Chapter Text
Rhae, the boldest of them with Egg and Aerion gone, was the one to break his solitude. He’d been holed up in his chambers since their return from the tourney, avoiding others and their judging stares. His father must’ve agreed with his notion for once, since the servants made themselves scarce except for the most necessary functions, and that could only have been with his blessing. His father hadn’t been shy about sending the larger servants in to drag him out for dinner or a dressing down before, but Daeron supposed he finally accepted the peace of not having to see his failure of an eldest son over whatever imagined propriety his presence was meant to fulfill.
It had been a hard night, and a hard morning, and the afternoon wasn’t looking very likely either, the nightmares making him clench his teeth as he slept, and he was subsequently suffering through a headache that seemed to radiate from the back of his eyes. It hurt to keep them open, but it scared him to close them, leftover echoes of sobbing coming from the very earth itself and blazing fire ringing in his ears. It seemed to be another dragon on a pyre, and people all around, waiting to throw themselves on the pyre with it. It was hard to breathe in the dream, even with no smoke coming from the pyre or anywhere he could see, and the feeling carried into the waking world; eyes open or closed, he saw ash fluttering about, and the burning smell wouldn’t leave his nose. Combined with the hangover and the residual pain along his scar, he was miserable.
He needed to drink, but it hurt too much to move. He’d have to wait until the thirst grew more unbearable than the pain to make for the cellars. He flinched at the sound of the door opening, her quick, light steps noisy in the quiet, and Daella’s hushed Don’t bother him was already too loud. Then he felt like an animal for dreading his sisters, guiltily turning over so he could squint up into Rhae’s worried face.
“Good morrow, brother. Daella says you’re too ill to visit,” she said, excruciatingly loud. He tried to hide his flinch at her volume. Her smile was charming, with some of her milk teeth fallen out and the adult teeth still growing in. She was growing up much too fast, and he was missing it, laying about in bed. He felt even more rotten to see her.
He covered up his flinch badly, because her face fell before she dropped her voice to a whisper. “We miss you, brother. You always make up the best stories for our dolls.” Rhae held up the doll meant to be doing the most missing, it seemed. Daeron recognized it, with a dress like their mother’s but Valyrian hair. They had named her Nymeria, for whatever reason. Daella looked apologetic behind her, like she knew he was being disturbed.
“Good day, Dae,” he said, with a smile that felt more like a grimace, but she smiled back, glad he was well enough to make their joke. The dragon wasn’t so small, so it can’t have been either of them. He took some solace in that.
“To you a good day, Dae,” she replied sadly. She took in the state of him with a frown; she favored their father then. “We could leave you, if it’s too much trouble to speak.” He never wished more to be different than how he was right then. He wanted to say they couldn’t bother him, or disturb him, or set his head to throbbing again with just their voices, but none of it would come out; he could lie to everyone else, but not them, it seemed. He could only squeeze his eyes against the noise and light for some moments before opening then again when Rhae brushed her hand lightly against his ruined cheek.
“I’ve been feeling quite poorly, my dear,” he said. “I do not wish to spread it to you.” He said the last with a smile and a kiss to her hand. He couldn’t ever find the words to explain how he felt to his satisfaction, but even if he could, he would shield the younger ones from it. Aemon and Aegon could both escape the sweep of his sickness, but that still left the girls to be affected; he didn’t think himself to be that sort of monster, to involve them.
She pulled her hand away and pressed it to his forehead. “You aren’t fevered, though,” she said plaintively, looking up at Daella. He was fortunate that Rhae didn’t yet understand the nature of his affliction, but Daella did, as far as she could.
She frowned down at her sister. “Not all illnesses will show with a fever,” she began. “Some–” she stopped herself from continuing, having second thoughts about sharing such knowledge with her sister. “Some are quieter.” He wished it were so. The pounding through his head was breathtaking, but his need for wine finally outweighed it, her words tipping the scales.
“Such wisdom at so young an age. The Citadel suffers not to accept you.” The three of them were taken by surprise by their father, watching them from the door. How much had he heard? And how cross would he be with Daeron, driving his sisters to concern with his weakness? He really needed a drink now.
Their father came up behind the girls, putting a gentle hand on their backs. Their father looked down at the girls with a warmth Daeron never recalled him using on him. It made his heart ache and gladden, to miss it and to see that they had it. “What brought you to your brother’s room today, my doves? Has he finally sent for family?” Being spoken of like he wasn’t there was possibly the best outcome, and he hoped Rhae would chatter away enough to distract him and lead him out.
“We miss him, and his stories. Nymeria too.” She held up the doll as if she’d agree.
The sharp intake of breath was their father’s, the one he made when he saw an opening in the yard, in cyvasse, or in an argument, and moved to press an attack. Daeron started to shift away from the edge of the bed, as if it would do anything to protect him, and Daella looked worried, recognizing it too. “Why has he been hiding here, then? I’m sure he misses Nymeria too.”
The question was enough to encourage Rhae, who piped up, the only one still fearless in the face of their father; she hadn’t learned to fear him yet, thankfully. “Daeron says that he feels poorly, and stays here to spare us, like when I had my coughing fits.”
“Is that so?” he asked in a voice that made him sound like a different man from the one he knew. He almost wondered where the real Maekar had got to. “Then it is very thoughtful of him to stay here, away from us.” The girls looked chagrined at the comment. “And it is very thoughtful of you to look after him.” They brightened at the praise, and looked to him to confirm it wasn’t a lie.
His smiles had stopped making the scar itch, so it wasn’t so bad to give them one. “It was. Thank you for thinking of me.” Both girls leaned down to kiss him on the forehead, and he drew Nymeria towards him so she could kiss him as well, earning a giggle from Rhae. A hand pressed to their backs was enough for the girls to know their father wanted them out of the room, and they looked back at Daeron and waved as they left, their father shutting the door behind them.
Whatever softness he feigned for the girls melted away as he appraised Daeron in bed. “You’ll join us for dinner tonight.” A command, not a request. He needn’t have wondered where his father had got to–there he was.
He closed his eyes against him. “I wasn’t lying to them, father. I feel ill.”
“I have no doubt your hangover pains you. Lying in bed all day is no cure I’ve heard of, however.”
The throbbing in his head intensified. His father told a truth, but not a whole one, and not kindly, as was his wont. Daeron had learned not to argue years ago, but the recent reprieve had apparently made him forget to hold his tongue. “That isn’t all that pains me. I had a new dream.” Another one where he could do nothing, only see and feel grief that hadn’t happened yet, and horrors he couldn’t know the source of. He wanted to throw up again. He didn’t even know what he was meant to grieve.
He didn’t know why he bothered. His father would now scoff at him and reprimand him further for allowing something so small as a dream to trouble him. He closed his eyes and braced himself for the tongue lashing that always followed, but none came. Instead, he felt a hand rest against his hip through the coverlet he was under.
“Another dream, was it?” His father sounded uncomfortable. “And it was like this last one?”
Daeron opened his eyes to peer up at his father. He looked as he sounded, ill at ease, but with something closer to curiosity rather than scorn. It was a new sentiment to the both of them, it seemed.
“Yes. But I don’t recall telling you about it,” Daeron said dumbly, too shocked to say anything else.
“Your brother described it to me, at the tourney. After.” After what, neither needed to say. “I can hardly blame you for not telling me. I wouldn’t have heeded you if you did, besides.” He sounded strange and far away. Surely the Others would lay siege to Summerhall on the morrow; it was less surprising than his father saying something like that.
Daeron couldn’t respond. It was the first time his father hadn’t replied with derision to such an admission since he was a child, and had his mother to temper his father’s response. His father continued, the spell broken, “If it is a dream that troubles you, all the more reason to come to dinner, and my solar afterward. The remedy will not be found in your bed.”
The remedy wouldn’t be found outside of it, either, Daeron was sure. Daeron feared the only remedy would come when it was him on the pyre. But his sisters missed him, for whatever reason, and he wanted to drink. Both reasons required him to get up, so he took his father’s hand and got up, swallowing against the nausea and pounding and prepared himself for the task of re-joining his family.
He was sat next to his father at dinner, as usual, but the older man wasn’t conspicuously looking elsewhere the way he typically did, too annoyed with Daeron to even glance his way. Instead, his father glanced at his empty plate and put food on it himself, about halfway filling it with a few bites of two or three of the dishes in front of them, and then pouring out a cup of wine. He couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at that–that was a job for a servant, but he seemed to be the only one who minded, Rhae speaking to him excitedly to his left and Daella listening on attentively. The servants must’ve been told to leave his place up to his father, with the way not one gave him a second glance.
It was a sad dinner setting, truth be told. While Aerion’s presence was akin to dining with an enraged tiger, Aegon was always a joy to listen to, and Aemon often taught him something new. Their current party was simply too small to eat in the dining hall, their number making the space bigger and lonelier. They might as well have eaten in his father’s solar, but he supposed it would’ve been too much trouble to bring the food up and down from there. It might have been worth the trouble to keep from feeling so desolate as they ate, but Daeron could hardly tell his father that; he likely hadn’t even noticed, and would feel as if Daeron had found a new way to be weak in order to spite him.
His thoughts were interrupted by his father at his ear. “You will eat what is served to you, and only that.” He’d say it was a tone that brooked no argument, but every tone of his father brooked no argument. Whatever indulgence he had in him for another man was for Baelor, Rhaegal or Aerion, one dead and the others far away. He nodded mutely, and set after his plate and wine.
It wasn’t enough, neither the food nor the drink. The limited amount of food wasn’t such trouble at first, with his nausea, but the bottle of wine got taken away after his father finished pouring it out, and he could hardly leave to run after it. He only had two cups, like his father. His father saw him drink quickly and pick at the carrots, and he narrowed his eyes. “You will eat all you’ve been given.” He opened his mouth to argue, the way he always did, but then he noticed his father hadn’t added any extra to the plate. It was some roasted carrots, a roll of bread, and a bit of beef. Rhae had more on her plate. He’d be able to keep this down, unfortunately.
He chewed sullenly, finishing it all and then looking into his cup like wine would have reappeared when he wasn’t looking. When that didn’t happen, he looked at his father, waiting for more, but he ignored Daeron, giving more attention to his food, Daella, and Rhae. He thought to serve himself more, but it wasn’t really what he wanted; he wanted more wine. The chewing made his head hurt more, and the scent of the cooked beef was too close to his dream. He hated when he couldn’t tell the difference between something he’d dreamed and something right in front of him. He wished he hadn’t eaten it, and he’d have to drink more for it not to matter.
Rhae’s cool hand on his wrist brought his attention back to the people around him. She offered him half a fig cake with her other hand, smiling up at him. He hoped it wouldn’t make him feel worse. He took it from her, miming gratitude, and put it on his plate, looking at it with some skepticism. He felt his father’s gaze and met it. He gave one slow nod and watched Daeron until he took a cautious bite of the fig cake, waiting to see if it didn’t immediately disagree with him. When it didn’t, he ate the rest, and his father finally looked away.
Daeron looked back down to Rhae, and smiled again. “Thank you so much for sharing that with me, my dove.” Any illness was worth the smile she returned, and he resolved to ignore his discomforts if it would make her and Daella happy.
His father still hadn’t refilled his cup, and the food was being carried away. It was clear that the dinner was over. After visiting his father’s solar, it seemed he’d have to make his way back down to the kitchens and scrounge some nuts or biscuits before heading to the cellar to grab a few more bottles of wine. He’d start with one, and if this dream returned or a new one appeared, he’d have the other two at the ready. If his sleep was undisturbed, he’d have future need of them anyway, so it made no sense to bring up less than three.
He was quite satisfied with his plans for the rest of the evening. He went over them and could find no fault as he followed his father to his solar, readying himself for the tongue lashing that was sure to come. Some minutes of bearing insults was a small price to pay to be free the rest of the evening, and one he was used to paying. He prepared to let his father’s insulting words wash over him, to not pay attention, and whatever he did remember would be easily washed away when he emptied a bottle or two that night.
His father sat himself at his desk, and Daeron stood on the other side of it. He wouldn’t sit, for that would encourage his father to dig deeper into his mine of insults, and then they’d be sat there much longer than either of them wanted. He waited for his father to start and was thoroughly surprised when he brought the empty cup from the side of the desk to the center in front of him, and followed it with the carafe that was also there. He poured out wine into the cup and then picked it up, holding it towards Daeron in a clear invitation. Daeron briefly wondered if a sleeping draught or rat poison had been added to it before reaching out to take it.
It was only a cup. It wouldn’t be enough for anything, not to arm himself against his dreams nor quell the hunger in his belly. He stared at his father, trying to work out what he wanted. His father had to have known it wouldn’t be enough. His father returned his stare evenly, almost like he was curious as to what he would do. He brought it up to his lips and gulped it down in three large swallows, momentary relief tempered by the knowledge that he needed more. The faintest grin passed over his father’s mouth when he put the empty cup down back where he had it.
It was an Arbor red and tasted exactly the way it ought to have tasted. He almost drooled with how much he wanted more. “Was that enough for you?” his father asked.
“No.” His father knew very well it wasn’t, but the response would lead him to call him a useless drunk for however long he needed, and when that was done he could leave and sate his thirst himself.
“When you leave my solar, what do you intend to do?” He was getting tired of the questions, knowing his father had surely already drawn the knife for the fatal stab to his pride.
Still, honesty seemed like the shortest way out. “Get more wine.” His father looked at him expectantly. There was a right answer, somewhere. “Get more wine…your grace.” His father tilted his head, like it wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but something he’d accept anyway.
“You will attend to your sisters. Even the dolls miss you, as they told it,” he said, not doing anything to hide the tone of cutting dryness. “When they are sufficiently entertained, you will come back here immediately, and more you shall have.”
Daeron blinked dumbly at him for some moments. He seemed to have been imagining things. He even forgot how much his head still throbbed from the shock. He was used to commands, but commands with anything resembling a reward he wanted were new to him. In truth, he expected another foot whipping before something like this. He couldn’t find his tongue quickly enough for his father, who said acerbically after some moment’s silence, “Is this offer not to your liking?”
“I’ve no quarrel with it, Your Grace. I simply didn’t expect it.”
His father frowned before responding, “Aemon has been studying with a maester who demonstrates some interest in your…affliction. That maester seems to think there might be a way to lessen the ill effects. That we might try to pursue it if they still troubled you. I had hoped we wouldn’t have to.” Daeron’s heart was beating so loudly he was afraid it would burst out of his chest. While his mother was still alive, they constantly looked for some way to help him, and even for a year or so after she died, his father invited the efforts of every half-curious maester or septon to cure him. But concern eventually gave way to contempt, and with Aerion to share it, there was no one to mitigate the full force of his disdain.
Daeron had thought his father had given up on ever trying to help him in such an endeavor, and he’d found wine and whores to be more understanding of his troubles, and more useful in managing it, than the whippings his father favored. That his father still would agree to hearing out a new maester though–well. Some warm feeling in his chest bloomed. Mayhaps his father didn’t hate him as much as Daeron thought.
Eventually he found his voice again. “I am agreeable to whatever the maester may propose, of course,” he said, more shakily than he liked, excitement betraying itself. “What would make what he suggests any different from what we’ve already tried?”
“You need a heavier hand, he writes. Less freedom in your choices.” Daeron’s heart nearly sank into the floor. That was all his father knew, and nearly all he knew of his father. The previous nausea returned with ferocity and he had to swallow back his bile. “Different from what you’ve known.” Now he was confused–how could a heavier hand be made any different? Would his father wear a fucking armored glove?
“How different?” he asked, cursing the tremor still in his voice.
“You needn’t concern yourself with that now. Your sisters are waiting.” His father got up abruptly, and strode off to his chambers through the adjoining door. Daeron knew better than to leave without being dismissed, but every nerve in his body was crying out to leave and hide, preferably some miles away. He took too long to decide and his father returned, with a wash basin full of water, soap, and some towels. He put the basin on a table and stacked the towels next to it, and then pulled Daeron closer.
“I’ll not have you visiting them looking like a beggar. You stank at dinner.” He didn’t wait for Daeron to undress himself, and pulled at the sash holding his robe closed, undoing it and then taking the outer garment off, tossing it over the chair at the table. He tugged off his tunic and undershirt as well, dropping those over the robes. Daeron got his hands to his trousers, ready to fend off any attempt to take those off, but mercifully, his father didn’t seem interested in those and his hands just hovered at the waist instead, with him unsure of what to do.
His father decided for him. He brought one of Daeron’s arms up and wet one of the towels, lathering it up with soap that was wrapped in it, and then scrubbing him down, getting after every bit of skin he could reach. Daeron felt like a puppet, with his arms waving without his leave, but it was refreshing; his father may have been right, and he may have been in bed far too long. Once he was done with the soap, his father dipped a new towel in the water, and went after every bit of skin again.
He was turned around as his father needed, and he looked desperately at his robe on the chair–he had a key to the cellar in one of the pockets, and he didn’t think there was yet a way for him to get it back without his father noticing. His father noticed where his sight settled, and assumed something else. “You won’t be putting those back on tonight. They need to be washed,” he said brusquely, bringing up the last towel to dry him off. His father turned him around again and looked him off, seemingly satisfied with his work. “There, now. You’re closer to being presentable.”
He picked up the clothes and towels and went back to his chambers, and Daeron had to hold back his sigh, watching the key get further away from him. His father came back with different clothes in hand, and they got them on Daeron quickly enough. There wasn’t a mirror in the solar, but all he had to do was look down to find a reason to wince.
He looked ridiculous in his father’s clothes. The length suited him, but the difference in their breadths made him look and feel like a child again. The belt was cinched more tightly than his father ever needed, and the extra fabric was bunched up underneath them. That wasn’t to speak of their differences in taste, either–Daeron favored more Dornish styles and colors and his father’s clothes made him look much more severe than he felt. I can be accused of drunkenness, but never dourness.
Wearing his father’s clothes had one point in their favor, however–they smelled just like him, the spices used to sweeten the smell of the bureaus clinging to the fabric. His robes certainly didn’t smell like that anymore, and he flushed in embarrassment. What a state he was in, at dinner. He almost wanted to take off the trousers and ask if he might wear his father’s as well.
His father interrupted his thoughts. “You’ll have a bath tomorrow. Your hair is a disgrace.” He ran his hand across the stubble on Daeron’s cheek and throat, and his distaste grew. “You’ll shave too.” He couldn’t disagree with any of it. The flush returned, but his father made no comment on it, mercifully. Instead, he pushed down on his shoulder so he’d take a seat. He tried not to startle when he ran his fingers through his hair, one of his rings getting caught in the strands, his father paying no mind to his reaction. After some moments he had the hair portioned to his satisfaction, and set to braiding.
He was pulling the hair into the braid tightly, and it hurt, scalp prickling at the pull, but nowhere near as much as the whippings. He settled at the thought, knowing it could be worse. This pain was merely the result of an indifferently heavy hand rather than a desire to cause pain. There wasn’t anything he had to learn from this other than to turn his head where his father directed it. He could do that; he turned his head.
He must’ve learned how to braid hair with uncle Rhaegal. He’d known uncle Baelor had favored short hair all his life, and he couldn’t imagine Aerys holding still for such fripperies, and the women in his life would’ve had maids or their own women to do such a task. Rhaegal would have had no problem asking, though, and his father would have had no problem doing, for him, anyway. Rhaegal had shown his father capable of delicacy and understanding with another man; Daeron wondered what made him so different from his uncle to merit a rougher hand. He is a third son and you are meant to be some type of heir.
The thought always made him balk. He’d dreamt of so much else, and there were more dreams sure to come, unfortunately, but he had yet to have one that indicated a living future that might still have him in it. Perhaps it had been him on the pyre, and all this was for nothing. He almost wanted to tell his father, but he wouldn’t want to hear that, and he’d likely re-consider this new approach and whip him again; he certainly wouldn’t get another drink out of it. He chose to hold his tongue and let himself be ushered out the door, and headed towards where the girls were waiting.
Rhae was beside herself in excitement, beaming at the septa at Daeron’s return, and pulling him by the hand to the trunk where the dolls lived and telling them what they had been up to since Daeron last visited. There was some drama between Nymeria and Florys he had missed, but Rhae’s recollection made him feel like he’d seen it all first hand, and he told her so, and told her how they should resolve it, earning another gap-toothed smile. Daella was quiet and assessing, rightfully judging that his clothes and hair weren’t his choice and trying to decide if that was good or bad.
When Rhae stopped talking to take a breath, the dolls’ drama exhausted, he asked after Daella’s embroidery, and she brightened at his remembering that she liked it and was quite good at it, and went back to her room to retrieve her work. She showed him the latest scene she’d illustrated, of Elissa Farman taking off on her ship. The waves looked like they were moving, and the ship looked lively, like it was ready to sail off the fabric. He grazed his fingers over it, tracing the prow and sails. “It would be a grand adventure, to sail where she did,” Daella said, longingly, catching his mood.
“It would,” he agreed. He had his dreams he tried and failed to outrun; mayhaps something like the Sun Chaser would have proven fast enough to bear him away. He wondered where Daella’s spirit of wanderlust came from, and was saddened that he hadn’t asked enough to know about it until now. He likely missed his sisters more than they missed him, he thought. Close to them, he could see how kind and lively they still were, despite their family, while getting close to him only showed them his faults all the more clearly. The headache that had abated with the few cups he had started to grow again.
He spent an hour or so with them both, until it was time for Rhae to bathe and get ready for bed, the septa showing him and Daella out with regret. They went to Daella’s room by themselves; she’d argued that she was too old to be constantly minded like her sister was, and their father too disinterested in the subject to put up any sort of counter to it, with her less able to take off like Egg did. Daeron wondered what that was like, with a fair few of his clashes with the man ending with some sort of physical pain–he could never accuse their father of being disinterested in his own comings and goings. She is what she ought to be, though, he thought, looking at her sorting through more of her embroidered pieces to show him.
They were all well-made and well-thought out, as far as he could judge, and showing them to him made her beam like the sun’s rays. She was working on a tapestry-sized piece now, one that their mother had started some years ago, partially done and hanging off her table. It was an illustration from the Blackfyre Rebellion, showing where the Hammer met the Anvil. Uncle Baelor was already done, wearing his own armor, done by their mother, and Daella was working on his horse, a fierce black destrier caught mid-breath, chest clearly heaving like a bellows. It was remarkable to see such life in a static image. She must not have shown it to their father yet, and maybe never would, for surely the man would be hurt seeing his brother whole and hale somewhere, as he should have been.
She interrupted his thoughts by asking, “Is there something you’d like for yourself?”
“What have I done to merit such an honor?”
“It would be for my own satisfaction, brother.” Her face gave way to something closer to melancholy. “I’m of an age to be betrothed, and only the Mother and Maiden know where I’ll go for it. I should like for you to have something I’d be glad to give.” Daeron couldn’t find the words if he tried, and embraced her instead, very glad his father insisted on scrubbing him down.
She was right, of course. The right alliance hadn’t yet been decided upon, but once it was, it would be quick work for her to leave and likely never return, her daily presence turned into something for letters and the odd tourney or ball, if they were lucky. And he’d wasted those days he could’ve had with her by carousing or lying in bed, his own or a whore’s, instead. His father was right about him, and the headache turned splitting at the thought. He couldn’t get back to their father’s solar fast enough.
“Anything you’d like,” he said, bending down to kiss the crown of her head. “Anything that reminds you of me.”
That seemed to be the wrong thing to say. She looked sadder than she did moments before, eyes too bright, but then arranged her face and smiled at him wanly. “I can do that,” she said.
It seemed as good a time as any to leave. He wished her a good night and a restful sleep before departing, and made no comment on the tears that fell that she hadn’t managed to blink away. He hoped he could drink enough to forget them soon enough.
He made his way back to his father’s solar, hands shaking from how much his head hurt, and how much he wanted to drink to ignore it. He hoped his father hadn’t been lying to him just to get him to change his clothes, although feeling presentable enough to hug his sister without self-consciousness was a worthy enough outcome. He let himself in without knocking, not wanting to change his habits so dramatically in one day, and his father glanced up in irritation from his seat at the desk, setting down his quill and stopping his writing.
“Next time, you will knock.” Daeron bowed his head in acknowledgement as he made his way to the chair facing the desk, and made to take his seat.
Maekar looked at him with some disdain. “You haven’t yet earned the right to sit in that chair without my leave.” He’d been invited to, earlier, he did recall. He supposed this was the heavier hand he spoke of. He stopped himself from scoffing as he stood behind the chair instead, trying to ready himself for whatever his father had planned for him, his sour mood an indication that Daeron would not have an easy time of it.
“Come next to me,” his father said, and Daeron complied, walking over and standing beside his father. “Kneel.” He got down on one knee, the way he did when he was knighted, the way anyone would.
“On both knees,” his father said, and Daeron had to hold on to the top of the desk to hold his balance as he did so. His father looked at him with some surprise, like he couldn’t believe Daeron wasn’t arguing or ignoring him. Daeron could hardly believe it himself, truth be told, but he hadn’t forgotten the offer his father made earlier that evening and he was curious to know what form it would take, now that he lost his key to the wine cellar. Being recalcitrant would not get him any closer to that goal, and his headache was splitting; he hardly had the desire for barbed back and forths, and his own wouldn’t be very good while he was in this state anyway. I might be a drunk, but I will not be called witless.
His father returned to his papers, sheets shuffling around. “Hands behind your back,” he said, not bothering to look. Daeron did it anyway, hands grasping his wrists behind him; his father would have a way of knowing whether he did it or not, somehow. He looked up at his father, waiting for the next instruction. His father started to write, ignoring him for some moments until he glanced down, like he just remembered Daeron was there, before looking back at his papers. It was humiliating, and made a heat start to pool in his belly, like when he had to take his shoes off for another foot whipping.
“You might lean against me,” he said, still not looking at him. Daeron awkwardly crawled more closely, trying to lean his body against his father’s leg, but the top of the desk was getting in the way; he didn’t think he could fold himself up sufficiently to fit under it.
His father looked down again and saw what the trouble was. “Like this,” his father said, pushing himself back so he wasn’t as close to the desk anymore and pressing Daeron’s head so it rested against his father’s thigh, without him having to get under the desk.
He was well-muscled against his intact cheek. When he was a boy, he thought his father the strongest man in the world, and would marvel at his form in the yard, hoping he might look like him one day. He tried to silence himself after his first nightmare, telling himself strong men did not cry out the way he did, for he had never seen it, but the visions won out. Sleep eluded him one way or another, visions interrupting what rest he could steal or him desperately trying to keep awake. For what purpose, he didn’t know, since his waking life soon turned into his own nightmare, and all else fell by the wayside, be it training, or studies, or devotions.
His father interrupted his thoughts before he could make a full account of every failure that led him to this night. “The maester said if your own thoughts trouble you, another should take charge of them. Your thoughts should be what I put there, instead,” he said, stiffly, like he hardly believed it could be done himself. His hand was still on Daeron’s head and the scratch of the quill was silent. He had his father’s full attention, without any imminent pain that he could foresee. He didn’t know what to do with it, and he didn’t know how he could respond, until he realized his father was waiting for him to agree.
“What should I be thinking of, then?” His father’s hand twitched on his head. “Command my mind, your grace.” He tried to say it with some levity, but unfortunately, he meant it. His father’s choices could hardly be any worse than whoever it was that cursed him with his visions.
“You didn’t want more food.” His father had a way of stating something and expecting some explanation for the whys and wherefores. You weren’t in the yard was a common refrain growing up, as was You slept through your lessons, with Daeron’s excuses always coming up short until he stopped bothering and went straight to removing his shoes and stockings. But this was simple to explain.
“The smell of the meat. It reminded me of my dream. It was hard to eat.” His stomach lurched at the memory, and he stopped talking lest he throw up. His father didn’t press him for more, and trailed a thumb behind his ear in something he must’ve imagined was comfort. Daeron took it as such, anyway. “That isn’t a very untroubled thought for me to have.” The thumb stilled where it was. Daeron wasn’t good at this, it seemed.
“So it isn’t,” his father said wearily. “I find myself adrift without a map.” That made both of them, it seemed. That didn’t make Daeron feel any better; his father should have known what he was doing, if he was going to do it to Daeron.
He chanced to speak without being told to; if there was a consequence, it wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary. “What else was it that the maester said?” he asked.
That seemed to help his father focus on the task at hand again. He got a hand at the nape of Daeron’s neck, not squeezing, but not resting either. Making himself present, perhaps, to both of them. “Direct your thoughts. Direct your body. At least until some solution arrives for your dreams.”
“That included wine, too, then?”
“He said it would be better to be a drunkard here than away. Less of a chance of you being set upon or–” He stopped himself before he could say the words, but he knew what his father meant. Dead. Dead because he was murdered for some coin, or simply because another drunk didn’t like the look of him, the way it happened every day in every corner of the realm. Or dead because he’d been caught outside when the weather turned, when the rain brought lightning or floods with no recourse at hand. Or dead because he was a drunkard, wasn’t he, and they took tumbles down stairs all time, could drown in any depth of water. His father had threatened him with something like death before, but the reality of his uncle’s seemed to make his father reconsider who else he was willing to lose, and how much of a hand in it he wanted.
“Of course,” he said instead. “Nothing like one’s own bed to pass out in.” His father let out a noise of disapproval, but didn’t disagree. What if a solution never comes, he wanted to ask, but he held his tongue. He was sure his father had considered it, for years at this point, and he didn’t want to ruin whatever hope he’d gotten from some mad old man’s words, even if he couldn’t share it. His head had not stopped pounding since he left Daella’s room, but the thought made it worse, somehow.
“Mayhaps this would be easier if you had some wine in you.” He understood dogs more at that moment, and why a word or gesture might set off a storm of excitement in them. He clutched his own hands more tightly, hoping his father couldn’t see the shaking. He allowed his father to tip his head up, away from his thigh, so that he looked up at him. The way the candles flickered made his father’s hair shine, and he looked beautiful from where Daeron was kneeling, watching him get the wine waiting at the desk.
His father tipped the carafe towards his mouth. It was the same Arbor red as before, but having gone without much for so long, it tasted better than the cup he had before leaving the solar. His toes nearly curled in pleasure the more he drank, pain receding the slightest amount. His father tipped the mouth of it back to give Daeron a chance to breathe, and with closed eyes he savored the taste left on his tongue and the feeling of starting to be sated. He opened his eyes again, and met his father’s, who was staring at him. “Is that enough?” he asked.
“No,” he answered. His father gave the briefest nod and then tipped the carafe forward again, and Daeron took another long pull of the wine. He brought his hands up unconsciously to help balance the carafe, but his father pulled it back again, and then pushed his hands away.
“I’ve got it. Keep your hands where I put them.” Daeron put his hands back behind him. His father was doing a well enough job of it, anyway, and didn’t need the help. His father brought the carafe back to his lips, and he tipped his head all the way back, his father pouring the rest of the wine into his mouth. His head didn’t hurt as much anymore, the throbbing put down to a manageable level. He didn’t feel as hungry as before. He could finally breathe more easily. He wanted to cry with relief, and he wanted to cry because his father now knew how little it took to chain Daeron to his whims.
“Is that enough?” his father asked again. It was enough to lessen the throbbing, and the hunger. It might have been enough to stop the smell of cooked meat from disgusting him. It wasn’t anywhere near enough to stop a dream from tormenting him, either while he was awake or asleep when it returned, as they always did.
“No.” His father looked briefly devastated, then returned to his grim facade, getting up with the empty carafe and leaving the solar, letting Daeron wait on his knees as he ordered more wine to be brought up, handing the empty vessel to a servant.
He returned, and Daeron didn’t have to be told to lay his head back down. “Tell me of your latest dream.” Daeron shuddered at the thought. He hadn’t drank anywhere near enough for that.
“I’d need another bottle to do that, your grace. Preferably two.” His father’s hand moved from his neck to the base of his braid, and he pulled firmly so that Daeron was forced to look up at him.
“You will not refuse any request of mine. You will tell me of this dream,” he commanded. “And when you finish, you will think of the next thing I order you to think of.” It wasn’t a new order; his father had often issued it as he grew up, as if the matter of his cursed dreams was simple to combat, as simple as closing his eyes and ignoring it. What was new was how he was being told, on his knees and on his way to drunk, with his father’s warmth enveloping him, so close to him that he was all Daeron could see. It was hard to deny him at the best of times, and impossible now.
He felt the tears well up before the words could come out. The feeling the dreams brought him was always present, even if the vision wasn’t. “The earth cried. People were being burned. Not people,” he amended. “Corpses.”
He felt his father’s hands come around to grab his face. “Open your eyes.” He did so; he hadn’t even noticed they were shut tight until then. “Look at me.” He couldn’t do anything else. “I am all you see. We are the only ones here.”
He wasn’t quite heartened to hear that, but it did make it easier to continue. “There was ash. It was hard to breathe, but not because of that. I don’t know why I couldn’t.” He stopped himself from saying the next thing on his mind. I wish I didn’t wake up to gasp for air. His father’s hands tightened and he found the next thing to say before his father did. “There was a dragon on a pyre. It wasn’t small. It can’t have been any of the younger ones.” If it were them, he would be feeling worse, surely. He knew he sounded like he was still trying to convince himself of the notion.
His face was crushed against his father’s broad chest. It was hard to breathe again, but this was infinitely more tolerable as a reason. The pressure against his face and across his back where his father held him felt amazing, and he pressed back, searching for more. The relief of not being made to speak more was overwhelming, almost as good as another cup of wine, and he took as deep a shuddering breath as he could, letting his father fill his senses. There might have been some truth to what the maester said, since this was infinitely preferable to letting the vision stay in his head. He debated bringing his hands up to embrace his father when there was a knock at the door.
His father squeezed him once before detaching himself and letting go, pulling away and getting up while Daeron caught his breath. He didn’t smell meat and ash anymore, but the soap his father used; he didn’t see a burning pyre anymore, but his father’s hair, glinting like silver in the low light of the solar. His father returned to his seat, with what the servant had left for them–two bottles of wine had been brought up, along with bread and cheese. He looked as grim as he ever did, and Daeron had to think that face was the last one many a Blackfyre rebel had seen before a mace—no. He shouldn’t think of that.
His father’s hand was back on his unscarred cheek, giving him something like a caress. Daeron leaned into it. “Look at me,” his father ordered. Daeron met his father’s eyes. “You’ll have more to drink if you eat as well.” It was only bread and cheese, and neither was likely to turn his stomach, and he still had too much in his mind he’d have rather forgotten. He gave a small nod, keeping his cheek in his father’s hand, chasing the warmth it offered.
His father brushed his thumb against Daeron’s mouth before pulling away, tearing up the bread into smaller pieces and slicing the cheese to be smaller. His father hadn’t said to let go of his hands behind him, so it didn’t occur to him to get it himself. He’d been right not to, since his father paired a bit of bread with a bit of cheese and brought it to his mouth, and Daeron opened it enough so that his father might set the food against his tongue. He chewed without tasting and swallowed, his father’s brilliant eyes watching him all the while. It was like being pinned in place, the way maesters did with insects, and he fought the urge to squirm. It was only the first bite.
His father didn’t say anything when he was done, but he uncorked one of the new bottles, picked it up to start pouring it into a cup, then looked like he decided against it, as if to acknowledge it would be a waste of time. He brought the mouth of the bottle to Daeron’s lips instead, and got his other hand around Daeron’s braid, and Daeron got his mouth around it, drinking as deeply as he could before his father pulled at the braid.
He tried to stop drinking as neatly as he could, mindful of the admonishments his father had given him earlier, but a little bit of wine escaped and dripped down his chin. His father let go of his hair and wiped the wine off with his thumb before putting the bottle back on the desk, and then he offered his thumb to Daeron to clean. Humiliation burned even hotter in his belly, and he licked it up, meeting his father’s eyes all the while.
Satisfied, his father got more bread and cheese for him to eat, and they followed that pattern to finish it off, Daeron eating a bit at a time while his father brought the bottle up to his mouth in between bites. Before he knew it, the food was gone, and one bottle was empty. It wouldn’t be enough to stop the nightmares, in his experience, but it would be enough to doze off. When he woke up again, terrified, the remaining bottle would be waiting for him, and that would calm him down enough so that he’d be able to stumble to the cellar for the bottle that would give him the dreamless sleep he was desperate for, if he were fortunate. If he were unfortunate, the terrors would follow him through the night, regardless of where he trod or how much he drank. He hoped it wouldn’t be like that tonight.
“Is that enough?” his father asked.
“For now,” he replied. His father looked at him narrowly.
“Why won’t it serve later?” he asked gruffly. Daeron explained his expectations, learned over the years as much as any maester gained knowledge for a subject they earned a link for. His father looked at him appraisingly, but didn’t argue.
“I suppose we should have this at the ready, then,” he said, gesturing to the remaining bottle. Daeron’s mouth went dry, already anticipating how it would feel to drink from it and be calmed. It would feel miraculous. He only truly noticed what he said then—we?
The realization must’ve been apparent on his face. “You didn’t think I’d allow you to go back to your chambers? Knowing you, you’d sneak off at the hour of the wolf to some godsdamned tavern and disappear for a fortnight. No. I may not know your mind, but I know your starts.” It was more likely to be the hour of the nightingale, but he could hardly argue. He held his tongue and let his cheeks redden; he knew himself to be predictable but it was embarrassing that his father said so, so clearly.
His father gestured for him to get his head back on his lap, and once he did, his father got his hand on the nape of his neck. “You’ll share my chambers for the foreseeable future. My bed, in fact.” Daeron would have glanced at him in surprise but he couldn’t, with the way he was being held against his father’s thigh. Let go of your wrists, get up, and leave, he thought to himself. It was intolerable–even babes got their own crib, and their own nursery. But his grip on himself only tightened, and he tried to relax against his father’s hand. Something in him still wanted to please his father, and this goal was easier to meet than any of the others previously set before him.
His father didn’t have to explain himself to Daeron, but he knew the situation was odd enough to comment on. “I should like to know if that maester is a charlatan. If you start screaming again, then I’ll be sure to let the Citadel know they need to dispense with this one.” His screams from his visions, if they took a turn, echoed through the hallways. There was no need to share a bed in order to be certain of their presence. It was a weak excuse, but this would be the easiest way to get the next bottle; it didn’t have to be a good reason for Daeron to accept it.
He closed his eyes and focused on the warmth of his father’s thumb stroking the skin it found, and the solidity of his form under him. He tried to enjoy being able to close his eyes and not seeing the latest vision that had cursed him, and he chose to believe it was because of the wine he’d had and not anything to do with the man next to him. “You did well, to tell me what you did.” The praise sounded unnatural from him, both the words and the tone he used coming out stiffly. Even so, they had enough of an effect on Daeron, who pressed back against his father in acknowledgement.
He wished he could say something fine and wise in response, but gratitude towards his father was a foreign feeling. He couldn’t find the words even if he were sober. Instead he chose to break the comfortable silence by saying, “My knees hurt.” They did, grinding against the stone for who knew how long, but he felt a child for complaining regardless.
”Next time, I’ll get you a cushion.” Next time. The thought made him tremble. But the implication was hardly so subtle from the moment he entered the solar earlier that day—this would be the new state of things in Summerhall. Daeron started to sweat a little more than he usually would at this point, getting damp like he’d been at drinking for hours more.
Next time. Would it be tomorrow? He’d have to get up from his father’s bed and kneel beside him without a moment to think of it. He might like that, but it wouldn’t make a difference if he did or not. The squirming feeling re-emerged in his stomach, and he wouldn’t be able to look his father in the eye as long as he felt it. He had to remind himself it was better than the fear he felt when a dream crept up on him, and the shame was less paralyzing.
That seemed to remind his father that this night needed to end for the next time to occur, and so he got up, then offered a hand to Daeron so he could get back up himself. With the gesture, Daeron found himself simultaneously relieved and disappointed that his father wouldn’t make him crawl. They went through the door that connected the solar to his chambers, where his father found two nightshirts, and then set to helping Daeron out of his clothes. His father, again fulfilling the role of a servant.
He couldn’t avert his stare fast enough. “Do you want others to see you on your knees?” Daeron shook his head as he flushed all over, which his father surely saw as his undershirt just came off. He was helped out of his shoes and trousers too, his father pulling a face of disgust at them as he put them away with the other clothes to be laundered, then his father helped him pull on his nightshirt, unnecessary as it was. He stood in the middle of the room stupidly once his father stepped away, knowing perfectly how to continue readying himself to go to bed, but waiting for his father to allow him; his father said that all his thoughts should be of him, and who was he to fail at this juncture?
His father glanced at him with all the care he’d give a servant. “You may go to the privy before we sleep,” he said. Daeron was suddenly aware of how badly he needed to go, and nodded, finding some slippers before heading out. As he relieved himself, he debated going back to his father’s chambers. No one had accompanied him this far, and it wasn’t like previous times, when guards and servants had been told to report on his movements and corral him as best they could. There was nothing stopping him from ending this madness and returning to his room. He has a bottle ready for me though, he thought. It needn’t be so hard to find relief tonight. He stood there far longer than necessary, torn between his choices, and waiting for a knock from his father or a guard tasked to find him, which never came.
Eventually, his feet chose for him, and he made his way back to his father’s room, where he looked up at his return mildly from the bed. “I worried you’d tumbled down, for all the time you took,” he said. Daeron didn’t respond, focused on getting the rest of his end of the night routine done. Once finished, he blew out the candles, closed the bed curtains, and got in the empty side of the bed, trying to keep some space between him and his father. His father did not seem to care for these efforts, since he immediately turned over and brought an arm around him. Daeron went still under him, waiting for him to realize the discomfort of such proximity, but such a realization never came to his father, who only gripped him more securely as he fell asleep.
Daeron wished he could hate it; unfortunately, it brought to mind the nights he’d share a bed with Aerion when they were boys, the two of them tangled together after a long day playing in the sun, before the failures and wickedness of each of them became too much to bear. He always enjoyed the feeling of another’s body pressed against his, that reminder of his physical form that was too easy to forget in the miasma of his nightmares. The whores he sought were one of his efforts to keep that sense of reality, but they hardly ever wanted to spend the night with him more than they needed to, at risk of nursing him through his need to throw up or calming him through the panic and fear of his visions. Some things weren’t worth the extra coin to those girls, and he learned some years ago that his troubles were some of those things.
His father didn't seem like he thought twice about the risk, arm secure about his front. He knew what was likely to happen and was still there. Will he yell at me, the way he always does? he wondered at first, too tense to immediately relax against him the way he wanted to, and too scared to sleep, nowhere near drunk enough to ensure the night would be dreamless. Eventually though, the excitement of the day caught up to him, and he dozed off, lulled to sleep by the hot exhale of his father's breath against his neck, and the grounding weight of his arm around his waist.
As far as sudden reasons to wake up went, it was hardly the worst one; he had to piss again. It had been a lot of wine to drink before going to sleep, even if he had already gone, and there was the arm still thrown about him, now with the hand pressing on his lower stomach. He picked the arm up and got it off him, and tried to get out of the bed without jostling his father too much.
He found the chamber pot and relieved himself, biting back a groan, and set to looking for the remaining bottle and his shoes so he might return to his bed, in his room. The decision was easier to make once he uncorked the bottle and took a long gulp from it; he'd gotten what he wanted to get and it only cost his dignity, such as it was. He took one last gulp for the moment and set it down, needing to find his shoes.
He froze, one shoe in hand, when he heard the voice from the bed say “Come back.” I don't need my shoes to run, he thought, considering bolting out the door. But even if his father had no interest in running after him himself, he'd surely shout for the guard to chase after him, and even in armor he'd catch Daeron quickly. It seemed like too much trouble to run. He dropped the shoe and got back into the bed, pulling the curtains around them so the low light of the fire didn't bother them.
Even in that darkened space however, he could still feel his father's eyes bore into him. “Next time, wake me up and ask if you may relieve yourself before clambering all over and making a racket.”
Daeron let the embarrassment pass before he replied. “I should hardly like to wake you for that. That isn’t your concern.”
“You are my concern, whether I’m awake or asleep or alive or dead.” The words made Daeron flush all over. He hadn’t heard or believed that in years, but if his father said it now, after the night they’d had, then it must’ve been so.
His father continued. “I do not trust you to decide for yourself. Not the food you choose to eat, not the clothes you choose to wear, not the wine you choose to drink. I hardly even trust you to piss straight. Why would I? What reason have you ever given me?” Daeron could only be silent. He’d learned to hold his silence when his father went on tirades about him and his behavior, and he could hardly argue with him this time.
“No doubt it was some fault of mine that brought us here. I see that now. I won’t lose you too, Daeron. I won’t. I refuse.” Daeron was touched by the vehemence—he felt himself already lost, gone with the first dream that haunted him, but his father seemed to think there was something worth keeping around. He found it hard to believe himself. He brought his father’s arm back around his front, and embraced it.
“You won’t,” he said. He hoped he wasn’t lying.
—
The dream eventually came again that night, but the burning smell wasn’t as prominent. There was also a new feeling, one of a strong arm wrapped around his back and holding him up, no matter how much he stumbled or tripped. He didn’t cry out, he didn’t think, else he would’ve been told he’d been too noisy by the man whose bed he was in. He still woke up gasping for breath, but the terror of it receded faster than it had nights before. It didn't take him so long to regain his bearings and gently shake his father awake.
"What?" he asked in a sleep roughened voice.
"The dream returned," he said. "I didn't scream," he added, almost hoping his father would confirm it.
"You didn't," he conceded. "What do you need now?"
"Wine," he said, honestly.
"Very well." He didn't think his father would get out of bed to get the bottle, and Daeron was briefly thankful that he put it back where he found it earlier. His father returned to the bed, frowning but with the bottle in hand. Daeron realized then that he hadn't recorked it after drinking from it himself.
"I trust you know to come to me next time you need to drink." It was dim in the bed with the curtains shut around them, so his father likely couldn't see, but he certainly could feel, Daeron nod with the way his free hand was holding the back of Daeron's head. He didn't seem to need Daeron's verbal assent, bringing the mouth of the bottle to Daeron's lips and tipping it forward. Daeron took deep gulps, keeping his hands on the bed, fingers grasping the sheets the more he drank, feeling secure knowing the memory of the smell and sounds of weeping would fade all the faster now.
His father pulled the bottle away and caressed the back of his head. "Is that enough?" he asked quietly.
"For now," Daeron said. "I might need more, if it returns again." His father squeezed the back of his neck once and got out, and Daeron could hear him say something to the guard at the door in a low voice before he returned, closing the curtains once more. When his father got behind him on his side, Daeron didn't need to be told what to do, nor did he feel the same trepidation as before, and he pressed his back against his father's chest, welcoming the arm around his waist.
Neither of them found sleep immediately, but his father's warm breath against his neck and his father's weight against him kept his mind from wandering the way it was wont to do. When he finally did fall asleep, it was with his father on his mind, and if the dream returned, he could not remember it in the morning.
Mayhaps the maester's notion had some seed of truth to it, he thought when he woke up in the morning, the pounding in his head not as total as it had been the morning before. Something in his stomach twisted at the thought, when he realized his compulsion to drink and cower from his own mind in a bid to escape the nightmares might have to live alongside this new urge, one where he'd welcome being put on his knees by his father, if it granted him even the most marginal relief from his visions.
The compulsions were all shameful, he knew, but the first two were entirely his own. He'd have to share the last with his father, of all people, and he got more nauseated the longer he considered it, at the fact of letting his father see what he'd do for a bit of peace. He took a shuddering breath in a bid to calm himself down. He heard his father open the curtains behind him. "You're awake," he said, alerted by the change in his breath.
Daeron turned to peer at him carefully, mindful of the light coming through the opening of the curtains. It didn't hurt his head so much this morning, mercifully. His father asked, "Did the dream return, after you woke me up?" He must've had the maester in mind already with the way he asked, like an interrogation. The man's well-being and future might depend on his answer.
Daeron thought for a moment. He had every reason to say yes—the touching would stop. The shared bed would certainly stop. His father's hands in his hair and his eyes all over him, stopped. What matter if it wasn't the truth? He lied all the time to get out of situations he didn't want to be in. "It didn't," he replied, truthfully. "Not that I can recall."
His father didn't do anything so common as smile, but he seemed to be a little less grim at the answer. "Good. That's good. Get up so that we may continue."
Daeron got up.