Chapter Text
It was the dead of the night, and King Daeron Targaryen, Second of His Name, once again found himself staring up at the red stone ceiling of the Queen’s apartments.
Myriah was tucked up beside him, and he could hear her soft snores— she had fallen asleep at last. Daeron wished he could say the same. He glanced down at her, and saw that her dark hair hid what little part of her face was not pressed to his side. When he moved slightly, withdrawing his arm from around her shoulders, she did not wake. Neither of them fell asleep easy these days, but when Myriah managed it, she still slept heavy.
There was no use laying here longer. It may as well have been midday for how alert Daeron felt, and Myriah did not need his presence anymore. Quietly, he slipped from their bed and exited the chamber.
Ser Roland and Ser Darrick stood guard tonight. Roland’s white cloak shone bright even in the dimly lit corridor, and he and Darrick bowed their heads at the sight of their king. “Another walk, Your Grace?”
Daeron nodded. “Maybe a longer one than usual.”
Ser Roland shifted anxiously, his hand on his sword. “Allow me to accompany you.”
“Ser Darrick will serve. Stay here with Myriah.”
Daeron turned from the white knight and began to walk down the corridor, Darrick following dutifully at his side. Roland disliked this arrangement, Daeron knew, believing that he should be the one to stay with the King. But with only two Kingsguard knights in King’s Landing and the rest off at battle, they hardly had the white cloaks to spare. No, best for Ser Roland to remain with the sleeping Myriah. It was only a stroll around the Red Keep.
As he walked, his mind wandered, and turned inevitably to worry.
Where were his sons now? Had they met battle yet? Would Baelor’s Dornish host meet up with Maekar’s in time? Was there any more word from Lord Tyrell? What if Brynden’s intelligence had been wrong, and the bulk of Daemon’s host was not marching up the Rosewood after all? Each day that passed with no answers spawned a million new questions and fears. He sometimes felt as if he were losing his mind.
Still, he would live in that maddening uncertainty for as long as needed if it meant that when the ravens at last arrived, they bore good news.
His steps took him to the sept, where the Seven looked down at him from their pedestals with calm stony wisdom. There were more candles lit than normal, and they cast both warm light and flickering shadow throughout the sacred space.
Daeron stopped first at the Warrior to say a prayer of strength for his sons and their men. Nearly every surface of the altar of the Warrior was covered with candles, far more than the other faces of God— as is to be expected in times of war. Daeron himself had never felt very connected to the Warrior, but only a fool would shun him.
He prayed to the Mother next, for mercy and peace. He always felt her the strongest in here. His own mother had spent countless hours in the royal sept, soothing her pain with piety. The Mother had not seen fit to save Queen Naerys from the cruelty of her husband or the fatality of childbirth, yet Daeron could not bring himself to feel anger. Not when the gods had given his mother so much of the little peace she felt in life. When the statue of the Mother looked upon him, he imagined Naerys gazing through the stone eyes too.
Lastly he lit a candle for the Crone. She was the god who most spoke to him. Daeron had never been skilled at arms, too frail and lacking in natural talent to amount to much of a swordsman even when he had put in the effort. But there was so much more ruling than that. A great warrior may bear a sword, but a great king must wield wisdom, knowledge, diplomacy… he prayed to the Crone that the Realm would see that truth.
Ser Darrick was waiting for him when Daeron finally exited the sept. He briefly considered heading to the Godswood to pray to the Old Gods as well— he would gladly accept any possible divine help for his family right now. But he never felt any gods when standing before a Weirwood tree. Not as he felt them in a sept. Perhaps Brynden and the rest of House Blackwood would say their prayers to the Old Gods, and that would suffice.
He headed back to Maegor’s Holdfast instead, up the serpentine steps and across the drawbridge. He still did not feel very tired, but maybe he should return to bed anyway. His mother had once told him that when the gods rob you of sleep, even just laying there can still rest your eyes and your mind. He would need the clarity of mind in the days to come.
Yes, that would be best. And if he took the long route, he could check in on the children. Seeing them strengthened his heart— a reminder of what makes all this worry and pain worth it.
Valarr and Matarys’ chamber was closest to the side of the corridor that Daeron arrived at. Yet, when he turned the corner, he could see that the door of the furthest chamber was cracked open, and soft noises were coming from within. So, he passed by Baelor’s boys’ room, and instead continued to where Maekar’s sons slept. The guards bowed their heads and stepped aside as Daeron approached.
The chamber was illuminated with lanterns and both boys were awake. The noises he had heard were coming from Daeron— the poor child was crying horribly, while a maidservant tried to calm him to little avail. His heart ached at the sight… this was no easy time for a boy of only six years.
Aerion noticed the King first.
“I can’t sleep!” Maekar’s younger son complained. “Daeron won’t shut up!”
The maidservant looked up— Lyla, he believed her name was— to see who Aerion was talking to. When she saw the king, she sprang up from the bed and hastened a quick bow.
“Your Grace!”
Daeron smiled at her. “I take it someone is having bad dreams?”
It was Aerion that answered. “This is the second time! I don’t know why I have to share a room with him!”
“I—” Lyla looked between Daeron and Aerion, clearly flustered.
“How about you take Aerion and one of the guards and head to the chamber down the hall?” He suggested to her kindly, then threw a wink Aerion’s way. “Get our boy some sleep. I’ll stay with Daeron.”
She looked relieved. “Of course, Your Grace.”
The two left, Aerion sending a grateful smile his grandfather’s way before his silver head disappeared through the doorway. He looked so much like Maekar, though their personalities could not be more different. Where Maekar had been quiet and serious in his childhood, Aerion was loud and bold even at the age of only four.
He turned his focus to his other grandson, who had sat up in the meanwhile, legs now dangling over the edge of the bed. Maekar’s first-born, whom he called Daeron… a grandfather should not play favorites (and he didn’t), but there is a special kind of pride you feel for a child named in your honor. He had never liked his own namesake, and the day he held Maekar’s son for the first time, he had resolved to be the kind of man for whom Daeron would be proud to carry his name.
While Aerion took after his father, Daeron was all his mother— Dyanna’s sandy brown hair fell across her soft features and her light lilac eyes, now shot through with red. The boy’s sobs had quieted, perhaps not wishing to cry in front of his royal grandfather. But he could not hide the tear tracks that streaked his face, nor the way he clung to his pillow, eyes fixed miserably on the floor. Daeron felt another pang of sympathy.
“Did you have a nightmare?” the king asked softly, sitting down beside the boy.
Daeron didn’t answer, nor turn his grandfather’s way. He only shrunk in on himself, hiccupping quietly.
“I know they can be quite scary,” he continued. “But it’s only a dream, that’s all. It cannot hurt you.”
His grandson finally looked at him, eyes wide and fearful. The boy was really shaken, wasn’t he? It must have been a terrible nightmare indeed. With Maekar off at war, he could imagine what young Daeron might have seen to terrify him so. The king had had those same dreams, himself.
“It did not feel like a dream.” Daeron’s voice was small. “It felt real.”
“Sometimes they do,” he replied. “When our minds are afraid, our nightmares can feel very real indeed. It’s still only in our heads, though. I promise.”
He laid an arm across Daeron’s shoulder in comfort, and the boy leaned against him but did not respond.
“If you want to talk about it, I am happy to listen. Or we can just sit here if you like.”
More silence. Daeron was not as boisterous as his brother, but neither was he usually this quiet. That’s alright though, sometimes silent comfort is all that is needed.
Quite some time had passed when the younger Daeron finally spoke, louder and steadier now that his sobs had been stopped for a while. His words, however, were nothing that the king would have expected.
“Why do they call Daemon the Black Dragon?”
Well, maybe he should have. It is only natural for the children to have questions about the Blackfyres. Though Daemon’s epithet is a bit of a strange thing to fixate in on first.
Still, Daeron believed children deserved honesty. They can handle and understand much more than they are given credit for.
“Well,” he began. “For his sigil, Daemon reversed the colors of our own banner. It’s something that bastards often do. Since he uses a black dragon on a red field, men have started calling him the Black Dragon.”
“Does that make you the Red Dragon, then?”
“Yes, it does.”
“But you are not at the battle.”
That was an odd thing to say.
Most like Daeron had overhead men talking disparagingly about the king. He knew the whispers well— Daemon was a noble warrior fighting bravely alongside his men, while weak King Daeron cowered behind his sons. Even his loyalists likely harbor such thoughts, given the poor priorities of Westerosi lords. But it was disturbing, very disturbing, that his grandson might overhear such talk in the Red Keep. If border-line treasonous thoughts were dared to be whispered carelessly this close to the Iron Throne, what more might come of it…?
Perhaps he should not be wandering the Red Keep at night with only a palace guard after all.
“I am not,” the king replied simply, avoiding the urge to justify himself. It did not serve to appear overly defensive, even (or perhaps most especially) to a child.
Fuck their whispers, Brynden had said, in his own blunt way. If you stoop to care, it will only make them think there is anything more to it than stupid propaganda.
“So who could the Red Dragon at the battle be?” Daeron continued.
What was this line of questioning? And why did the boy sound so urgent? His meek terror from when the King had first arrived had all but vanished, and he now looked intently at his grandsire, purple eyes alert and searching.
The questions were harmless enough though he supposed, and if it eased the child’s mind…
“Well, the Red Dragon is not only me, but our entire house. House Targaryen. The Black Dragon is Daemon, but also all of House Blackfyre.”
“So my father and Uncle Baelor would be the Red Dragon too?”
“That’s right.”
The boy nodded, seeming pleased with this answer. And again, his next words took Daeron by surprise.
“Don’t worry then, grandfather. I think Father and Uncle Baelor will be okay.”
“…I do too.” The king replied after a moment’s pause.
It was good that his grandson was optimistic, but there was something strange about the way that he said it. Not like a child trying to comfort himself…
…but like someone stating a fact that they know to be true.
“Daeron. What was your dream about?”
“Dragons,” he said. “There was a Red one and a Black one. They were fighting in a field.”
That would explain the boy’s questions then. And it made sense; he knew of Daemon’s epithet, and he knew that his father had gone off to war against him. Of course he would dream of a dragon battle.
But the way he spoke about it… It did not feel like a dream, Daeron had said. It felt real. It was certainly not unheard for Targaryens to dream of things to come, though it was a rare gift, very rare indeed.
He was probably being ridiculous. He hardly slept these days, and was tired, stressed, desperate for any news. No, this was just a normal dream of a boy worried about his father. And yet—
“Go on,” the king urged gently.
Daeron hesitated, his eyes flicking away. But a moment later, he continued.
“The dragons were breathing fire. A lot of it. Men were screaming, and they—” He took a shaky breath in, eyes shining with tears once more. Daeron felt a stab of guilt, but did not interrupt.
“They were burning,” the boy looked at him again. That fear was back— a desperate, searing intensity. His voice dropped, like he was whispering some terrible secret. “It was horrible.”
Daeron patted his grandson’s shoulder, trying to comfort him even as he felt his own stomach drop. “It’s okay.”
He couldn’t bring himself to push the poor child for any more, but he didn’t need to. Daeron continued on his own. “The fire was wrong, though. It burned the people, but not the grass. It just turned it red.”
“Did you see your father?” He had to ask. “Or your uncle?”
“No.” Daeron shook his head. “The Red Dragon won though. If Father and Uncle Baelor are the Red Dragon, that means they will be okay, right?”
“I hope so.” Damn himself, he had to ask. “What happened to the Black Dragon?”
The boy hesitated. “…I don’t know. It didn’t make sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“Icicles fell from the sky.” The boy looked up the ceiling, as if he could see them still. Daeron followed his gaze, but there was nothing there but more red stone. “The fire didn’t even melt them. They stabbed the Black Dragon, and it looked like they killed it.”
“Looked like?”
“It looked dead. It was, I know it. Then the Red Dragon flew away.”
His grandson suddenly pulled away from his hold, bringing his feet up on the bed and sitting cross-legged. The look he fixed Daeron with was solemn and serious and unflinching— and entirely out of place on a child’s face. His voice dropped again.
“But when the Red Dragon was gone, the Black one got up again, and it flew off too. Even though it was dead. It didn’t make any sense. That’s when I woke up.” The boy looked down, and said nothing more. He merely picked at his blanket absently.
The room felt heavy. Daeron was not often one lost for words, but he did not know what say to this.
You are his grandfather, the thought crossed his mind suddenly, and it sounded like Myriah. Be a grandfather.
“That sounds very frightening,” he said at last, in as gentle a voice as he could.
His grandson nodded. “It was.”
“It’s okay to be scared,” Daeron continued. He thought of his grandson quieting his sobs when the king came in the room. “I get scared sometimes, too. And you can cry if you need to, there’s no shame in that.”
“Do you think it was real, grandfather?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? The younger Daeron certainly seemed to think there was more to it than just a nightmare. It felt real… the Red Dragon won…
Father and Uncle Baelor will be okay…
Oh, he wanted to believe it was true. He wanted to believe it was true so badly. But you should never believe something simply because you want it to be so.
“I don’t know.” He admitted. He wished he had a better answer for the boy. “We will have to see.”
Daeron didn’t seem very assured by that response. He could hardly blame him. He cast his mind about for something else to say to the boy.
“But take heart that your father and uncle are brave and strong men. And they have a lot of other strong men watching over them.”
Daeron just nodded at that. A moment later he was wrapping his arms around his grandfather, and burying his head into his shoulder. The king held him, trying to quiet the spirals his own mind wanted to fall down. He felt almost as if something was watching them, though the room was an empty as could be— just the two Daerons and their shadows, cast upon the flickering lamplight. The shadows didn’t look like them though, not merged together like that. More like a beast, a great black beast rising up on the wall…
The boy yawned, and the king moved his gaze back the sandy brown head resting against his chest.
“How about we get some sleep, okay?”
Daeron sniffled and pulled away, eyes bleary with tears and tiredness. “What if the dream comes back?”
“Then I will be right here, and we can talk through it together.”
The boy didn’t seem too pleased, but he nodded regardless.
As he laid back down, Daeron stood up. Before he could move any further however, his grandson grabbed his hand, as if to stop him from leaving. His eyes looking up in silent question, but Daeron only laid his free hand on the boy’s shoulder, until he reluctantly let go. He could feel those eyes still upon him as he walked to the door, opening it briefly to tell Ser Darrick that he would be staying here for the remainder of the night, and that he should send the other guard to inform Ser Roland of this change of plans and spare him the inevitable worry when the King failed to arrive back to the Queen’s chambers. Then he closed the door quietly, grabbed the chair from the desk by the doorway, and positioned it right by the boy’s bedside. Only when he had sat back down did his grandson’s face relax.
He fears being alone tonight. I can hardly blame him.
The younger Daeron at last closed his eyes and laid his face down upon his pillow. It was not long before his body relaxed, and the soft snores of sleep filled the otherwise quiet room.
In that stillness, Daeron felt his own eyes grow heavy. The lights and shadows continued to flicker across his eyelids, while thoughts of dragons and dreams and battles and fire and icicles swarmed in his head and the world grew dimmer and dimmer…
***
The next morning came, the same as each morning before. The sunlight seemed to have chased away the shadows and ghosts that had felt so real the night before. Prophetic dreams, indeed.
Daeron held court, and met with the small council. The children played their pretend games in the Red Keep’s courtyard. Myriah, Dyanna, and Jenna broke their fast in the Queen’s chambers and kept their quiet solidarity as they practiced their sewing and watched the young ones run to and fro.
The next day passed much the same, and the following. The week was a monotony of evenings and mornings that all blurred together, with many night-time wanderings and still too little sleep. Daeron occasionally checked on the children’s rooms, but he did not find any of them awake again. At the end of the seven days, his grandson's dragon battle felt like nothing more than a fantasy. A bad nightmare, chased away by a grandfather’s presence. Nothing more, nothing less.
Then the ravens came.
It was everything King Daeron had hoped and prayed for. Joy reigned in King's Landing, and he felt the weight of all his fears and uncertainties melt away like snow in spring. When Myriah smiled, it was with her full heart, that crushing dread that had oppressed them all for months nowhere to be found in his wife's beautiful face. Baelor and Maekar returned as war heroes, strong and brave as they day they left. Daeron hugged his sons tightly, thanking the Warrior and all those who sent him their prayers on his family's behalf.
Nothing could damper his spirits. How could it? The rebels and traitors were defeated, and all was as it should be.
(They said his brother died holding his eldest son's body, pierced by an arrow from his other brother's bow.)
(A hail of Weirwood arrows, white as icicles, striking the Black Dragon down.)
(The Battle of the Redgrass Field, men were already calling it. Thousands of good men dead. The grass was not red before the battle— before dragon fought dragon.)
(The fire was wrong, Daeron had said. It burned the people, but not the grass. It just turned it red.)
(When the Red Dragon was gone, the Black one got up again, and it flew off too. Even though it was dead.)
No. He could not deny it. The dread had not truly left his heart, not entirely. For he was certain now that what his grandson had seen that night was true. As he watched the boy play alongside his brother and cousins, his happiness at his father's safe return apparent, he wondered if Daeron had any understanding of just what he had done. Just what he had foretold.
Yes, joy reigned in King's Landing, and House Targaryen breathed easy at last. But the victory was a bloody one, and hollow at its very core.
This was not over.
The Black Dragon would rise again.