Chapter Text
prologue
196 AC
Daeron dreamed of enormous pyres and deaths.
He jolted awake by the scorching of flames melting his hair, his clothes, his body. The pang of pain lingered on his skin. Screams and haunting pleas humming eerily on his ears.
Daeron touched his face. Strange sensation of pins and needles in the shape of his nose, his eyes, his cheeks. Unmarred, to his relief. His short sandy pale hair still intact, along with his thin sleeping shift.
The boy laid on his mother's bed which he shared with his brother. Aerion was still fast asleep, his snore deep and calm. Daeron's chest rose and fell, trying to follow the simple rhythm of his younger brother's breathing. His eyes stared at the ceiling as the vision that woke him up rapidly blurred into his mind. The beams above him remained unscathed, no signs of charring or soot from any recent great fire. That is just a dream.
Mother was not in the chamber anymore, already preparing the day with a herd of her maids. He contemplated of telling her of his dream. She would comfort him, of course, as she always did.
"It is a troubling time, my sweet," his mother would tell him.
Mother did so when Daeron came up to her, a few full moons past, fleeing the horrid dream of a branch of rivers filled with purple blood. Eerily Valyrian, like the one that's coursing through his own vein. Under the water, rubies glinted faintly while half the continent cheered on the smell of death.
Daeron felt his chest ached by that strange dream. Mother would rub his back as he sobbed in her embrace. Her gentle voice would soothed him from his fears. "All this talk around the court about the bloodshed. This rebellion has disturbed enough of our realm. Oh my sweetling, no wonder why you have bad dreams,"
But the rebellion was gone now. In which the forces of his kingly grandfather, King Daeron II, had brought victory against his treacherous half grand-uncle, Ser Daemon Blackfyre. The boy's own father and uncle had come back to the Red Keep too a few days ago. Prince Maekar and Baelor returned with their men battered and wounded, but alive. It was the bloodiest battle in the past tumultuous year, they said, but Daeron's close family was spared, and the boy was beyond grateful for it.
It was not his dear father's blood that flooded the trident in his vision. That was enough reassurance he need to let go of that dreadful dream.
The familiar feeling of burning came back at the thought. This nightmare he just woken up from was another gloomy vision, although it didn't start as one. A joyful feast where he sat among people who felt familiar to him. Their faces blurred like the veil of smoke of burned candles. Daeron was happy then, somehow, relaxed, like being at home. But then the fire came anyway. Engulfing everything and leaving nothing but deaths and pities and disappointments and his heart hammering in his chest. It was as if a bleak end would eventually catch up to him despite how peaceful things might seem at front.
At least he had woken up now. The dream was over, and a new day began, despite the constant ripples of worry still sloshing quietly in the back of his mind.
Six years old, and Daeron had already grown tired of the nightmares in his sleep.
The boy then gently called his brother to wake him up. Aerion would be thrilled with the promise of another swordplay lesson this morning. His loud excitement would be enough distraction from Daeron's nightmare for today.
It was almost midday when the sun bathed the small court yard, where the family spent their time together. Lady Dyanna had brought her sons from the morning practice to see her husband being tended to by a maester for his injury. Aerion was excited to talk about knighthood and battles to their father. He was more than proud of Prince Maekar, and repeating the courageous words being said about the battle a few days ago, asking for more war stories. Daeron was more concerned with the wounds and bandages on his father's body. Wondering how his father could bear such injuries and already act as fine as he was. Father let out a laugh at their excitements and questions, then told them to show him the result of their practice instead.
"Father look at my new sword!" Aerion boasted. The silver haired young prince had asked the master-at-arms for a proper practice sword instead of a thin stick they gave him. Daeron thought it looked ridiculous on his younger brother. He was sure his mother thought the same.
"Best use two hands to hold it," Daeron said.
Aerion grinned but followed his words anyway. "I shall make you yield with my two hands, Brother!"
That made Daeron giggled. His brother's childish confidence was amusing for him. "I suppose we shall see,"
Aerion was as fierce as he always were, more so now that Father had come back. As Daeron dodged Aerion's feral swings of his sword, he listened to his parents' cheerful laughter from the courtyard's terrace. The smile was wide on his face under the golden sunlight. Later in his life, when Daeron was in need of a fond memory to recall, which he would need more often than expected, the boy would likely replay this moment, over and over, when his family was together, content and whole, under the bright warm afternoon sun.
"Careful my little dragon," his mother mused when Aerion managed to poked Daeron's shoulder. It didn't hurt much. He already forgot about it when he swung his wooden blade back and earned Aerion's excited laugh again. After all, it was clear to everyone, except maybe Aerion, that this was less of a fighting match than a silly childish play.
"We should start sending the boys to learn from good knights," Daeron heard his father said.
Dyanna sounded not too sure about the idea. "Aren't they too young?"
Prince Maekar seemed to had grown stern and harsher by fighting. "We won the battle, but His Grace The King was relenting to give mercy to the traitors. A foolish sentiment, but Baelor convinced him. I can't believe the only one I agree with in that room was the bloody sorcerer,"
"Your father and brother were wise, Maekar. If the crown go with you and the Bloodraven's way, those who already resent us will have their wound worsen even more," she said, cool-headed as always. "The realm is already in chaos as it is,"
"This insolent thing should be dealt with a stern hand. They raise their bloody swords against The King for fuck sake. Against our family, against us,"
"And I am sure they would be dealt with," Dyanna mused. "Your father would stripped them out of wealth and honour enough for the lesson to be learnt by all houses in Westeros,"
He did not hide his scornful face. Maekar rested his back on the chair. His violet eyes fell on their sons in front of them. "I fear rebellion like this would not end with just a single battle. We need to prepare them, Dyanna. Earlier is best,"
The past year had been a chaotic time indeed. Whispers and looks from people around court and all over the kingdoms in general, had truly made the princess wary at most times. Maekar had told her the grim details about the battle before last night, when he was vulnerable with grief of his fallen men, only when there were no one but the two of them. She looked at their sons again. The young Daeron trying to deflect the maniacal attacks from little Aerion. Something was still plaguing her about the idea of preparing her sweet children to such a bloody business. The world was cruel. Even Maekar, being the strongest man she knew, relented to that conclusion. "I suppose you understand these things better than I do,"
Her husband recognized the doubt in her voice. He glanced at Dyanna with that softness that was only reserved for her. She would never get tired of it. "They'll learn how to wield their swords in our vast courtyard in Summerhall," he said, more tender this time. "They shall be gallant boys. You'll be proud of them, I'll make sure of it,"
Daeron looked up at this, resulting in Aerion's sword to hit his arm again. The boy let out a triumphant cackle, thinking he bested his older brother. He swing the wooden sword that's clearly too big for him with excitement, earned him another laugh from Father.
"Father I win! You see that, right?"
"That's my boy!" Father lauded.
While Aerion ran towards their father to celebrate his glory, Daeron was till unsure about what he just heard. "Summerhall?"
"His Grace The King had granted a tremendous gift for your father for his valor," his mother said. Her hand rested on the shoulder of her husband, watching contently as Aerion tried to climb to his lap. "We are to hold the seat of Summerhall. It will be announced in the next audience in the Throne Room. In which I will thank you both—" She lowered herself to match Aerion's height. Her finger finger poked at her youngest son's nose playfully. "—for being appropriate and princely,"
Daeron tugged a smile when his mother's purple eyes winked at him as she rose again. Both understood the words were more likely headed towards Aerion, who sneered and begged to leave the boring procession last time they were all there. This time, Aerion just laughed cheekily.
"Does that mean you will be called Prince of Summerhall, Father?" asked little Aerion, again with that beaming grin of him. "Then we'll have our own castle, like Valarr has in Dragonstone!"
"It's more of a palace than a castle," Daeron muttered.
"It is a great keep. And with the grace of The King, it will be ours." Maekar's eyes looked longingly at his wife. He kissed her hand. "Our line will inherit it, I saw to it before I accepted the grant,"
It seemed that the words brightened everyone's face but Daeron. He put down his wooden sword, then rubbed his neck, trying his best not to show the strange anxious feeling within him. Something about this whole thing reminded him of his recent nightmare. "Do we have to live there now?"
"Our place is with the Crown, but we can always go there or stay here as we please. Though I think the air in Summerhall is nicer to practice your riding. Away from the chaos and all these morbid talk about the fighting, especially now that things are being settled here after the battle," Dyanna let out a reaching hand, which Daeron took unsurely. He had always been a wary child. "It'll be more peaceful for us. I thought you will like it, my sweet,"
"Oh the boy would love it. Will you, son?" his father said, oblivious of the grim look on his child. His rough hand brushing up Daeron's pale sandy hair. "You, Daeron, will hold it one day,"
Prince Maekar let out a satisfied smile like it's a wonderful thing. Daeron was not sure if his father was aware that he had to be dead for such thing to happen, leaving Daeron to tend with the grief of his loss. That and a huge palace to manage. If Father was dead, would the bright Summerhall be as charming as it was now?
The notion brought him back to the eve of what they now called the Battle of Redgrass Field. It was a series rough and awful nights when Daeron had to wait with the other children and ladies in Maegor Holdfast, wondering if his father would come back safely at all. Nothing he could think of could be as charming as his father safely return. The bloodied river of his dream still imprinted in his mind. He cried during those nights, which only invited Aerion's confused look.
"Don't be sad brother. Dragons do not cry, remember?"
But his mother held him anyway. She understood the dreadful feeling that's haunting him. She always did. Daeron could not bear the thought of losing her even more than losing his father. Just the idea made him cried even louder that night.
Father would not share the same gentleness, though. Prince Maekar was all steel and iron, even to his children. The Anvil, Daeron had heard how the court talked about Father. The strong and firm warrior, something that the young boy was not sure he could ever become.
"My eldest son," his father said. Pride and compassion in his voice filed with heavy expectation. "My heir."
The gentle words wrapped around little Daeron like an iron weight. Perhaps as heavy as father's moniker, he thought dryly. When Maekar then rest his hand on Daeron's shoulder, the boy had no choice but to just let out a thin smile. Holding that dreadful feelings to himself, not wanting to disappoint his dear father's rare beam of genuine happiness. Not when the moment was as pleasant as this, with everyone he loved safe and alive in front of him, blessed with a new castle his family was so proud of.
Be that as it may, Daeron rather liked Summerhall. It was better than the crowded Red Keep, or the gloomy and menacing Dragonstone. It's huge pillars and elaborate gardens, with colorful lights through the big stained glass windows. It's warmer too, if the storms were kind enough to leave them alone. Daeron liked it better when it's hot and sunny. Yet, something about his last dream was nagging at him. He was not sure how to tell his parents that the newly built wonderful arches and pillars of the palace somehow reminded him of the burnt ruin where everybody died in his nightmare.
Daeron did not dare to say a thing about it. Worried if he spoke it out, somehow a part of it might come true. It would be long until he realized that sometimes, feared things that he dreaded would eventually come, regardless if he kept his mouth shut or scrambled at any possible way to stop it.
Tragedy it seems, has a certain taunting fondness in him.
—-o0o-—
After an excruciating walk from the capital, Romme thought of sleeping off her pain away, perhaps even for the last time.
Light fell upon layers of leaves as her ceiling for the day. Overlapping rays of gold and green and bright yellow, danced with a gentle brisk of wind under the late afternoon sun.
Laying on her back under an old wise tree made Romme sleepy. Perhaps it was the nice weather, a mercy from Mother Above. Though more likely it was the slow worsening of the fever.
Romme had enough with the festering wound. The constant throbbing wave of pain that then became a qualmish companion to her. It's getting worse these past few days. The healer, who costed her three days worth of work in the pot shop, had proven to be a fraud. Whatever awful smelling salve he had put on her wound worked nothing but induced the cold sweat and chill back.
Earlier today, Romme had to restrained a vomit when she took it off by the slow trickling spring. The little girl had tried her best to clean all the suspicious brownish green paste away, then decided to threw the rest of the bandage entirely.
The rough spun cloth she tied over her wound now was the cleanest thing she got, and even that was used to stained by weeks of travel. She wondered if the wound was far beyond saving now. If she was beyond saving.
Perhaps that was why the Gods led her to this spot. After she found nothing to clung to in King's Landing, she had planned to walk back west. But the pain and lethargy overcame her until she needed to stop in this quiet woods. Such a breath of fresh air this place was, compared to her whole week in the floors of Flea Bottom that felt like years.
At least here, the summer was in the air. Tiny pollens and smell of sweet flowers and damp soil, the buzzing of bees and flies, simultaneously tranquil and slightly irritating. If Romme were to die today, she thought she would be content with this.
Eight years old, and Romwyn had already grown tired of the cruelness of life.
"Not today, child,"
The Goodman Trinn's voice echoed in her mind. Hoarse and rough, full of life. Not in a lively and cheerful way—not necessarily. But rather in an old people way, in which their long portion of life and wisdom had trained their perception so much, they could see something so mundane and hideous to be the very beacon of hope.
Trinn, the old man, was wounded too, once. He had a scar on his head, where his deep black hair refused to regrow in that straight line behind his ear to the back of his skull. He told her he got it from a brawl in Flea Bottom. He forgot what caused the fight, but still remembered how he thought he might die because of it. He was three-and-ten, or perhaps four-and-ten when he got it. He was two-and-forty when he died, not from the wound on his head, but by a robber's blade stuck on his chest, many months away from Flea Bottom by foot.
Romme wondered if Trinn ever repeated himself of the words, back when he was a teenager with a bleeding skull, thinking that The Stranger was about to give him a kiss of death. Was he soothed by it or was he just as annoyed at the remark as much as she was then?
She knew he did not say "not today" when blood gurgled from his mouth on his final demise.
Romme squirmed at the thought of death. Already too many of it she had experienced in this tumultuous year. How many more tragedies will it be too much deaths for an eight year old girl to bear?
Why couldn't it be today? She asked, or was it a plea? If so, she was not sure to who. There was no one except herself, wearied on the floor of the woods, and maybe a swarm of flies floating in a whirl nearby. Their faint hum of wings ignored her existence since the girl stopped walking and took a rest there. As if she's simply another little disturbance in the landscape as much as the scuttling of a weasel or the rustling of a deer. Insignificant in the grand of things.
Trinn had died on the similar place, with a canopy of trees above him, fresh blood seeped into his clothes, and no one to help him, even for a proper burial. His body would probably swelled and rot there. A feed for wild dogs or wolves or boars, then to bugs and worms, and then back into the ground; As would her own body, if she died today. If she was to ever die, wouldn't it be nice to die like him?
"Not today,"
She heard it again. Perhaps it was The Stranger himself saying it to her, refusing to take her hand for now. Was it a reassurance? Was it a mocking in her hopelessness?
Trinn had died several months ago, but still his voice haunted her, even now. So cursed was she, that in her final moment, the ghosts still would not leave her alone. She found it to be morbidly silly, but it sting so bad when she let out a chuckle, so she only relented on a soft groan.
That man would've love this place. A vineyard a few miles west. Rolling hills of barley southwards. Far enough from the field that was now called the Redgrass, though likely it already turned brown with all the dried bloods and mud by now. The fields in this place were still pleasantly green and lush. The woods was a nice spot of shade and there was a small stream nearby. No one else around, not even any robbers to stab his heart or slash her collarbone open again.
Trinn would hum his usual song as he tied up his small hunting bow here. Carefully measuring the tension of the string and the curved wood. There were probably some rabbits about. A prospect of a modest meal. Then, when the night time come, he would feast on it with a couple swigs of his wine by the fire. Sweet and slightly burning, cutting through the fat and the meat. It would be enough of a bliss for him.
He would tell stories of what he called his tapestry of life. Things from his youth, of people he met and worked for, of the nice girl back in the village near Raventree Hall who always had a nice cup of ale for him whenever he visited. The girl kissed him once. Once and that was enough for him to never forget her beauty. Trinn married her as soon as he got back the next autumn. "That's love for you," he would laughed. "That's what life is about."
If Romme didn't die today, would not it be nice to live like him?
She remembered his repeating words again, back on the day he found her. She was already on death's door even then, open skin above her collarbone freshly bleeding, woken up to a chanting words of the strange old man. Whispered over and over as he stitched her wound and reassured her that he would not let her die in front of him.
Trinn did not have to do that. Romme knew nothing of him, and so did he of her before that. But he tried to save her life anyway. His voice deep and raspy, his hands gentle and precise. "Not today, child."
The leaves and the lights slowly blurred in her vision. Romme let herself cry again. She missed Trinn. Him and his kindness and his boring stories.
She missed her mother, who never run out of smiles for her, even when she's tired and sick. She missed her father, who would let her ran up and down the hills with her precious dress. She missed her brothers who would cheered when she outrun them, even her older sister who often ignored her except when she agreed to be dressed in her silks and laces. She missed her only friend, Niya and little adventure they had in and outside the castle. All of them are dead now, what was left were nothing but pieces of memories. All and each one of them a thread in the tapestry that was her short life.
If Romme didn't die today, she would like to tell boring stories about them. Like how Trinn did of his own people in their little fire camp.
Might be whoever listening to her would end up being bored or annoyed. But perhaps, that would be enough, to simply have someone listening. Even if they remember only the insipidity of it all. Because then she would become a piece of memory for them. A thread in their tapestry. Perhaps that would be enough.
Would a swarm of flies nearby make do for that?
She wished. But then admit to herself that, regrettably, no.
It could not be today, then. She would not die today. No matter how serene and beautiful this place was to die at. Not when there was no one around to remember her.
It was a grueling effort to just sit up. Her home now felt even way too far to reach. It had taken her more than half a strenuous year to ended up here, probably the same amount to go back. With this wound, Romme was unsure if she could walk west further enough to reach someone who would care.
And what were she thinking trying to walk back home alone in this condition?
Is there even still a home for her? For what she had done?
The fever had taken over her wits. That, or she was just plain acting like an oaf just as Niya once told her. The battle was done, yes, but that meant even more armed men roaming around after they fled the field, this time with no gold cloaks to scare them off. Might be some travelling men was bored enough to meddle with a little girl walking by herself in the Gold Road. Could be worse for her too, if there were robbers and bandits lurking around. She cursed to herself. It was as if she didn't learn from what happened to Trinn.
She looked wearily at a sack of a companion she's been dragging since Trinn died. The bag and its contents was his before she claimed it for herself. The familiar weight of it comforted and uneased her in equal measure. The cargo inside might help her. After all, she was owed, didn't she?
The little girl slumped in shame. No, not her fully. Just the part of her that was a killer was owed.
The rest was still holding in denial that she did do such terrible act.
Well, and look where the ignorance got her now. A festering wound with no one as a company. Empty sockets of The Stranger's skull eerily watching from the distant.
Romme reached for a parcel inside the bag. The familiar texture of paper greeted her touch. At the center of it, a wax seal she's memorized in her mind. Red, with no sigil, just stamped by the end of a dagger. A personal letter, perhaps. Might be unimportant. Might be something more. Trinn was adamant on bringing it to Kings Landing, just as he was discreet about what it contained and who he's delivering it for. It must've worth something.
It worth something to her. Enough for her to held on to it, even after she's arrived at the capital. Enough for her to still keep it for herself, even until now.
Stupid, in hindsight. She had travelled all the way to King's Landing to deliver the package herself. Only to be reluctant to part with it because she was not ready to lose Trinn too.
Romme took stupid decision sometimes, but she was not really that stupid. Red mean something on the road during the rebellion. She had come across enough smallfolk with loose mouths to deduced some of Trinn's mysteries.
The lord whom Trinn was working for would be able to fetch a maester to treat her wound. A real one with actual chains, and not a fraud scraping fortune from starving street urchins. Actual potions and clean bandages, not foul smelling green paste.
He might even do the healing himself with his sorcery, if he cared enough, though she was not too keen with the idea of that. Be that as it may, the mysterious man shall do it because he owed her. He would have to, after what he gained for what she did. For who she killed.
Or, might be he would just get rid of her. Tie up loose ends. That's what the road had taught her would likely happen. That's what the folk said about the man. Kinslayer, they called him. How easy it would be for him, after killing his own half-brother a few days past, to simply done the same to her? She was no more than a spindly girl of eight with such a bold claim. He would thought no one would mourn her. Just a loose end in need of being tossed out.
Except that if the man was honorable enough, to go to him might offer her the opposite possibility. Her wound might be treated and saved. She might live for another day.
She was already accepted if she was to die here anyway. Should the lord killed her, it made no difference. Right?
Romme could not help but winced at such a grim thought.
The girl rose nevertheless. One thin arm leaned to the mossy branches as she breathed away the stinging pain from moving her body. Her gaze turned to the horizon beyond the green summer fields, at the cluster of towers peeking over the tree lines. The city she had decided to ditch hours ago called her back, now promising another day away from death. A heavy price in the cost of her conscience, the very little of it that remained anyway.
For now, she looked up once again at the afternoon sunlight through the leaves. Slivers of ray escaping through the gaps of the foliage like shining golden swords. If Romme didn't die today, she would like to see such a beautiful sight again. Perhaps in a garden of her own home, or wherever she might ended up later in her old age.
Just as King's Landing was not done with her, it seemed as if she was not quite done with life.