her own.
“Lady Alysanne, will you take this man?”
Will she truly say the words? Never has he wanted to hear something so much before. But he wonders if she knows the truth of who he is, who he can only be, and all the failings that have plagued his life thus far.
“I take this man.”
“Prince Daeron, will you take this woman?”
How could he do this to her? To shackle a woman with so much of her life ahead of her, to a drunken, miserable, pathetic excuse of a prince such as he? Dreams of fire and death consume him when he is sober, drunkenness to wash away the pain. A failed warrior. A terrible knight. A drunken prince. A dreamer who could hardly change fate. He looks down, snowflakes melting in her hair as they fall, grey eyes wide and huge as she meets his gaze.
Oh how warm they were. Soft and warm and welcoming, and he could drown himself in those eyes. And at this distance, he could even see the different flecks of green mingling with grey. Such striking eyes.
It would be a kindness to see them every morning when he woke.
I dreamed of you. Of this moment. Of us standing before that heart tree. Did you dream of this too, my lady? Of wolves and dragons and a future that might be? Did I do well? Did I please you, my lady, so you might not be so disappointed with me as so many others are?
“I take this woman.”
Baelor moves, stepping away from the heart tree as a small gloved hand takes Daeron’s own and together he knees with his wife, knees on the snow-covered ground. It takes only a split moment and he sees the tiny quirk of her smile when eyes close and a head bows. His own mirrors her and in this he is a dragon prince from a song, taking the direwolf maiden as his bride.
Protect her. I care not for your protection for myself, but for her. Protect her, you bloody tree gods and watch over her for me. Have you kept my dreams at bay so that I might do this properly, for her sake? She is the faithful one, not me, not a drunken disappointment. Protect her like you have done me and I swear to all of you I will try to be better.
His hands flexes and he gives a gentle squeeze to remember this is true and real, and when eyes open he is facing a weeping face carved into the oldest weirwood he has ever seen.
A dragon in the meadow, laying his head on top of a direwolf’s swollen belly. A child’s cry echoes in the distance.
His child’s cry.
Limbs move without thinking. Her maiden cloak, a brilliant, pure white, with a direwolf made of shining black stones snarling over the back, and edged with the softest of white rabbit’s fur, is carefully handed off and folded.
For a single moment she is of no house, no name, only one coming to claim her, and when he manages to catch her eyes, trust shines through.
And around those shoulders go the soft, fine cloak, black and red of house Targaeryen, and where a direwolf once was there is the ruby red of a three headed dragon. His house, taking her under their protection; he was taking her under his own protection. Fingers brush softly against the bare skin, just below her chin, and he watches as those lovely eyes widen in surprise.
No words need to be said.
Daeron moves without thinking, leaning down, his forehead pressing softly against her own, and the question need not be said. Words would only interrupt this holy place, and he shifts ever so slightly to meet her as she stands to the tips of her toes, letting his lips softly, reverently meet her own.
No one else exists.
The world around them is silent.
There is only the pair of them that matters now.
Please do not leave me. Do not go where I cannot follow.
~~~
The wedding feast after the marriage put the welcoming on and the one the Manderly’s threw to shame.
They sat together in the center of the high table, the honored couple. Taking the place of the Lord of Winterfell and the Crown Prince should have been a heavy weight, but as of right now, Daeron was still in a state of euphoria. All around them there was great cheer. Smilies were shared across all members of every family. Food and drink flowed freely. Nothing they said or did seemed to be worthy of scorn or stare, and even as they shared their meal, feeding one another choice bites from the dishes laid before everyone.
Roasted venison and vegetables, boats of thick gravy, hearty beef stews, glazed hams, greens dressed in multiple sauces, warm crusty bread baked that day; all of it just a small showing of what the kitchens of Winterfell had put before them. Wine, ale, and cider flowed freely. Daeron, surprising himself, was savoring each bite fed to him, every now and then kissing the tips of Alysanne’s fingers as he took the offered meal. He had done the same in response, giving her anything she may have asked for, sampling the same morsels of food he did.
It was a dream. It had to be.
Even the strange looks they received from their parents and family were not putting a damper on this moment. Nobles coming up to wish them well look at them with fondness, remark on young love.
Perhaps it had been his show of restraint the past few weeks but instead of plain water or heavily watered down cider, there was wine in his cup. Warmed and spiced, it seemed to be an Arbor Red that was used for the base, and then added to with spices and dried fruits. Somehow there were no limits tonight when it came to northern hospitality, when Alysanne’s own cup was filled as well, and they both were taking sips between bites.
“Why do you do that?”
“Mmm, do what, my dear?”
He is pleasantly warm now, and nothing seems to faze him. No gods have struck him down, they had made it through the whole of the godswood ceremony, and she had not been whisked away before he could call her his. There was excellent food, wonderful wine, and he leaned closer, their foreheads touching.
Shameless, yes, but he is happy and wants to savor it. He never gets to savor this.
“My fingertips, you kiss them often. My knuckles, my hands?”
Oh, that. Daeron flushes a bit, then leans in to put a peck on her nose, as if that would answer her question. It earns him a soft giggle from his new wife, and yes, he is mightily pleased with himself now.
“Because I wish to kiss you. But I could not before as it would be impolite, and now I wish to kiss you everywhere, so I will start with the very tips of your fingers and work my way all over till I have mapped you with my lips.”
Well that earns him a kiss of his own, right on the tip of his nose, a mirror of his own gift to her. Heat rises in the back of his neck and it is not from the wine or the merriment of the feast. Wine has made him bold, when it is not being used to make him block out the nightmares, and he finds he likes this much better than before.
The feast goes on and on, and savory meals are replaced with sweets, cakes and pies and treats passed around by servants. Speeches are made, Lord Beron professing his utmost wish for the new couple to be successful and happy, Uncle Baelor having remarks on the union being blessed, and even his own father’s gruff words welcoming his new gooddaughter into the family. He smiles and laughs and eats and drinks, Alysanne ever close in his arms.
At some point tables are pushed aside. Dancing, right, there is dancing, and he is three cups in now and she is as well. Daeron lets himself be guided to the floor despite his protests of being not one much for dancing, having little skill himself, and finds himself swept up in the fast paced spinning circles. No one seems to mind his tripping over his feet from time to time. Even Aly is having her own missteps but the laughter and cheer negates any worry about looking like a failure. Even Valarr and Kiera have joined the fun, and soon enough there’s Wyle in their group, Aegon perched on his shoulders towering over everyone.
It seems no matter how poor or good a dancer one is, they can do this, arm in arm with another, going around and around in circles and swings, the cheers and singing along with the lyrics, and not a single soul seems to give a damn about anything other than the pleasure of a celebratory dance.
Somehow he is spinning her around and around on the dance floor, and the next moment he is holding her close, foreheads pressed together as they sway gently. A crowd is around them, lost in their own moment, and Daeron is warm, so very warm.
Aly has a lovely laugh. A lovely smile. A lovely everything.
“I want no one else to touch me but you,” she says to him and him alone, at that moment, and Daeron realizes they will call for a bedding ceremony soon.
It would ruin the dress. Her pretty dress. A dress only he wants to take off of her, and no one else, and a fierce flare of possessiveness strikes him. And touching her. She does not wish to be touched by anyone other than himself and if it is in his power to make that happen, he will see it done.
“No one else but me,” he agrees, half drunk on wine and the other half on her. He presses his lips against her own, a kiss something fiercer than a promise, and when he opens his eyes, he finds her own shining brightly.
Somehow they have to make it out of here without a bedding ceremony. No one will touch her or grope her or do anything she does not wish, he wants to make sure of that. But he has no idea how, and looks at her, as if to ask if she has any ideas. This is her home. Escape routes would be her purview. “How shall we make our escape?”
“Trust me, husband?”
Asked like a prayer. Daeron grins and puts another kiss on her, having lost track of just how many times he has kissed her without worry this night.
“From now till the end, wife.”
From what he remembers, in his wedded haze, there are only two ways they can go at the moment. The lord’s door in the rear, and then the main entrance at the front. Either way there are people in their way, but he goes to lace his fingers with her own, and kisses her a second time. To share her courage. Wolfblood courage, he thinks.
“Father?” Aly’s voice is cutting through the crowd and the music pauses. Confusion ripples through the crowd.
Lord Beron looks more amused than anything else, eyebrows raised. “Daughter?”
“Thank you, and thank you Prince Maekar and Prince Baelor, for the wedding and bringing Daeron to me. I wish to go to bed my new husband now. Good night!”
Daeron, for his part, is nearly speechless. Almost. Because as Aly lifts her skirts with her free hand and takes off in a sprint, he is being dragged along for the ride, shouting his thanks to the crowd, his father and uncle, and Lord Stark as well.
In the chaos they make it out the main doors, and into the courtyard, and suddenly he is being pulled through the halls. Every now and then they stop, and she looks at him, breathless and so bloody happy, that he has to kiss her to see if he can steal some of that wolfblood courage for himself to use.
Eventually they somehow make it to rooms. Her rooms. Her solar and her bed chamber, and he is being guided in. Little personal touches are scattered throughout. An open book on the desk, a shawl on a chair, open jewelry boxes, and both cloaks from the ceremony that had been brought up. A fire is already going and he watches as Aly sets to work lighting several more candles, before turning to face him.
She had worn her hair mostly down, save for the two braids that held it back. He had toyed with the ends of her hair during the feast, marveling at silky strands.
He kicks off his boots, undoes the buttons on his doublet, and pulls off outer layers quicker than he thought. Quietly he takes a place behind her, as they both now stand in front of a looking glass. Fingers slowly work to undo the chord holding the braids together at the back of her head, and her own hands work to unwind her locks so that it falls loose.
“There will be no one else but you,” he whispers, placing warm kisses along the exposed skin of her neck. For this he wants to be good, to be the man she deserves. He can try, he wants to try, and perhaps that may make the difference.
From there his hands move to the back where she has been laced into her dress. Experience had taught him how to undo the ties and he runs a finger down her back, letting the fabric from the dress pool towards the ground. He goes to tug off his own shirt, then the top half of his small clothes. From there it is quick work of his pants, her stockings and jewels, and suddenly they are both left in what remains of their small clothes.
One hand goes to her shoulder, wrapping across the top of her chest, the other to rest at her hip ensuring his arm is now wrapped around her waist, and Daeron’s leaving a trail of kisses from her collarbone, up her neck, and to her check. He continues till he stops at her ear and goes to nuzzle his head into her own, breath hot against her ear.
“Trust me, wife?”
“From now till the end, husband.”
~~~
With the newlywedded couple escaping before the actual bedding ceremony could take place, guests had started to trickle back to their own chambers and rooms, content recouping from the festivities in order to enjoy the breakfast in the morning.
Maekar had grumbled by the sudden departure of the pair, but could not even resist an upward quirk of his lips, something soft in his eyes that had long been absent. And Beron Stark looked more amused than concerned, though it was his daughter who had instigated the whole display. Valarr and Kiera had taken off for the night following the newlywed’s example. Aegon was picked up by his father, literally off the dance floor from, and taken back to their respective rooms despite deep protests he was not sleepy. The Kingsguard who had come had been given a night off in celebration.
As for himself, well, he was looking forward to a break from the chaos and stress of the last week.
The bed sounded nice.
Yet it was not to be as he entered his rooms.
Baelor was greeted by the sight of Lonnel Snow, raising an eyebrow when the bastard had the audacity to put his feet up on a perfectly clean, perfectly organized desk, and grin at him like he had won some sort of prize.
If he takes a moment to stare at toned calves, thick thighs, and pants just a tad too tight to be appropriate, he keeps it to himself, not saying out loud what really is going on inside of his head. Desire heavy on his tongue. Heat on the back of his neck. Tightening of his own pants. Perhaps he had too much to drink. Or not enough.
Jena would not understand if she were still alive. Neither would his brothers, save perhaps Maekar, but Maekar always understood him in a way that he always understood his brother as well.
He was faithful to his long departed wife. But not for the reasons nearly all of Westeros thought.
There was a reason why he had only two sons and stopped at that. Unlike his youngest brother, who was blessed with six children no matter how unruly they could be, there needed to be an appreciation for a woman’s figure to keep going back for more. Or rather just truly Dyanna, given how Maekar had never strayed, not even once, from when he first laid eyes upon her.
Baelor, despite his best efforts to change, always preferred a body with less curves, more hard lines, and a cock instead of a cunt.
And that bloody bastard Lonnel Snow, with his mossy green, all-knowing eyes, clean face, inky dark hair swept back into a northern style top knot, clearly knew it too. How the seven hells he knew is beyond Baelor but that with that smirk plaster on his face, he was not above using it. Unless..
Baelor had seen that before. Those eyes. The smirk. He knows he has seen them before, and it would drive him up the wall if he let it. Somewhere in the distant past, he knows that much, but cannot for the life of himself figure it out when.
Blackmailing the crown was a bad idea, at any rate.
Even the bastard knew that much.
Beron would have known where his younger half-brother had gone. Absolutely nothing happened in Winterfell without Lord Stark knowing, so chances were that the elder brother knew exactly what the younger was getting up to, as well as preferences in bedmates. That had to be the only reason he was in this room, propped up as if he were king and Baelor a subject, looking at the Crown Prince as if he was pursuing a fair maiden instead of a man fully grown with sons of his own, hair starting to go grey at the roots. A wolf who was looking at him as if Baelor was a meal he wanted to devour.
Baelor swallowed. He was getting ahead of himself.
Fuck.
“I don’t see how anyone could call you too Dornish to be king. You have too much dragon in you to be anything but such,” he drawls, letting his own gaze rake over Baelor with absolute shamelessness. He swings his legs off the desk and goes to stretch out, not once breaking eye contact.
“How does the song go? The Hammer smashed the bastard?”
Baelor lets out the breath he is holding, trying to remember to breathe. Yet it is hard to do so when Lonnel is now standing up, slowly slinking towards him. Eyes darken, and he licks his lips, watching the way a vein in that pale neck moves as Lonnel sings, voice deep and reaching somewhere deep inside him, stirring him.
“With his…”
Seven hells it’s been years since he last lay with anyone. Since he stopped sharing Jena’s bed after Matarys was born, he avoided bedding anyone to avoid scandal, and even after her death, had yet to even find someone to take away the stress. And this was a stressful trip, and he is slightly tipsy on excellent spiced wine, there is a handsome man in his chambers, and he is far away from King’s Landing.
“Giant…”
Those damn eyes that have been watching everything, and meeting his gaze, with no fear, eyes that devour and consume and set him on fire. Lonnel is standing toe to toe with him now, and Baelor wants to reach out, to yank and pull the man down to his knees, to put that mouth to good use, and shut the man up.
“Veiny…”
He is half hard already and there are hands now on his hips, Lonnel’s hands, and they are close enough that if he wanted he could rut up against the other. How badly he wants to grind against him, and there’s a breath hot on his ear, a dark chuckle, and Baelor closes his eyes. He wants… he wishes..
Let him lose control.
Let him not have to think.
Let him just feel and be in the moment.
“Cock.”
Fuck it all.
He places both his hands on Lonnel’s face, yanking the other man into a searing kiss that is all clashing lips and teeth and tongue, tasting his own desperation on a wolf’s mouth and wanting nothing more to let go and lose himself in the moment.
They both make quick work of the other’s clothing, leather and linen and silks flying around the room, and when they are both left with nothing but the skin they were born in, it is Baelor the man who lets himself be dragged off by a hungry wolf to the warm bed waiting for them. Not the Crown Prince or the Hand of the King, but the man who is so tired and wants to just forget for a moment.
It is Baelor who sinks to his knees in the end.
~~~
Daeron, Alysanne was finding out, was a cuddler. He cuddled, he clung, he held onto her tightly as if she would disappear the moment he let go. Some part of him had to be wrapped around her. Be it hand or arm, leg or even toes, something about him led him to reach out and hold onto her as if he needed to know she was real.
It was also when he slept, as she was discovering while she woke slowly to the sounds of a tub being brought into her solar in the other room. Daeron was seemingly asleep, but at some point during the night he had managed to tuck her snugly beneath his body. A leg and arm were both pulling her close, and she was able to place her head underneath his chin.
Sore in places she never even knew she could be, it had been an experience last night.
Daeron knew what he was doing, that much was certain, but he had also said that there would be no one other than herself from now on, making her feel better. Everything had been surprisingly gentle at first, and when he had used his hands and mouth on her, it had been illuminating. Logically she knew what parts of him were to go into her, but it was one thing to read and learn about it, and quite different to have a hands on lesson.
When he had said he wanted to map her with his lips she had thought him exaggerating but was pleased to learn how wrong she had been there.
And when he had entered her, it had hurt at first, but after a while it felt so good and warmth flooded her face as she remembered more of what had taken place last night. If that was what sharing a bed was like then she could understand why some craved it so.
Fingertips trace patterns on Daeron’s sleeping face, blissfully calm, save for a slight twitch now and then. Mapping every inch of his face and committing it to memory, that was her task now. Alysanne wanted to remember this as a golden time.
“Aly, that tickles.”
Well, he was awake at this point, and perhaps it had been when she had run a finger down his nose that had done her in. Eyes might be closed but he is awake, and she snuggles as close as can be underneath the blankets. “Good morrow, husband,” she murmurs against his skin and puts a series of soft kisses against his chest. There is novelty in referring to him as such, and she wonders if he will call her wife for the same giddy reason.
“A bath is being made for us,” she adds, content to merely lay underneath his body, the weight a soothing comfort. And Daeron seemed more than happy to oblige in smothering her with his weight. A single purple eye cracked open, his amusement plain to see, and there was a slow smile forming on his lips that were still slightly swollen from the previous night’s activities. He did sniff a bit, taking in how they both smelled, and laughed softly.
“Mmmhmm, shall we bathe together then, wife?”
Well that will earn him a kiss on the nose, and she wiggles a bit to scoot out from underneath his bulk. Mournfully she moves the blankets to revel their shared nakedness and they both are slowly getting out of the bed, wrapped up in sheets and blankets once they untangle from one another.
There is a door from her private chambers into the small solar, and she opens it up, light shining too brightly to be dawn. Just how long had they slept in?
No matter, because the servants had outdone themselves.
Steam rises from the tub. Three tables had been set aside, with various soaps and oils for their use, along with several cloths to wash with on one. Thick fluffy towels were on the second. A third has two small trays of food, sliced meats and cheeses, freshly baked blackbread, and what looks to be water.
Daeron slips in first, and she eyes his body shamelessly, fully away that he knows she is doing such a thing. He had said he was not much of a knight yet at the same time she can see lines of muscle, the way certain parts of him were lean and long, others not so much. Parts that were still soft, others that were not; she wants to do as he did with her, and map them all. Commit him to memory.
He lets out a low groan of approval when finally in, water up to this chest and arms dangling off the sides of the tub. Alysanne follows, tentatively dipping a toe in the bath and very glad to see that the water is, indeed, perfect. She’s always preferred hotter baths.
Eyes are on her body when she manages to get inside the tub and maneuver so that her own back is now pressed up against his chest. The water level rises so that it covers her up to her neck and Daeron moves his arms to warp around her, holding her tightly against his body. Again, so close, as if she might disappear with the steam rising away.
“Would it be so sweet to stay here forever,” he whispers wistfully, running fingers along her arm. Longing and mournful, she is not sure if he means here in her rooms, or Winterfell proper, or even the North as a whole. To stay would be a lovely thing.
But to be a girl, girls were sold with the expectation that they would leave their homes and make a new one. Daeron was a man and the heir at that, so he would have been told something quite different from the start. Would he really give up all he knew, his way of life, to come to the North and live amongst the snows and winds?
Alysanne tilts her head up, bringing her hand to cup his cheek and gently turn his face down so that they might look at one another. Studying him, perhaps he would if given the chance, but they would never know. “We shall bring a bit of the North with us when we go, I promise,” she responds softly.
He gives her such an earnest grin, that it makes her smile in return. And then she lets her free hand snake down his side, running her nails across his stomach, his hip, and seeking a part of him she learned only last night would make him shudder with pleasure.
That gets her a raised eyebrow and cocky grin when she tentatively palms him underneath the water.
“Morning meal can wait. I wish to learn more about what makes you feel pleasure, if you will let me,” she asks then, and the groan slipping from his parted lips is a resounding yes. Boldly, she then adds, “Then you will use your mouth on me again, I quite liked that.”
Daeron laughs, cut short by a second moan, and shakes his head.
“Gods, wife, a quick study, you are.”
~~~
Morning brought the departure of many a Northern lord, though not until after an impromptu court was being held, much to Baelor’s surprise. He had not expected any sort of petitioning session to be held right after the wedding, but with nearly all of the North gathered it made sense.
Lord Beron did not sit in the high seat, the ancient stone imposing and holding weight, but rather at the long dining table that had been raised. Baelor was next to him, as was Maekar, Beron’s eldest son Donnor, and Valarr, all of them close. The rest of the family had been spread out among the table around them with the notable exception of the eldest daughter Berena and Artos Stark, both of them having headed out early with their families. Artos, for his mildly ill wife had stayed in Karhold and received a raven that he would need to return home due to the children now being ill; as for Berena, all Beron would say was that she and her husband would go back to Barrow Hall at first light due to some conflict with the castellan there.
Daeron and Alysanne had yet to grace them with their presence but no one was expecting it any time soon, if last night’s display was any indication of what they may be doing at the moment. Two trays had been sent up to them, regardless.
Baelor shifted slightly in his seat, the thought reminding him of just what his own nightly activities had led to this morning. His arse was still slightly sore, and he was walking just stiff enough for his brother to narrow his eyes with concern. Yet Maekar said nothing about it, thank the gods.
Lords were coming up every now and then during the meal, peppering Lord Beron with questions; some had questions on the length of winter and their stores holding, others about when the next harvest festival would be. Some had questions on trade routes. A proposed glass garden was discussed. Even a black brother from the Night’s Watch had come, though it was only just this morning, to thank Lord Stark and the crown for the increase in funds and new recruits sent.
A branch of the Flints had been the boldest. They had requested little Rodrik for fostering in hopes he might wish to be matched with their eldest daughter who was set to inherit their branch’s seat. A loud, “yes, please father, may I,” had been shouted before Lord Beron could even get his response, earning a round of laughter from many, including Baelor himself. Maekar had even cracked a smile.
Still, Baelor had found himself looking now and then around the Great Hall, for familiar mossy green eyes and dark hair.
Lonnel had yet to come down himself despite spiriting away before dawn had come.
Baelor had woken to the sound of the door being closed and the lack of warmth in his bed, much to his displeasure, even if logically he knew it was better this way. If they had been caught by anyone then it was possible that this whole arrangement might collapse. Better to escape before dawn than risk the wraith of the crown and the North.
“If you are looking for my son and his wife, you said it yourself, they are most likely still in bed at this hour,” Maekar comments at his side, idly picking at the cold meats and cheeses that had been served to him this morning, alongside the hearty black bread and butter.
“Merely wondering when they might show themselves.”
“Even I enjoyed the morning after my wedding in bed with Dyanna. This I will not complain about.” If it resulted in a grandchild being left unsaid, though they were all thinking it.
Yet the couple in question did, in fact, choose this moment to arrive. Clad in similar colors, the reds and blacks of House Targaryen and the whites and greys of House Stark, they walked hand-in-hand towards the main table and extremely close to one another. A striking pair, Baelor had to admit, and Daeron actually had managed to clean up properly once more.
Lady Alysanne had dropped into a neat courtesy, loose hair falling over her shoulders and for a moment Baelor could have sworn he saw a mark or two on her neck. And when Daeron bowed, the same could be said of him. The simple clean cut of the girl’s dress and bare shoulders, along with the boy’s undone buttons from the top of his doublet gave hint to just what they had been up to. Gods be good, they were shameless, but the bright smiles the pair gave everyone seated along with warm greetings and apologies for their delay had helped out the situation.
It was done. They were wedded, bedded, and finally he could worry about one less task at hand.
They could go home.
Baelor had shook his head at their antics, and relaxed. At least now he could eat in peace. If Lonnel did not show up, well, it was one night and not about to repeat itself. He lifted a piece of bread to his mouth and was just about to bite into the truly excellent black bread when the voice came.
“Brother, your graces, I wish you all well this morrow. I fear I have a request of my own if you would be willing to indulge?”
There stood in front of the table was Lonnel, utterly put together. Dressed in all black save for the snarling wolf embroidered on his shoulder, he was every inch the black wolf of his family. A pair of large boxes were beside him, and he had gotten up to place them both in front of Daeron and Alysanne. “But first, gifts for my favorite niece and my new nephew.”
Curiosity won out, as both he and Maekar turned to watch the newlyweds open the gifts.
A pair of matching recurve bows, made of stained and polished yew, along with fine leather quivers to go along with them. Etched into the leather were images of direwolves and dragons. Finally two pairs of protective gloves for each, and by the look on Alysanne’s face it looked as if she had been given priceless valyrian steel. Daeron looked oddly concerned, but something was whispered in his ear by his now-wife that made him relax, if only slightly.
Baelor took the moment to look at Maekar, with his eyebrow raised. The contemplative look on his brother’s face did not put him at ease. If Daeron was being gifted a fine bow, and the lady as well, no doubt there would be expectations of the young man showing up on the archery yards from now.
Did Daeron even remember how to shoot? A problem for another day.
“As for that request, I do wish to head South, to ensure my niece is not the only wolf down in King’s Landing, even if I am merely a Snow myself.”
Gods be good, the seven were testing him. Surely they were. Baelor turned his head from his brother back to the bastard making the request. Took in the toothy smile, the shining eyes, the tamed hair, how his clothing had clung to his form, showing off a solid, well formed build, those thick thighs. As if his traitorous body knew who he was looking at, heat started to pool in the pit of stomach.
Lord Beron seemed more pleased than anything else. “The lone wolf dies but the pack survives," he recited sagely, a glint in his eyes. Fondness for his younger brother and something else. Concern for his daughter, perhaps. “Of course you have my leave, so long as you regale us all with your tales when you come back home.” And then he turned his head to Baelor, looking to see if the Crown Prince would agree. Their eyes met and knowing dawned on him.
Beron Stark knew. Because Lonnel had told him.
Before or after last night was the question.
“We would welcome your brother with open arms, Lord Stark,” he found himself saying smoothly, not a hint of worry seeping out. “I believe Wyle Manderly will also be coming as well, as his father had spoken to me yesterday and made that request. It will be an honor to have them both among our party.”
“Ah, I do believe I have one more gift though, brother, your graces.”
Fuck this man.
Lonnel turned around and let out a loud, piercing whistle, and a blur of black came running through. It stopped right next to the man, taking a seat with a high pitched bark. Laughing, he scooped up the furry blur and walked over once more to Alysanne, handing over the creature that had joined them all.
“Fuck me, he got her wolf?”
Baelor tilted his head to Maekar, warning shining through. Language.
Lonnel, meanwhile, had nothing but a shining grin, all teeth, and it met his eyes with glee. “A wolfdog, your grace, and just a pup. Bred right on these grounds. My niece will be surrounded by dragons and it is only fit to give her something to remind her she is a direwolf, even when a dragon prince’s bride. As direwolves are hardly ever seen below the wall, this was the next best thing.”
A small bark of agreement sounded. By then all of the young children, including Aegon, along with Valarr and Kiera, had gotten out of their seats to meet the furry creature. Alysanne was getting the bulk of the kisses, and even Daeron was giving the small pup bellyrubs.
Prologue - Part One: The Raven & The Decree - Part Two: Northern Bound - Part Three: Beginnings Start At the End - Part Four: A Song For Wolves - Part Five: Days Counting Down- Part Six: Before The Old Gods - Part Seven: Where You Go, I Go - Part Eight: Snapshots of a Day - Part Nine: Prayers for the Broken Ones - Part Ten: Valar Morghulis - Part Eleven: Interludes - Part Twelve: Convergence - Part Thirteen: Tipping Point - Part Fourteen: The Hard Place - Part Fifteen: The Old Gods Smiled
[Cross Posted AO3]
Summary: The Trial of Seven and its aftermath.
Warnings: violance, sexual content, drinking, alcoholism, unhealthy coping mechanisms, death, mental health struggles, depression and self harm tendicies
Part Fourteen:
A Trial of Seven.
Baelor knew his brother’s sons well enough at this point to know that Aerion was cunning, capable, and knew when he was physically outmatched. Even though he was only knighted last year, the boy was a formidable opponent. More than talented with a sword, skilled on a horse, and knew what to do with a lance; Aerion was truly a product of skilled martial arts that Maekar could be proud of. He may have a cruel streak in him but he was smart enough as well to know despite Ser Duncan’s clear lack of formal castle training, the physical discrepancies alone would be enough to counter whatever skills Aerion had.
He should have seen this coming.
Maekar would fight for his son, for all of his children, that was a given. Yet he was forcing Daeron as well, who despite his recent improvements was never to be quite the accomplished knight his brother was. This was no archery contest, as he well knew that his eldest nephew was more than adequate with a bow these days thanks to his wife, and it seemed Maekar was aware of that fact. Perhaps to give Ser Duncan a chance. Another far better knight might be found to replace Daeron if he refused. Or more likely it was to have Aerion grateful for his brother’s support.
All three Kingsguard were compelled to fight by their duty to the Crown. And Aerion had said he was certain to have his seventh by dawn.
Which left Ser Duncan with no one save Ser Wyle Manderly, who had come in person to tell Baelor he would be at the hedge knight’s side, as a favor to both Daeron and to Aegon. Baelor had known that Wyle was accomplished enough, having done more in the North than in southern tourneys. Wilding raids and threats from reapers along the coast, as well as time spent warding in Winterfell had given the young man a decent reputation, and his travels down in the South, sometimes offering his services as a knight and others as a son of House Manderly, only ensured that the skills he learned were kept up to par.
“Truthfully, your grace, we both know that Daeron should not be riding, and is doing so only because his lord father bade him to. And while I know I cannot hope to compete against the Kingsguard or Prince Maekar, I am more than capable of knocking whoever it is Prince Aerion will get for his seventh and the prince himself right onto their arses.”
The door to the borrowed chambers creaked open. It was far too early for any pages or maids to be attending to him, and Baelor knew only a few would dare disturbed him this early.
“Aegon found four more knights to stand by Ser Duncan’s side, father. Ser Stephen Fossoway, Ser Humfrey Hardyng, Ser Robyn Rhysling, and Lord Lyonel Baratheon. Ser Humfrey Beesburry was to join them but Wyle had convinced him to stay out due to his leg. Too much a risk.”
Valarr had found out, just as he knew his son would, and brought him what he needed to know.
Baelor looked down, calculating the risk. Wyle would ride against Daeron, ensuring they both would make it out alive, and none of the Kingsguard would go too hard against him given the friendship between the prince and knight. Hardyng would ride for his goodbrother’s honor and was a decent knight to boot. As for Fossoway, there was little he could do, even if he was distinguished enough though he thought the man was a little too prideful to be of any help. Rhysling was good and could hold his own. Insane, but good.
Lord Lyonel though was a wildcard. He was not too surprised the man jumped at the chance to fight against the Crown and Targaryens given the recent issues, but was also unaware Ser Duncan had known him. The man was strong, skilled, and dangerous. The Laughing Storm.
Ser Duncan was still short a knight.
He looks at the letter again to try and find some meaning in the words written
That place. I have dreamt of that place, of a muddy meadow, and the sound of horses’ hooves against the ground. Knights charging in battle and yet I cannot make out their sigils through the mist and fog. A lingering sense of dread. Stench of rotting carcases.
Burning. I always smell the burning of human flesh.
Ashford Meadow holds something dangerous. Be careful, dragon king-to-be. The realm needs you for what is to come.
And I am willing to admit I may wish to see you seated on the Iron Throne, if only for my amusement to have a king on his knees for me later on. Perhaps this time I may go to my knees for a change should my king command me?
Valarr’s voice brings him back to the present.
“I intend to be the seventh.”
Baelor looked up from his desk, staring at his son’s face.
In this light Valarr looked like Jena. Steadfast. Devoted. A keen sense of right and wrong. Soft in ways that might hurt rather than help.
In this light Valarr looked like Baelor himself. Doing a duty that no one else would wish for. Putting the realm, the crown, their house’s reputation above himself.
In this light Valarr looked like himself. Young. Good, but not great. Unsteady. Untested. But determined. A future ahead of him. He does this not truly for Ser Duncan, but because this is what House Targaryen demands. To be honorable and good, to show the smallfolk they do still care about them.
Aerion would kill him given half the chance, even if Maekar remembered to pull his punches out of love for Baelor and his family.
And yet if his brother would forget himself in the heat of the moment...
Maekar loved Valarr, a beloved nephew, a piece of Baelor that was cherished, and would stand by Valarr when it came time for his son to take the throne.
But Maekar also was defending his own son. Men forgot themselves in the heat of battle.
There was only one other man, one other knight, who could stand against his brother blow for blow.
“No.”
He put down Lonnel’s letter, an attempt at trying to find meaning from the turmoil that had been bubbling around his head since this whole badly played situation unfolded. Valarr is good. Valarr is young. Valarr might not be able to hold his own and that is entirely Baelor’s fault. He had shielded his son from true battle out of concern.
Out of the fear and terrible experiences at Redgrass, at fighting forces who were supporting a man who was supposed to be kin.
Valarr did not know of the stink of blood or how it dried a rusted brown on armour. He did not know what it meant to slit a man’s throat with a sword or use a spear to gut an opponent. He did not know the need to weigh the cost of life against potential victory.
That was Baelor’s fault.
“Father, you must-”
“I said no.”
He understands why his son does this. To show not all Targaryens are as temperamental as his cousin. To show that they support the smallfolk as much as they do the nobility. That honor, chivalry, justice are things the family stands for. Not a cruel dictatorship, for all they were royalty. Not out of any loyalty towards Ser Duncan, but because it is what the moment demands.
The problem, at the end of the day, was that his family, their history, their legacy, his own legacy was a cruel one. The reasons men stood with his half-uncle were not unfounded. Targaryens burned their way through history till they had no more dragons. And dragons were what made them kings in the first place. Without them, they were just like everyone else.
Not exceptional. Merely men and no longer just below the gods.
No one was above the law.
Not smallfolk.
Not nobles.
Not princes.
Not even kings.
The realm needs you for what is to come.
“I have need for your armour.”
~~~
It almost makes sense. Clouds that linger overhead, the mist and fog rolling in.
Neither of them had slept much when Daeron had come back, a bruise on his neck, but talking very little about how it had gone with Ser Duncan. He had told her they had spoken, that he relayed the truth of his dream, and then laid down next to her in the dark of their room, burying his head into her neck and did not bother in holding back his sobs. That this whole mess had been seen, that he had known something would happen, and they had tried so hard to avoid it from even starting in the first place. After that they had merely held on to another close, her fingers running through his hair gently, as he did his best to curl his own body around her. At some point they both had drifted off to an uneasy sleep, to be woken by a gentle knock on the door several hours later.
A message was sent. Eat and then dress accordingly. A tray was brought for their comfort and when a maid stepped inside to help with her clothing, she had waved the girl away with the excuse of being able to do this for herself. All done while the weight of prophecy hung over them both.
A dragon would fall dead from the sky. Or one would lay its head on the belly of a wolf. Perhaps it would be both.
Someone would be dead by the end of this. Just who, only the gods knew.
There had been a boy sent to squire for Daeron in lieu of little Aegon’s absence. She could understand why the Egg went to his hedge knight and stood by him. Something about Ser Duncan stuck with him. Be it good or bad or indifferent, there was something there. A true knight he had talked about, defending the innocent, keeping to the vows that were sworn; an ideal in a world where everyone around him tried to crush the ideal.
Damn Aerion to the deepest, darkest, more painful seven hells there was for this.
Such fools, she and Daeron both, for thinking this could be changed.
They both are dressed. Daeron in the tunic and breeches that would be underneath the padding and his armour, heavy boots already on his feet. She is in a gown of black and red, and a circlet of battered bronze on her head, at the request of Prince Baelor. Something is familiar about it, a half-remembered memory, and she pushes away that thought to continue helping the borrowed squire dress Daeron, armour and all, for the Trial.
They walk down with the boy, who starts to help Daeron with his armour. Unlike his brother and father, or even his cousin, he had something entirely different from his family, save the helmet. Perhaps it was simply his choice to keep the armour simple. Or perhaps he had just told Wyle to choose for him. Either way she helps the borrowed squire, much to the curiosity of the other knights slowly making their ways to the stables and armoury near the entrance of the field.
The boy is sent away to ensure the horse is properly cared for towards the end. “I will tend to the straps,” she had said, and when they had been left alone in their tent, it had been her working her hands over the tightening of armour, the careful tuck of straps, and a kiss gently placed wherever her hands had been.
“Come back to me,” she whispers softly, once he is fully dressed and armoured. She takes a gloved hand and presses it against her stomach. “Come back to us.”
Is this what it feels like when a woman sends her husband to war? Damn Aerion for everything, and damn Maekar for not putting his foot down when he should have. Damn the gods for this moment.
His hands shake. Or her own shake. Perhaps they both are shaking, because neither of them want this to be happening, not when there is a very real chance something terrible will happen.
“Rule three. I suppose my reward shall be you, and our child, and perhaps some wine, a fireplace, and a warm bed. That is all I truly want,” he admits softly, a sad chuckle. And she lets out a broken laugh, leaning her own body against his. His face is pressed against her head, and she feels how his body shakes against her as arms are gripping tightly. “I am so very scared, dear one, so very scared.”
All that she can do now is hold him just as tightly back and pray that the old gods will spare him.
~~~
He is a coward and a fool and a disappointment and a drunk. He would admit it, not even pressed for it, and as he lets go of his wife and mounts his horse, he thinks on this moment, on those things, those failings, and wonders how anyone managed to see something in him that might make them think he could be anything but.
But Daeron is also a husband, a prince, and hopefully will live long enough to become a father. That his wife sees something in him, his friend, his cousin, his littlest brother, his sisters, they see something, and he knows that he has to at least try to keep to his promise.
There had been a request from his wife, one that he knows he should heed, and does so with terrifying faithfulness. A quiver filled to the brim with arrows and a bow, in addition to his sword. He thanks the boy tending to him, and sends him off as he climbs on top of the horse, only truly settled when he runs his fingers over the bow.
Aly was dutiful with her practice, even when they were Red Keep those few times and it was considered unseemly. And he, in this, was her faithful student. When no one would notice either of them, it was down to the training yards. As far as nearly every other soul knew, this was nothing but whispers and gossip.
More than once he would swear he saw Bloodraven watching when they were there.
It was easier in Summerhall, and when they would travel there they often had the archery yard to themselves, save the household guards from time to time. The Red Keep was worse. Most men would scoff and joke about how poor a knight he was if his wife felt the need to defend herself and not rely on her husband. Daeron had let them laugh, shrugging, because truthfully he was, in his opinion, horrid with a lance unless he took actual care, not barely above a squire’s skill with a sword unless he actually put effort into it, and would rather have his wife ride him than he himself ride a horse. Oh he had gotten better, yes, mostly because he was forced into it and mostly bribed into it, but he would never be his father’s or Aerion’s level.
But the archery lessons, well, he could say he was a decent shot, leagues better than where he was before he was married, and a halfway decent archer.
Again, a good student, when the reward was right and one he desired.
Oh, how his wife knew him. A small smile forms.
Not even his father knew about how good he truly had gotten, after practicing.
So when he trots out, seeing his father and brother in their armour, he manages to get his horse to obey and stops in front of them both, the smile dropping from his face. His hands shake, not from drink, not from withdrawal, but terror at the idea that he might leave his pregnant wife a widow. He ignores his brother and that ridiculous helm he fiddles with, and locks eyes with his father.
“You knew Aly is with child and yet you insist upon this course of action. I will not die here for Aerion’s foolery, especially when I am finally to be a father. You could stop this if you wished, honor be damned.”
Surprise blooms his father’s eyes at his defiance, and there, just for a moment, concern. Concern because he knows Daeron is not a strong knight, has never been, and no single good showing at a tourney would change that fact. Concern because he knows now what Daeron is risking being here, knows that his son does not wish to even take part in this farce. All because Aerion was never reigned in and left to his own devices. Aerion, who had done something horrific to an innocent woman. Over hurt pride. Over a perceived insult.
And then he turns to the brother in question, all pent up anger and rage, wanting nothing more than to smack Aerion off his horse and into the mud, to press him down and choke on the dirt till he cries out for air.
No, that would be kinslaying.
There are terrible sorts of curses in the world, and being a kinslayer brings them down on a man and his line. He would not do that, not to the babe in Aly’s belly.
Instead he meets his brother’s gaze, eyes devoid of any affection that may have once lingered between them. Septons might command a man to love his brother, but they say nothing of a monster wearing his flesh. There could be something witty hissed through clenched teeth. He could make a quip about the armour compensating for something lacking. The impracticalities easily pointed out and he doing so, that would irk his brother to no end. About his ego being so fragile he would start a riot just to tend to it.
He had loved his brother once.
He loved the boy who was a glad child, a happy child, a child who had enjoyed fishing and games and playing pretend.
Some part of him still does love his brother, or at least the memory of the boy his brother was.
Instead Daeron gives him a once over, disdain heavy in his gaze, and trots off to take his position on the field. Wyle, atop his own steed, gives a nod in the distance, riding for Ser Duncan at Daeron’s request.
Waiting.
Counting.
Ser Duncan only has six knights.
Damn it. Damn everything to the seven hells. Damn Aerion. Damn himself, for being distracted by the horrors and letting Aegon run off, damn this gods forsaken tourney.
That honorable fool, that good, honorable, true knight was going to die.
Daeron swallowed thickly and…
A rider enters. The black of their house. The dragon on the armour. Valarr’s armour.
No.
“Gods be good, Others fucking take me now,” he whispers.
Valarr? Baelor let…
No, no, gods no.
The helmet is off now, and he wants to throw up.
That is Baelor, in Valarr’s armour. Slightly ill-fitting, and he is certain there will be issues with the helmet given the fit and trouble he had when removing it from his head, but that is his uncle, no doubt. The only man who was a match for his father. The best of House Targaryen. A most honorable knight. The Hammer to his father’s Anvil.
“A great beast with wings so large they could cover this meadow,” he whispers. For who was the greatest dragon here other than Prince Baelor? His father? Perhaps, but no one loomed such a large shadow as the heir to the Iron Throne. They all stood underneath his shadow at the end of things. His father. Himself. Aerion. Aegon. Valarr. They all here were underneath the greatest of their family, and the shadow that Baelor cast was so large that it seems ridiculous that he did not realize it sooner.
Clarity always came after the fact.
Daeron cannot make out what words are being said between his father and uncle, but no doubt that his father is very displeased with this turn of events. Little can he do now, not when they are to take their positions on the field.
The septon says his words.
The horn blares.
Then it is chaos.
Horses charge. Lances are lowered. Wyle is coming at him and he knows that it will hurt, when the impact happens. Not too much, though Daeron does lower his lance if only to ensure the shield is hit rather than Wyle. He feels it, in a sort of detached way, the lance to his chest, the momentum of being knocked down, and he falls with the motion as his horse moves forward but he does not.
Like he promised he lays there, if only to catch his breath and gather his bearings. Bow, yes. Quiver, still there. Sword, yes, not in his hand, but it is there, and in a daze he only manages to just avoid being stomped on by rolling to the side.
"I dreamed of you and a dead dragon, you see. A great beast, huge, with wings so large they could cover this meadow. It had fallen on top of you, but you were alive and the dragon was dead.”
The prophecy. Baelor. A dead dragon.
Gods, he is so afraid.
He could lay there, in the mud. He could just stick to his promise and do nothing. He could let fate handle this all, let it come to pass. He could be a coward and just do as he always had done, because that was the only thing he could do. There was no fighting fate.
The realm would mourn.
His father would mourn.
Valarr would mourn.
So many would mourn.
A dead dragon.
But the guilt would be there. A terrible, awful guilt, and he remembers how badly he wanted his mother to live, how he knew that he should have done more, should have written, should have begged her to do something sooner, if only so that there might have been the smallest of chances.
Daenys had saved her family, saved Targaryens, saved dragons..
Who could he save?
Aly, with her smile, with her laugh, with her dreams, with her warm hands, with her grey eyes.
His wolfblooded girl.
His courageous wolfblood girl, who stood tall in that tent, who held him in her arms, who dared to push him to at least try to be better.
Daeron stands.
Slowly. Not surely. But he stands, and he swallows his fears and doubts and tries not to shake when he takes a familiar stance, pulls an arrow from his quiver, and takes aim at the chaos ahead of him. Breathes in as he pulls the string back, and exhales as the arrow flies.
Again.
And again.
To keep as many away from Baelor.
The problem, he realizes in his daze, is that arrows run out. And sooner rather than later he has no more, which leads him to the choice now.
“The dragon was dead.”
He did not wish to die. Not today. Not here. Not now.
“The dragon was dead.”
Fossoways fight on another. A Kingsguard down. Wyle against a White Cloak. Another knight against Hardyng, who looks to be injured. The third against Rhysling. Aerion and Ser Duncan. His father had thrown Baratheon off his horse.
His father thrown off his horse by his uncle.
The Hammer and the Anvil, fighting against one another.
“The dragon was dead.”
“No. No, please, no.”
“The dragon was dead.”
Daeron closes his eyes.
“The dragon was dead.”
Daenys saved her family.
“The dragon was dead.”
Fuck fate. Fuck the gods. Fuck everything about this.
Daeron runs.
It is chaos and bloody and messy and he is not sure how he does this, but there is yelling, and he thinks someone is yelling his name, shouting at him to stay back, to stay away, that he has lost his damn mind. But he still runs.
“The dragon was dead.”
“You were a dragon. Your scales were the color of your hair and you were flying, with a direwolf running through grass, by your side.”
The first words she ever spoke to him. He has a smile on his face. His father, he sees his father, he sees the mace, he sees his uncle in Valarr’s armour, the helmet too small for his head.
“A wolf with bloody paws, on a foggy meadow, howling. Not here, but… somewhere. I don’t know. Pain but the wolf was not the one hurt. I think. Or maybe it was.”
He remembers. He remembers her words, he remembers how shaken she was.
“Do not go where I cannot follow.”
“I promise, Alysanne, I truly promise.
He is scared, so very scared, and there is his father and his uncle, and he is running and running, and pushing Baelor away because he sees the mace, hears his father screaming in panic and fear and knows that the blow will not held back, and he is so sorry, so very sorry, he did not want this to happened, please gods, old gods new gods please please pleasepleasepleaseAlypleasesorryAlyAlyAlyAly-
~~~
Morning mists made it all the harder to spot the riders. But Daeron’s plume, the ridiculous green silk feather he and Wyle had picked out when they were both designing the new set of armour for Daeron, sticks out like a beacon.
Never would Aly say anything bad about that damn feather. Not when it gave her hope that her husband was still there, still alive, and among the living. Knocked off his horse, yes, but Wyle had taken some care to do it where the injury would only be bruising. Daeron had kept his promise to her, and to Ser Duncan, and stayed put.
Not lying on the ground though, which is concerning. Yet there is the bow in his hands, the one he had received when they had wed, and the quiver. Her heart beats fast and she watches as he gets up, taking a stance that she remembers teaching him.
Not perfect. But the amour is in the way and they never practiced with it in the first place. When they returned to Summerhall she would demand he learn to shoot with the armour, no arguing at all. Thankfully she is able to somewhat see, it seems, and it does the trick and there are arrows being let loose on the field to keep most of the others away from Baelor.
But he only has so many and now he is getting fully up. Running, why is he running? Where is he…
No, no, no, the dragon, that cannot be Baelor and…
Aerion is beat. But there is fighting going on still, and there’s a mace, and Maekar is screaming, and there’s that stupid green feather, why is Daeron running, why is he tackling Baelor, why is he…
“No, gods please, no, do not do this, please,” she whispers.
He promised he would stay down. That Wyle would knock him off the horse and give a good thump to his head and let him stay out of the thickest fighting. Shoot all the damn arrows he had, just he would stay away. He promised her he would live.
White noise buzzes in her ear. Somewhere someone is calling her name but Alysanne ignores every warning and takes off in a run, down to the stairs, down and away. Away from the lords, the guards, and pushes past the smallfolk watching with keen eyes, never one taking her gaze from the field.
They part for her. It may be the wolfdog at her side. It may be because she had done a kindness to the puppeteers the evening prior, had denounced what had happened, had done that in her name and Daeron’s in an attempt to show that yes, they still cared. Perhaps the will of the gods they part. But she forces her body to climb over the barricades with the strength of a woman possessed and jumps down into the muddly field.
Skirts lifted, legs break into a run, uncaring of the scratches for her to leave, that this is no woman’s place. That she is in danger as horses run wild.
Aerion had yielded. It should have been over.
Someone is shouting Daeron’s name. Screaming it over and over like a prayer.
Wait.
Is that her own voice?
His helm is bloody. Why is his helm bloody?
She sinks down into the ground, pulling Daeron’s head into her lap, uncaring of the cold bloody mud.
“Daeron, Daeron, please, open your eyes my love, please, just open your eyes.”
Distantly she can hear Maekar’s own hoarse cries. Her goodfather has sunk into the mud next to her, pleading for his son to wake up, to say something, anything. Begging for forgiveness, begging the gods to take him, and that he never meant to hurt him, his boy, his oldest, his first born, and Daeron is not moving.
His hair should be a sandy blond. Not muddy and red and brown, but sandy blond, and why is it so bloody?
“You promised me, you swore you would stay safe, my love. Daeron, please, I cannot do this without you. Open your eyes. Say something. Anything, please. Wake up.”
A twitch. A groan. Her name whispered on lips barely moving, but his eyes were closed, and she leaned to take a gloved hand in his own and squeezed hard.
“Daeron, please, I am begging you, wake up, wake up now, wake up, you promised me Daeron, you promised me and our child you would not die.”
“B-b-bael.. liv..”
Words slip out as his eyes flutter open, glassy and unseeing, and tears slip down her face.
“Yes, yes, he does, he lives, you saved him, my love, but you must stay awake for me.”
“Ba-ba-be?”
“Yes, a babe, we will have a babe, and you will be there and hold them, and sing to them, and tell them of all your dreams, the good and the bad, and we will… Daeron, no, please, open your eyes, Daeron? Daeron, please, do not go where I…”
The maesters are taking him away and someone is tugging at her arm, is it Wyle? Maybe the Fossoway boy? Someone is yelling at her to move, and she turns to see the reason behind this madness.
Aerion. On his knees. Bloody. Bruised. Beaten. Breathing.
Alive.
Alive while Daeron is dying.
Aerion is alive while Daeron is dying, because Aerion does not know when he has crossed the line, when he has treaded into madness that spills and ruins everything, and she hates him more than anyone else in the world now.
“If he dies, there is nowhere you will hide,” she hisses, hands shaking, and she grabs Daeron's fallen bow, and nocking an arrow, taking aim right at the source of all this pain and suffering.
There is a circlet of battered bronze on her head. Her dress is black and red, rich in cloth, simple in cut. Her hands are bloody yet they hold a bow in one hand, an arrow in another.
She had dreamed this once upon a time.
“I will hunt you down.”
One step closer.
“You will beg and plead for mercy. None will be granted.”
Two steps closer.
The tip now is at his throat. Still and solid.
“You will be slit from navel to neck, and your entrails hung from the branches of a weirwood tree so that you may finally be of some use for the first time in your wretched existence.”
The arrow presses closer, and from the fog, her Shadow emerges, teeth barred and growling softly.
“Wolves will feast on your bones and there will be nothing left to burn. Cursed to the deepest pits of your seven hells. You will suffer and I will grant you no absolution.”
Aerion sinks to his knees, and she turns, taking aim at the fallen shield he had carried, and letting the arrow lose. It hits dead center, and she turns back, eyes cold as ice, to give one last look at Aerion Brightflame before he is dragged off.
A hand is on her shoulder, and she stills, the buzzing in her ears.
“Alysanne.”
She turns to face her uncle, travel-worn and weary, the oldest she has ever seen him, and feels the hot pinpricks of tears in her eyes. “You are late,” she chokes out, doing the best she possibly can to stay present in the moment. Something warm is running down her cheeks and a hand touches her face, only to pull back and see the red of fresh blood mingling with the hot tears that fall freely.
No one speaks. No one cheers.
The trial is over.
But what of the cost?
~~~
Lonnel knows he was late.
Perhaps part of that was unconsciously on purpose. Perhaps in this he was selfish. Perhaps for the first time in his gods-cursed life, he was scared. Something terrible would happen at Ashford. He knew without a doubt it would be heartbreakingly terrible. For himself. For Alysanne. For the damn Targaryens that had interwoven their lives with the ones he cared about.
Death loomed over this place.
He dreamt of a pyre.
People give him a wide berth. Perhaps it was due to his escorting his niece to where her husband lay on his sickbed, lingering, but close to death. Not one single lord had commented on his being in the castle, and not a single servant had uttered a word to him, not when he was very much allowed to touch the prince’s wife. Family, they assumed, which would be correct.
It made it easier to slip out of Daeron’s sickroom where he had left Alysanne, and head to where he knew he would be needed as well.
He would expect to hear Maekar’s voice. To hear the man shouting at the gods for what was happening. To hear him bark orders, to command them to give him his son back, that he would do what it would take to have Daeron open his eyes.
Two sons in sickbeds.
Only one was expected to make it.
What he walks into is a man broken, staring out into the void of nothingness, still clad in the armour covered in mud and blood, the weapon he used to bash his own son’s head in on the ground in front of him. Red and brown splatters on his face, his hair, his beard, and he looks older than he truly is. Sitting and staring into nothing, guilt etched into a face that looks so wrong on the Anvil, but at home on a father’s.
Baelor is there. Watching. Waiting. Still armoured.
“Alysanne is with Daeron now,” he said without any pretense. Maekar does not move. Baelor does, head tilting towards him and eyes are widening in surprise. Of course he would be.
Shamefully, relief blooms in his heart.
Baelor is alive.
Daeorn lay dying and Baelor is alive.
Gods, he was a monster in man’s skin. Terrible, truly.
“Did you know she is with child?” he asks softly, and that is what gets Maekar to finally move. A slow turn of the head, looking at Lonnel as if he were some sort of unfathomable creature. Did he know? If he did, why did he still allow Daeron to step foot on that field, knowing the young man was terrible at jousting? A terrible knight, truly, though his aim was getting better with a bow; he still had no reason being there beyond being forced to by his father. And now he would be leaving his pregnant wife a widow before the babe even quickened in her belly.
Dyanna Dayne’s death had taken something from Maekar. It had made him less than who he was before, hardened him somehow.
Lonnel wonders if Daeron’s will shatter the man completely.
He watches as the man stands abruptly, tearing out of the room as if ghosts haunt Maekar’s back, leaving him alone with Baelor. Quietly he closes the door, leaving no question as to if someone could spy on either of them in this room, and Lonnel lets his hand hover over the lock for just a moment before ensuring no one will come inside. He does not turn around to look at Baelor when he speaks.
“Take off your armour.”
“Lonnel, I need-”
“No. He has to do this alone. Take off your armour.”
“You do not-”
Here is when he turns, eyes burning, hoping to burn away what shielded the other from too much harm.
“Take. Off. The. Armour.”
Here is where Baelor does not listen, and steps forward to move past Lonnel. He puts up his hand against the metal breastplate and pushes back, eyes locked onto Baelor’s, and snarls at the man. All of it, the rage, the sadness, the anger, the fear, it bubbles up and he gives a shove to the Crown Prince in desperation to get the man to stand down.
“He dreamt of your death. Daeron dreamt of it.”
That gets Baelor to still. Eyes blown wide. But the man is not moving, and Lonnel takes a deep breath, and gives another shove to get the man into a chair.
“I did not know what he meant when he spoke of a dead dragon, so large, but fell from the sky and was dead on top of a knight. We talked, or rather I interrogated and he opened up, when you all came to Winterfell. You were never mentioned by name.”
And here is where he lets out a bitter laugh. Because somehow, by some twist of fate or will of the gods, or Daeron being so fucking stupid and finding some strange sort of courage, he managed to alter fate and save the one person who should have died today. Here he drags a chair and goes to sit directly in front of Baelor, the weight of everything crashing down on them both all at once.
He can see it, when Baelor’s eyes are still wide as saucers, that he is not moving, that he is looking at Lonnel and not sure if he wants to believe or not.
“And Alysanne, she dreamt something different. Not as often, but she did. A dragon with a bloody head on a wolf’s swollen belly. She wrote to me about it.”
Here is where he finally breaks eye contact, resting his head in his hands, eyes shut tightly. He does not wish to see what happens next.
He has, in his own dreams, the flames licking the skin of a dragon.
Howling wolves.
Snow. So much snow.
His niece, broken, laying on the ground, eyes unseeing.
“There are so few people in this world that I truly do love, that I would burn the whole of existence for. Alysanne. My brother. My nephew Donnor.”
And here is where he has to open his eyes, wrapping his arm around the back of Baelor’s head. Digging into short cropped, sweaty locks, and pulling the man close so that he can smell the stink of death on his prince’s skin.
“And gods damn me, you most of all, Baelor Targaryan.”
He has seen terrible things. He has done terrible things. Blood and death. Killed men in the shape of a wolf. Taken lives as if they were of little consequence. Torn into the flesh of others with little regard to the humanity they might have possessed. Tasted the metallic taste of blood as a man and as a wolf. Manipulated and murdered and bloodied his hands so that those he loved would not have to.
“He told me that. A dead dragon. And who is the greatest dragon among you all, but you, Baelor. And seeing you here, alive, breathing… I am a horrible, awful person Baelor but I will not lie and say that if only for a moment I did not feel relief when seeing you draw breath.”
He presses his forehead against Baelor’s own, slick with sweat and mud and blood, and ignores the way something wishes to claw its way from out of his chest. Ignore the need to run and be clear of this terrible place. To drag away the heir to the Iron Throne elsewhere, somewhere, anywhere but here.
“Take off the armour. I will tend to your wounds.”
A mercy that the man stills and lets Lonnel touch him, removing piece by piece armour that is not his own, not with all ill fitted it seems to be, and he is oddly careful, at odds with how they normally are. He uses the basin of warm water left out and a piece of cloth to wipe away the grime and the mud from Baelor’s face, then forces clothes off piece by piece till he is merely in his small clothes and lacking any shirt at all.
Bruises will show in the morning. But Lonnel works with that, letting Baelor sit in silence without saying anything. Only when he gets to Baelor’s wrist and sees the band of leather around it, the same one that he has on his own, does the man finally speak.
“You dreamt of this place.”
“Yes.”
“Of death. Of a pyre and burning human flesh.”
“Yes.”
“Is that why you were late?”
Lonnel freezes, pausing his touches, and places a hand on Baelor’s throat, thumb brushing against the small bump there.
“Truthfully, I am not sure.”
A whisper of a sigh. Mismatched eyes flutter closed. Lonnel breathes in and still smells death. It is lingering now.
“Daeron is dying. In my place, he is dying, and he changed fate. What will happen now?”
A hand is on his wrist and Lonne looks at Baelor, who has opened his eyes. For the first time he shows his own fear, naked and plain, and looks more a man than he ever has.
“Only the old gods know. Let us pray they have mercy alongside their cruelty.”
~~~
Alysanne sits. Still as stone. Immovable.
Daeron’s hand is in her own, still warm, still alive, still present.
His eyes are closed. He does not move with purpose. He does not react to anything she does. He draws little breath, and his chest rises and falls, but it is slowly worsening, and he is not there, not truly.
He is somewhere she cannot follow.
He is leaving her.
“You broke your promise.”
It comes out harsher than anticipated. But she means it. Every word she speaks, she means, and she sits there, holding his hand, and pulling it towards her stomach. Places the still-warm palm of his hand against the still-flat belly, and looks down at where her fingers lace into his. He is leaving her for somewhere she cannot go. Not yet. Not without something drastic.
“You are leaving me, alone in this existence, with your child in my belly, and going somewhere I cannot follow, not without yet another tragedy.”
There were tears. Because of course there. Because she had held it in long enough, held the anguish and the fear and the hurt just long enough to make it to this room, this horrible, dreadful room, with its dark walls and dark colors and dark paintings and dark woods and everything about it is dark, dark, dark, going to swallow them up.
Four eggs they had each seen. Four of them. Guarded by a direwolf and a dragon.
The gods had shown them that yet there is only one in her belly.
“You promised me a life. Together. You and me.”
The door creaks open and heavy footsteps echo in the quiet of the room. Yet she stays still, eyes never leaving Daeron’s still form, never letting go of the still warm hand. It matters not that she knows the sounds of armour clinking, the weight of grief and guilt pressing down suddenly. That there is someone now in the room who is partially responsible for this tragedy. Not wholly, no, that would be too kind, but there is some guilt that will never be taken away.
Maekar takes a seat across from her.
She cares not.
They sit in silence.
Time passes. The maesters come in. They look and see, and leave, because there is nothing they can do. Not when the rising and falling of Daeron’s chest is slowing. Not when the warmth of his hand is slowly bleeding away.
They leave.
“Aerion will be punished.”
Alysanne does not bother to look at him as she speaks. A prince or not, there is nothing here that could force such obedience. Not now. Not after everything. Not after this.
“You will send him away. You will do that the very moment he will be fit for travel, and I will never breathe the same air as him ever again. I will not suffer his presence when we both know that it should be him laying here. Not Daeron.”
Maekar makes no protest. Good.
And here is where she lifts her head, forcing herself to gaze upon a man who is breaking apart at the seams. A hard man. A warrior shattered. A man who swore to cherish his children, his wife, his line, who loves so deeply but cannot show it lest he be reminded he is just a man and not a dragon.
“You will know this child. They will not be kept from you. But Aerion will never come near them and should I ever lay eyes on him again, treason be damned, I will remove him from this wretched life with my bare hands if need be.”
Gently she puts Daeron's hand back next to his body. Leans forward to brush his sandy blond hair out from his eyes. Puts a gentle kiss on his forehead, then his hips, and hovers over, as if to will him to open his eyes and proclaim it was all just a jape. That he is fine and whole and healthy and they will be going home to Summerhall, because that is where they were happy. Summerhall and Winterfell, and that is home, where he is, where they made it, and she brushes away the stray tears that fall on his unmoving face.
And slowly she moves away, standing to her full height every inch the queen Daeron would proclaim her to be.
Wolfblooded girl, queen of my heart.
She walks slowly, deliberately, and leans next to her goodfather, to a prince of the blood, Prince of Summerhall, the Anvil from Redgrass Field, Maekar of House Targaryen, and leans down to hover the vermouth directly next to his ear.
“You may have swung the mace, and truthfully I do not think that I shall ever forgive you, but the bulk of this lies with Aerion. Do not forget that.”
Nothing. No reaction. Not even the clenching of fists, and she straightens, walking out of the room and towards the godswood of Ashford castle.
Servants blow their heads as she walks past. They look and stare and bow in respect, and when they think she is out of earshot, they whisper of the wolfgirl who had married a drunken prince, how they came to a tourney and found only heartbreak and tragedy. They whisper their words and it grows louder and louder till it leaks to the lords and she is sure by the end of this day, the whole of this wretched place will know that Daeron is dying and there is nothing that can be done.
She cannot do this. Not here. Not now.
She cannot breathe.
She cannot…
She will not…
She wants…
Alysanne steps foot into the godswood, a tiny little thing, but there is still a weirwood at the center, and she is nearly running to the familiar white bark and red leaves.
Her legs give out, knees buckling down, and she is on the ground, knees and hands touching ancient roots, and here is where she pulls out the knife Daeron had gifted her. Not a terribly large thing, small enough to keep hidden, but long enough to do damage in the wrong hands.
“You will keep a blade on you at all times when I am not by your side.”
“You will learn. From the master-at-arms, Wyle, or even if I have to write to your uncle and drag him down here myself, but you will learn and you will know to defend yourself as dirty as possible because he thinks himself a dragon, who everyone else is meat. I will not lose you, not like that.”
“Have you-”
“No. Not yet. Pray to the gods that neither one of us have such dreams.”
In the North, there were stories about blood sacrifice. Of promises made in deep and dark woods, before heart trees, where men and Children would beg the gods and give them their own blood to sustain a promise. Cautionary tales told to the young to respect the powers of the gods, of their grip, and not seek to dabble too deep into magics beyond their control.
She presses the cool metal to her palm, barely feeling the splitting of her skin, and lets her blood drop on the white bark of the weirwood.
“Bring him back.”
Bargaining with the gods. Pleading and begging and giving the gods the life in their veins, in some desperation. Warnings of what it could bring. She does not care.
“Bring. Him. Home.”
She slips into Old Tongue, language of her people, language of her prayers, words no one else will hear save the gods themselves. Promises her devotion. Promises to raise her child with the will of the old gods, to honor and exalt them forever and day. Promises vengeance upon Aerion Brightflame. Promises to bring back magic into this world.
If only they let him live.
If only they let Daeron come home.
Bloody red leaves rustle in the wind.
Alysanne Stark stands and turns, palms dripping blood as she walks away, through the window halls of Ashford castle, and into a room where her husband is dying.
Her dragon prince.
Her Daeron.
“Do not go where I cannot follow.”
“I promise, Alysanne, I truly promise.”
No purpose in this death. For what? Wounded pride?
Maekar is still there, at his son’s side. Still in his armour. Still unmoving. She ignores him and crawls on the bed, laying down next to Daeron’s unmoving form, the slow rise and fall of his chest the only indication that he is still there. That somehow he draws breath and still lives. Curls her form into his and takes his hand into her bloody one, and holds on tight.
People come in.
Baelor and Lonnel. Wyle. Valarr and Kiera. Aegon.
Up and down. Slower and slower.
“I drink to forget. Daeron the Drunken, they have dubbed me. A poor knight, I suspect it was merely the princely title that led to the knighthood. A coward. So I drink to numb the dreams, and the terrors they bring me. Block out the terrible endings, the death and destruction, for how can I truly be able to change those fates?”
He was not one, not a coward, not when it mattered.
Stupid and foolish and terrible to do so, to find courage like that.
“You changed fate, Daeron,” she whispers softly, as his chest rises once more. And then it goes down.
Stills.
Nothing.
~~~
Daeron Targaryan dies in the arms of his wife, surrounded by those who loved him best.
~~~
There is a pyre being built.
Targaryens are burned.
But there are no more dragons to burn them, so men must do it themselves.
~~~
He looks like he is sleeping.
An egg, a sandy colored thing with black spots on the bottom, is laid on top of him. A cradle egg, placed in his own cradle, and brought because he had felt some sort of strange need to bring it with him. Packed in one of the trunks that held their clothing, wrapped up in the very linens that clad him now. It was warm to the touch when she had lifted it up and placed it upon his body. A drop of her own blood on it, from the cut on her palm that had opened, marred the coloring. A lock of her own hair, woven throughout his fingers, so some part of her would be with him. A weirwood branch taken from the godswood in Ashford, held in his palm with the egg on top.
Aerion is not there.
Confined to his bed still, injured, but breathing. Alive when his elder brother is not.
She wonders if he were here, if she would be able to slit his throat, let the blood seep into the pyre. An offering to appease the gods. Not quite a fair trade, but Aerion was the reason Daeron was gone in the first place.
A septon says some words. White noise buzzing in her ears. There are torches, several of them, and they are handed out to the family. Maekar. Aegon. Baelor. Valarr. Kiera. Herself at the end. They all step forward. She by his head. Baelor by his feet. Aegon and Maekar to his left. Valarr and Kierra to his right.
Floating. They are floating and she is floating, and none of this seems real anymore. Is this dreaming? Is this a nightmare? A false vision or truth?
When will she wake?
“I love you… I love you.... I love you… Dracarys,” she whispers softly.
He taught her that word.
Torches move down. The pyre is lit, and they all step back, save her.
It feels so hot. Is this real?
She wishes it were not.
“We will see one another again one day. I promise,” she murmurs, the heat rising, flames nearly licking at her cloak. A hand is pulling her back as the torch drops onto the pyre, and she keeps her eyes towards Daeron as the fire burns brighter, hotter, larger than it has any right to.
