Chapter Text
The air of King’s Landing was brackish.
Contrary to what many thought, the capital appeared magnificent only if looked at from the heights of the Red Keep, which watched over the city as if it were its guardian.
In flight, perhaps on dragon’s back, the city would have seemed small, but on foot Flea Bottom seemed to extend to infinity.
Daeron knew this well; he was used to roaming the streets of the most degraded part of the city, moving from brothel to brothel and from skirt to skirt. At eight-and-ten years old, a man ready to be betrothed, he still indulged in such frivolous and ephemeral pleasures, following cups of Arbor Gold as if they were his religion.
Lately, his dreams had become more vivid, intrusive; he would wake up in the morning drenched in sweat, so much so that more often than not the maids had to change his sheets.
The dragons did not stop roaring in his head, and the signs that ultimately remained with him from these endless nightmares were confused, proving indecipherable to him; he had never been particularly adept at understanding and analyzing them, but when they were so vague, his restlessness and melancholy made themselves felt more than usual.
Getting out of bed, he discovered that the sun was slowly rising on the horizon: he was already late.
He left a few golden dragons on the nightstand, on the side where the prostitute was sleeping. His eyes scanned her face one last time before leaving; he had chosen the prostitute with care. Long silver hair and blue eyes, probably the bastard daughter of some older kinsman of his.
He used to hold her with passion, bend her and penetrate her, but he had never learned her name, and he had never asked her to repeat it.
Was it Janine? Jade?
When that silver hair rode his lenght, he would keep his eyes half-closed, and his thoughts would wander elsewhere.
Not to the dragons, or his stupid dreams, or the alcohol.
His thoughts landed in a dangerous place, which as a Prince of the blood he should have repressed and left groping in the dark.
He retraced the way back to the Red Keep, hiding himself well under the hood of his cloak. He had had the enormous advantage (or disadvantage) of being born first, and all the somatic traits of his mother Dyanna Dayne, including her beautiful light brown hair, had fallen to him in a strange biological lottery. But as much as he had inherited his mother's genes, his dark purple eyes betrayed him through and through.
He ran, avoiding the Golden Cloaks that guarded the city, and then reached the huge entrance gates, sneaking inside silent as a mouse.
He knew that today, from Summerhall, most of his siblings would arrive in King’s Landing after a fortnight of travel.
He knew that Daelora would reach him.
His sweet sister, a year his junior. Their father Maekar's genes had prevailed in the colors of her features: silver hair, reminiscent of Valyrian nobility, delicate lilac eyes. From her mother, she had inherited her facial traits, sweet and sophisticated, and her calm, maternal character.
Since her passing, Daelora had committed herself to preserving the family nest, inevitably broken by Dyanna’s death. The father, Maekar, had become more austere, cold, while their younger brother, Aerion, had begun to have worrying tendencies, which veered toward the violent and perverse. Daeron, despite being the oldest of the siblings, had never particularly cared about anything other than his dreams, chasing them awake and asleep in equal measure.
But there was Daelora, to fix everything.
Daeron sneaked into his chambers just in time for the maids, who changed him and polished him up. They did not ask him where he had been all night, because knowing the prince, they knew what kind of environments he frequented in his free time. What kind of environments he frequented when Daelora wasn't there.
He dragged himself into the back garden, where his father Maekar and his brother Aerion were waiting for the caravans.
Maekar shot him a dismissive look.
“You’re late, Daeron”
“You must forgive me, father” he answered. For how much the maids had cleaned him up, he still smelled of alcohol and sex, “I got up later than expected”.
Neither of them said anything, but Daeron saw Maekar's gaze darken. Aerion, on the other hand, had a strange smile on his face, the smile of someone who knows too much.
The sound of horses drew closer and closer, until the gates opened. Daeron could already smell her scent, that smell of hibiscus that followed him in his dreams.
Daelora.
A small face popped out of the caravan window: little Rhae.
With a playful smile, and the innocence of a child who still knew truly little of the world.
Daelora's sworn knight, Ser Adrian, moved to help the younger ones step down; Aegon and Daella stepped down first, still small but autonomous and determined. Then Aemon stepped down, and he nearly fell face-first into the mud, so immersed as he was in his reading. Finally, little Rhae stepped down, in Daelora's arms.
His sweet sister.
Maekar took a few steps forward to meet them. Daelora smiled at him sweetly.
“Sȳz rȳbas kepa” she said “ūja ikso rȳbasorysion finally qrinagon ao tolie such bōsa tembyr” (Good day father, it is a pleasure to finally see you after such a long time)
“Hy dōmon zaldrīzes. Gōlentos hākon tūnos yōna rēlet sōve” (Good day to you, daughter. I hope the trip has not been too heavy on you or your siblings).
He caressed little Rhae’s head, passing his fingers through her silver hair. For only an instant, gentleness softened his gaze. Maekar had insisted greatly, ever since they were small, on having them speak High Valyrian. Something that, after the Dance of the Dragons, had been lost. The children of his older brothers, including Baelor, the heir, had difficulty assimilating their mother tongue, as they had never been accustomed to speaking it.
Unlike them, Maekar had spent countless coins on septons and masters to make them learn. Daeron remembered well the raps on the knuckles when his pronunciation sounded too much like that of the Common Tongue and not that of Old Valyria.
But not Daelora.
Daelora had never received those raps.
“Everything went perfectly smoothly, father” she smiles “even if, I must admit, I am worn”
“You shall be accompanied to refresh yourself then” he stated “Leave the maids to take care of the younglings. You need to rest, Daelora”
“And it will be surely done, father” she replied. As she passed to get to the main door of the Keep, she smiled at her two brothers, Aerion and Daeron.
Before Daeron could do anything, Aerion had already taken a step forward.
“It is surprising, sweet sister, how caring you are towards our younger siblings” he says, his tone sickeningly sweet “sometimes, I must admit, I forget you are our sister and not our mother. Tell me, do you nurse little Rhae too?”
The smile on Rhaella's face did not falter. She knew her brother and, even though he was a year younger than her, more often than not Aerion tried to overrule her.
“I do not, sweet brother” she said. “But I must confess, I am quite confused. Where is your respect for the elders?”
Aerion’s smile soured. “A mere year doesn't make you my superior”.
“Oh but it does, Erri”. Daelora had purposely used the nickname he had when they were small.
“It does”
She disappeared inside the keep, the murmur of her laughter still vibrating in the air.
Daella had looked at him only once.
A single glance.
Che da per li occhi una dolcezza al core.
(That through the eyes passes a sweetness to the heart)