Chapter Text
“Valarr.” The name escaped his lips with a haunting naturality. It was an old habit, one he had learned as early as he first enunciated words. This time, though, it left a bitter taste behind. “Now you have someone to blame.”
Daeron was used to lying. He thought all his brothers were, having all lived under the same impious gaze of his lord father. From the unripe age of five he had learned that, while Maekar didn’t favor falsehood entirely, he was much more lenient to it than he was when confronted with shameful truths. A little lie oft didn’t carry the weight of the Anvil’s hand. So, instead of chivalrously admitting that he had indeed been the one to break the jewelry adorning his father’s favorite dagger at five, he lied. Valarr did it, not him. Valarr always did it, never him.
He suspected his father had some hidden pleasure in hearing Baelor’s sweet first-born slip, for he was blinded enough by envy to accept the lie time and time again.
Valarr, be it because he was naive or stupid, never snitched him out. Or his brothers, when later they discovered the same trick. His cousin only stared unblinkingly at Maekar, after having been called with his own father as witness, and heard his uncle’s accusations with an awful tranquility. Sometimes he would even say, almighty as he felt he was, that he “took responsibility.” Therefore, one could hardly blame Daeron for using his cousin’s name when he was so very pliant a scapegoat. Nor could he feel any guilt, knowing that the chastisement Baelor offered to his own were never harsher than a few disappointed words.
But using such machinations now, at two and twenty, felt more dirty than sly. Well, he wasn’t proud of it.
“Valarr,” His father said, voice as grave as stone. Daeron fiddled with the wineskin in his hands, skin growing hotter by the minute. “Your cousin did this to you.”
“Well, yes.” Daeron made mention of taking a swig, but Maekar harshly grabbed the wineskin from his hand before he could do it. A pity, really, for he needed the alcohol's strength. “He didn’t mean to. We were drunk.”
“Valarr was drunk,” Maekar repeated, disbelieving. Daeron knew it was an absurd affirmation, for Valarr wasn’t fond of drinking as much as he was. He did indulge, sometimes, but never to a point of acting unwise. His father obviously knew that, for his voice grew harsh and ironic. “Valarr was drunk.”
“His father died,” Daeron spat on instinct. It was unseemly how low one could go to save his own skin, and he recognized how despicable he had been for saying it when Maekar’s face turned solemn. Well, too damn late. “I think he had the right to be.”
Maekar sighed. It seemed that, with Baelor’s death, signs of Valarr’s defective nature did little to soothe. Before, it had been a small delight to know that it hadn’t been only him failing on his children’s rearing. Now, it was only taking pleasure from an orphan's misery, and that was low. Or perhaps it was the fact that what Daeron had done now had been infinitely worse than breaking fine daggers or childish misdeeds, and, although Valarr was allegedly involved, Maekar’s son was the only one who would truly bear the shame.
“There’s no need to worry,” Daeron rasped, eyes clouded by anguish. “It won’t take root. I have dreamed-”
Maekar ignored him, as it was usual lately, and pierced his heavy gaze in one of the guards standing dutifully nearby.
“Let Valarr know that his uncle demands to see him.”
Daeron swallowed dry, red rimmed eyes heavy with guilt. He had never felt guilt before when committing perjury against his cousin in his father’s impious court, but now it felt like a sturdy rope was tightening around his throat. Before there were no real consequences, but now… he harshly clawed at his nailbeds.
…
It was a pathetic picture, if he was to say so. Valarr held a stern stance, always trying to mimic the dignity of his late father, but it was done poorly. To be dignified you had to be respected, and he had no feats of his own. He was a gifted knight against old men and amateurish pups, and that wasn’t something to be sung about. Daeron had to hold back a scoff at the way he kept his head high, his posture impeccable, as if his core wasn’t in display for all by the constant tremble of his fingers. They were forever trembling since his sire died, and, as much as he wished to, he couldn’t hide it.
Just a pup trying to appear bigger than he truly was.
They were seated side by side before Maekar’s sturdy table, chairs conveniently far from each other. The air was stifling, virulent, but Valarr was adamant in showing that he wasn’t affected by it.
That self-imposing perfection was exactly what had made Daeron distance himself from him when puberty got to them. Valarr had been like this since forever, a no personality fool craving for approval, a to-be copy of Baelor. He hadn’t succeeded, and Daeron doubted that he ever would. But he did try, and that was, most of the time, irritating. His cousin did it all seeking to be good, there was no artifice in his attempts or ill intent behind it, but he still often fell into the trap of sounding condescending.
Valarr always took the blame, the Sevens knew why, but he never failed to give his most disappointed look to the true culprit before walking away unsullied. As if he didn’t need a word to make Daeron feel less than dirt at the bottom of his virtuous boots.
“Have you heard of Daeron’s predicament?” Maekar asked, stern. Daeron felt nausea at the pit of his stomach, the ache for a drink growing stronger. He truly was ridiculously weak, acting like a pup caught red-handed.
“No,” Valarr said, voice even. He didn’t steal a glance at his cousin, so very prim he was. “Nothing bad, I hope.”
“This is ridiculous,” Daeron complained, face growing warm with embarrassment. He now saw that bringing Valarr into it had been a terrible mistake: he wasn’t a child anymore. At first it had seemed like a good idea, because saying it had been his cousin would certainly land better to his father’s ears than admitting that it had been someone whose name or face Daeron couldn’t even remember. “I told you, I dreamed that-”
“He is with child,” Maekar explained, worn beyond years. His earlier anger had been replaced by a disappointment so acute that Daeron would have preferred to face the first even if it meant ending the night with bloodied feet. It was better than reminding his father yet again how lacking he was at everything. “Yours, apparently. He said you two were drunk. Drunk enough for you to have ruined not only the virtue of an omega, a prince, but to make him carry a child out of wedlock.” He sighed. “Well? What do you say about it?”
Valarr frowned. Daeron was courteous enough to feel shame, but not shame enough to point out that he had lost his virtue a long time ago already in a grimy inn not far from there. His only mistake, as of now, was having left a visible clue of his nightly endeavours behind. The maester designed for him had noticed his nausea for what it was, and he wasn’t successful in bribing him before the old man told everything to Maekar. So, all was lost. And Daeron didn’t even know why so much trouble, given that he had dreamt of a rotten dragon egg laying next to his bloodied feet.
The child was dying. A child he didn’t even know, a child who only amounted to his ever present anguish with nausea. So why did he feel so bereft for it? He wanted the thing growing inside his womb to mean nothing, wanted to completely ignore its existence, but his father was adamant in torturing him. His smell, usually clouded by the stench of wine, curdled. He was always in distress, always on edge, but the recent reminder of another doom to bear turned him miserable. Daeron didn’t remember what he smelled like when he was completely at peace, but it certainly wasn’t that terrible smokey and pungent mess of now.
Valarr clenched his teeth.
“I see.” He got to his feet, intertwining his hands behind his back. He took a fleeting look at Daeron, no trace of sympathy in his eyes, and nodded. “There’s no need to worry, uncle.” He bestowed all his attention upon the tired figure of Maekar, voice lifeless. “It was a mistake, as I didn’t mean to dishonor him or disappoint you. I will take responsibility.”
“Good. Now-”
“The details can be sorted another time, I hope,” Valarr interrupted Maekar, not unkindly. “I will abide by your wishes, if I deem them just, as I am sure they will be.” He bowed, not low and subdued like omegas were taught to be, but with the slight, barely there, motion of an alpha and heir who knew of his station. “I must go now. My grandsire has sent me a letter and I wish to reply to him.”
Before Valarr went away, unsullied as ever, he gave Daeron what he had most dreaded before daring to once again sink his cousin’s name into the mud. A disappointed, demeaning, glance. Just a glance, for he couldn’t bother to offer him more. Apparently, Daeron was so insignificant that he didn’t deserve a proper chastisement. And the worst of it all was that, despite Valarr’s obvious disapproval, the look hadn’t been meant to make the omega feel ashamed of himself, but to simply encourage him to do better next time. It was the reprehension of a kind father, as Baelor had many times cast upon his sons before.
It angered Daeron more. It made him want to smash Valarr’s face against the nearest wall, to make him cower under his fists. Because it was belittling. That wasn’t the look one cast upon his equal, but one someone spared to a lesser foe. One that didn’t even merit to be called that. How could Daeron dare to be angered, when he should be grateful? It was just that Valarr’s favor always seemed backhanded. His virtue was Daeron’s ruin, always.
“Go back to your chambers,” Maekar ordered, like he was an unruled mutt to be tamed. “And don’t you dare leave it until I see it fit. You have done enough.”
Daeron did as commanded. His skin was blissfully unmarred, no pain to be beared except that of his mind, that was always present, and of his hurt pride.
…
His pride wasn’t worth much, though.
As long as Valarr wasn’t being insufferable right before him, he was fond of his cousin. It wasn’t his fault that he held himself to such high regards, given how pampered he had been for all his life. It was natural, even. If anything, Daeron could recognize that Valarr had it worse than himself, because at least his father didn’t expect anything grand of him. Nobody expected anything grand of him.
It was oddly comforting.
Since he had presented as an omega, at the tender age of three and ten, he felt like Maekar let him go for good. It was not like he was incapable of disappointment still, but his expectations turned depressingly low. If Daeron happened to be, for some nonsensical reason, slightly sober, his father treated him like the conqueror himself, and that was telling a lot.
Valarr, on the other hand, had turned out to be an alpha exactly as expected of him. And many more things were expected after, naturally. Baelor wasn’t harsh with his son if he failed, but he was such a magnanimous example of duty that people were instinctively drawn to please him however they could; and so did Valarr, even more than most. He did his best to live up to his sire’s name, and how doted on he was in return! If Maekar pampered over Daeron if he was half sober, Baelor praised Valarr’s every breath. It was exhausting for them both, he imagined, so yes, he could sympathize with his cousin despite it all.
“I miss our little sunshine.” The red-head beauty smiled, all grace, and leaned a little against Daeron’s shoulder. “Where did you say he went?”
“Far.” He mumbled, sinking on the hard chair and feeling small like an adrift sail boat. “Very far, I wager, given how fond he is of adventures.”
She asked more, but he could hardly decipher the mechanics of his own fingers, least of all interpret the dreamy inquiries of a tavern’s whore. Ryia, it was her name. A familiar face, for he was fond of that place in particular. The floor was drier than most inns nearby, cleaner too. Whenever he passed out under one of those tables he felt a homely warmth that was hardly found anywhere else, and the meals had a tender care to it. The innkeeper's wife liked to decorate plates like a fool, which Daeron found sweet. It was sweet to care for so little.
Egg liked it there too.
His little brother was especially fond of hearing the knight tales, or any tales at all. Daeron had taken him there many times, dismissing how filthy certain mouths could be or how lewd the air turned past midnight. Egg had learned to go back to Summerhall on his own, used to his brother passing out on a heap of his own vomit at some point in the dawn, and that was something that made Daeron’s heart shrink. Even so, the little boy liked it well enough for Daeron to take him back time and time again.
He missed Egg. As pathetic as it sounded, the nine year old boy was the closest he had for a friend. If he was there, Daeron would probably have spilled between a drink or two that he was with child, and Egg would certainly let out a simplistic, and welcoming, “that’s tough.” Just that, because such a story wasn’t as exciting and brave as the ones of the sung knights.
Daeron sighed, nursing his drink with a slowness unseen before. He wasn’t admitting it out loud, but he was trying not to overstep this time. He had heard the maesters saying that it wasn’t wise to drink while carrying a pup, for it could be harmful. The thing inside his womb would die, but even so he held back: he stuck to brief sips in between long intervals of acute misery. He hoped it would be enough to not make the thing suffer much. He wished he had been stronger to go dry as he should, as a loving parent should, but he was weak. The voices inside his head were maddening, and he never had been much of a masochist.
Pain was something he was deeply acquainted with. Even so, he avoided it like the plague.
That was why he was in such a loud tavern, that was why he had sneaked out despite his father’s harsh order to stay locked inside his room. He couldn’t bear being alone. There, with so much fuss and debauchery, the voices inside his head turned into a bearable buzz. It was just a nagging thing at the back of his mind. The drinks were a marvel if added to the picture, for he sometimes was so lost in his cups that he forgot even himself. When nothing was cutting it, and that was exactly what had put him in such a disgraceful predicament, he allowed any lowborn alpha to take him by the wrist and treat him like a common whore. He never remembered their faces, nor their handling, but it was something that felt oddly right when he was wretched beyond repair.
Right, but not worthy, as he now knew.
“Found you.”
Valarr had a grounding voice. Gentle like a spring breeze, stern only when needed. He used the tender tone particularly with his little brother, but sometimes he granted his cousins a sample of it. Never for long with Daeron or Aerion, though, because they were greedy to smash anything pretty that dared to stand before them. Daeron because he was clumsy, and Aerion because he took pleasure in it. That was probably why the alpha’s face hardened not a second after the relieved interjection he unconsciously let out, eyes sharp as a hawk’s. He gave a single look at Ryia, hanging precariously on Daeron’s arm, and she left like it had been an expressive order.
“Come,” Valarr said, voice paradoxically calm given his irritated face. No one could be fooled, tough, because, as much as he softened his vowels, it was still an order. He turned his back, completely confident that Daeron would follow him. “Don’t bring the tankard.”
He walked away, not a glance back. Daeron huffed, rolling his eyes. He nursed the idea of ignoring Valarr's prissy command just to show him that his fabricated pomp was inefficient. He knew his cousin well: if he was an undefeatable fighter, it was because no one dared to hit the crown prince; if he was seen as intelligent, it was because anything he did was praised with double the enthusiasm one truly deserved; if he was indulged in any of his whims, because it was law and custom that commanded people to do so. The blond wasn’t saying that his cousin was lacking, but just that he hadn’t any legacy to vouch for his said greatness. The day Valarr made an worthy opponent kiss the ground Daeron would promptly give him the praise he so deserved. That day, though, hadn’t yet arrived.
With a heartfelt farewell swig he emptied the remains of his tankard and got to his feet. Small indulgence, great stupidity. The thing was dying anyway.
Daeron followed. Not because he was obliged to by hierarchy, like most people were, but because he recognized that he owed Valarr an explanation. He had lied about his cousin being the father of his little mistake, and that was low even for himself. It had grave implications as well, given that any child from Valarr was a direct heir to the throne. So he had to lay things plainly, had to assure the alpha that there was nothing to worry, for the pup was dying.
It would die. It was as simple as that.
And it would die soon. His dreams had become violent and frequent, which was never a good sign. It meant that pain was near. Maekar was probably planning their wedding by now, but there wasn’t truly a need to fuss about it. With the thing dead, Valarr would be free from any strenuous duty, and Daeron would be as well. That was why he had pitched his cousin’s name, like a malicious child, to his father’s ears. Because, although he had been irresponsible letting someone impregnate him, at least he had supposedly done it with an worthy alpha. Even Maekar would be able to feel relief at that.
“Here.” Valarr extended a hand behind, fumbling until he held the fine linen fabric of Daeron’s tunic to guide him like a horse. The blond slapped his hand away, impatient, and took the lead with long strides. He knew those streets like the palm of his hand, and he would find his way much faster than his cousin could ever succeed. He had passed out in almost every corner there, after all.
Valarr didn’t take offense in it. He just followed, resigned, more mature than any of Maekar’s children could ever succeed in being. The settlements near Summerhall had been formed languorously over time, like a small colony of ants. Maekar and his children had made the castle abuzz with life, and a humble trade settled a few miles away from the sandy stones which erected their abode. Daeron, who knew every corner of it, was a familiar face among the common folk. They didn’t even bow in his passage anymore, preferring to taunt him with offerings of wine and whores in hopes of securing the small pouch of golden dragons he carried around so carelessly. If he was to think of it, he understood a little why his father saw his crusades so poorly.
They returned on foot. Valarr’s black destrier, once his late father’s, was calmly waiting for its owner at the end of the settlement with a kingsguard at his side. Ser Roland nodded at them, and dutifully offered the horse’s reins to Valarr before mounting his own grey stallion. Daeron ignored his cousin’s inquisitive look and walked past them without uttering a single word. If he could help it, he would never willingly mount a horse in his lifetime, least of all behind someone like some prissy young lady. Given his luck, the beast would probably succeed in throwing him down while Valarr remained astride it without a flinch.
His cousin said nothing, only set on walking beside him while dragging the destrier along.
Daeron wished Valarr said something. In fact, he craved a good shout. He knew how to deal with anger much more efficiently than with understanding; after all, he was an expert in Maekar’s language. And it was just so much easier to redirect culpability away from himself when reason was left aside… when people saw his dear father shouting at his pitiful excuse of a body, they always sympathised with him. He did quite well, the part of the weaker link. Unfortunately, Valarr, as strong as he was, had quite the mellow heart. No matter how much Daeron wished for it, the crown prince would hardly ever lay a hand on him.
Pity.
Summerhall’s entry finally appeared in the distance, walls covered in vine. All the force of its sandy stones towered over them, the downing sun painting its rounded towers and curtain walls a warm honey tone. Daeron didn’t linger for long in his assessments, as it was common for people who had their homes engraved deeply inside their hearts. He saw battlements and intricate carvings, bartizans and corbels, but not only that, for each stone carried the laughter of his siblings and the soft texture of his mother’s hands. The place, vast as it was, felt like a tight embrace amidst a tempest. Valarr once had made the mistake of saying that it was too light a place and that he missed the grey sky of Dragonstone, to which Daeron scoffed. There was no place better than Summerhall, there would never be, and certainly not that dreadful hole in the midst of the sea where his cousin lived.
If Valarr somewhat disagreed, he hadn’t said so. He never was much enthusiastic about arguments, and he favored it even less with Daeron. The blond thought that he probably didn’t see much worth in it, for Baelor used to do the same with Maekar. His uncle never argued with his younger brother, all he did was resignedly agree. But again, everyone resignedly agreed with his father. He was as tempestuous as Aerion, in his own way.
They crossed the gates and ser Roland took the reins from Valarr’s hands to guide the stallion alongside his own to the stables. The young prince thanked the knight, reassuring him that he would be in his chambers in no time. Daeron walked forward, knowing his way like the life lines etched in his hands, and heard the steps of his cousin soon joining his own. The training grounds were dead, as it was condemned to be until Aegon and Aerion returned home. If they returned home, that is. Daeron had little hope about that, for Egg was a little nomad at heart and Aerion would never truly change. The main courtyard, with its little fountain, colourful busheries and yew trees, was a warmer sight. The dornish geometric patterns, with its multifoli arches, elaborated columns and air vents made it light as Valarr feared. Daella was seated at the edge of the fountain with her embroidery hoop and needle, gracefully embroidering her way into a crimson dragon. A gift for father, she had told him. Meanwhile, much less princess-like, Rhae was trying to catch the tiny silverfishes swimming around with her bare hands.
When Daeron passed near enough, he promptly pulled the end of Rhae’s silver braid and gave his most convincing look of reprimand to Vallar when the girl turned in his direction with an indignant yelp. Whatever curses sat on her tongue were forgotten upon seeing her cousin. She just flushed a cute shade of pink and quickly ran away from them. Daeron laughed. Rhae had told him, in detail, how she was to marry Valarr in a pompous garb any day in the future. They would have lemon cake, and Valarr would most likely give her a silver pony which matched her hair as a present. The crown prince knew little of his future, apparently, for he waved at Rhae where she hid behind a marble sculpture of the Mother with little to no knowledge of her bridal status.
You are most likely the bride now, Daeron thought, humourless. Just as fast, though, he reminded himself that he wouldn’t be for much longer. The Thing just had to die, and it would die, and he would be free. That didn’t feel as comforting as he wished it was, but he kept repeating it all the same.
After ample halls and endless spiral stairs, they ended up in a corridor leading to the main chambers of the castle. In a corner secluded enough to not be easily perceived or heard. They were in Maekar’s apartments, where he kept each of his children impossibly close as only a mother hen would. Daeron’s chambers, thank the gods, were the farthest from Maekar’s. He had changed rooms with Aemon, who had no problem sleeping wall to wall with their father, a long time ago. Sweet Aemon could hardly bother a fly if he tried, so it worked swimmingly. Given Maekar’s lack of protests, the blond gathered that his father was as relieved as him to forgo their awkward encounters in the morning. Daeron leaned against the wall, eyes averted up to a specially uninteresting crack on the ceiling. He didn’t bother to enter his chambers, for he didn’t want to drag that conversation for long.
It was to be quick as a summer drizzle.
“Daeron-”
“There’s no need to worry, dear cousin.” He began, not risking a glimpse at Valarr’s mismatched eyes and well known frown of disappointment. “I am losing it.”
“The child?” Valarr frowned, and Daeron gave him a brief nod in response. “Wouldn’t it hurt you to do that?”
“I am not- dear Mother, I am not getting rid of it!” He cried, words scrambled and defensive. He looked at his cousin for the first time, stomach revolving in nausea. As if the thing was as upset as he was. “It just will happen, I have no say in it.”
“Have you not?” His eyebrows tilted up, voice tinted with a candour that was difficult to digest. “You were drinking, were you not? I think this is a choice of yours. You endanger the child out of your own will. Perhaps, if you did differently, it might live.”
“You are wrong.”
Daeron didn’t try to explain to him what he had tried to explain to others at uncountable times. His dreams always became true. Sometimes he interpreted them wrong, but all of them eventually came to life without fault. He had tried to stop them from happening before, but it was futile to do so: no matter how he exerted himself to escape the terrors plaguing his mind, he was to be forever doomed to see them invading reality. Change wasn’t feasible, and hoping for it would only serve to make him even more miserable. So he didn’t.
Valarr approached with an assured step, face to face with the omega. He was shorter than Daeron, a fact that never failed to amuse Maekar, but his presence was stronger. He didn’t fumble on his own feet, trying to find a sturdy ground to stand on, but took each step dismissing completely the possibility of a fall. It was also true that he had a boyish face, that he blushed easily, that his fingers were ever trembling, but the candour with which he did anything in life didn’t make these reactions seem like a weakness, but an endearing trait. Everyone sympathized with Valarr, because it was impossible to not do so. Even his faults, so plain in sight, were just the humility of a man who recognized the constant need for improvement.
It was suffocating to be so close to him, for Daeron couldn’t help always comparing each breath he took with his own. Could one be better at breathing than another? Daeron believed so, for Valarr breathed easier than himself.
“You are hurting yourself. I know you don’t like to hear it, but I have to say it,” He whispered, eyes following lazily the contours of Daeron’s features. His smell was like arriving home after a long and difficult walk outside. It was the same steel and ash of his uncle and father, but there was a gentleness to it, a slight trace of wood and grass right after the rain, that was strangely soothing. Although the blond felt ashamed by it, his shoulders relaxed without notice. “This is not wise, Daeron. Not anything that you are doing. You are sowing a path to self destruction for a long time now, and I have said nothing out of respect for your agency. But now, now you have put me directly in the middle of it, and I understand that you have given me the right.”
“I have not,” He pushed back, the sweet smell of wine that was so typical of him souring. “You have no right. It doesn’t concern you.”
“It does. I am the father of your child, as you said yourself.” Valarr stood tall, face hardening. Whatever tenderness that he had before was gone, replaced by the firmness of a ruler. His fingers, though, were trembling still. “Did you do it out of love? What is his name?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Daeron scoffed, rolling his eyes. “I was drunk.”
Valarr’s gaze dropped to the collar of his tunic, eyes hazy and absent as it usually turned when he was deep in thought. His smell sharpened a little, just the right amount for Daeron to suspect that he wasn’t pleased. And how could he be? It had been stupid, what the blond had done. Even stupider still the fact that he had dragged Valarr along in shame that should have been only his own to bear. He was in the means of reassuring his cousin of the impending death of the thing when Valarr spoke again.
“You didn’t want it,” He said, weighing his own conclusions with a distasteful frown.
“I didn’t care, really.” The weight of the mismatched eyes made Daeron feel impotent, but he went on. “It’s not like I haven’t done it before. I shouldn’t have said you were the father… perhaps I would do it again, if it happened twice, but I shouldn’t have.”
“This is the least of your problems. You seem unable to see your faults, so I will point them out to you.” Valarr pinched his lips, not a trace of leniency in his eyes. He seemed to be preparing to give Daeron a sermon, a well intended one, and that made the blond tense in anger. He had held back against it until now, but that side of his cousin was unbearable. It wasn’t just to be silently conscious of the grave difference between them, but to acknowledge it aloud. “You took a risk that is beneath your station staying in a place like that while drunk. You allowed some nobody to put a child in you, without the excuse of love to at least make people sympathise a little with you.”
“That’s enough.”
“No, it isn’t.” Valarr spat, anger shining in his eyes. He was so close that Daeron could feel his breath against his skin. “What if he had bitten you? Have you thought of that? You would have been chained forever to someone you could grow to despise. Someone dangerous, because I can’t imagine one who would dare to do that to be good.”
“No one has bitten me.”
Valarr’s face flushed with a mix of anger and frustration.
“Someone might, eventually.” He said it like a threat, and Daeron couldn’t help shuddering. He didn’t think his cousin wished ill on him, but the fury he felt was enough for him to dismiss common courtesy. Valarr’s voice turned stern, dutiful, as it always became when he was playing in his father’s shoes. “You are not going out without a guard of your own. If you wish to do anything, you must warn me of it first so I make sure that you do it safely. You are not drinking, and I will make anyone who offers you a drop of alcohol see to my sword.” He turned his back, preparing to leave. “If you can’t see reason on your own, I will adjust your raw edges myself.”
“You are not my father,” Daeron grumbled, breathless. If he had only an ounce of his father’s strength, or Aerion’s fierceness, he would have said it with an angered conviction that would probably have landed. But he was weak, he always had been. “Nor my king.”
Valarr didn’t care to look back, but his calm voice reached Daeron all the same.
“If your father has any say in it, I will be your husband.” His voice grew faint along with his steps, but his last words hung in the air like a solemn promise. “And that makes me rightful.”
…
One thing about Valarr was that he did fulfill his promises.
Daeron never had thought his plan would backfire so terribly. Valarr used to be a spineless thing who barely spoke a word if he could avoid it, so how grand was Daeron’s surprise to see that his escape from a tyrant had led him straight to another. Valarr did grow up, now he knew, for the worse. There were two sworn swords of his stationed outside the blond’s door, sturdy as rocks and unmovable as mountains. Differently from his father’s sworn men, those ones didn’t stagger at bribes: He knew, he had tried. He closed his eyes tight, trying to will the migraine building up at the back of his skull away.
It was no do, he was sober.
It had been half a day since Daeron discovered himself captive in his own home, and he was already suffering from it. When he had tried to leave, confidently opening the doors of his own chambers, one of the sworn swords had sternly inquired where he was going. Daeron had scoffed and tried to bypass them with all the pitiful strength of his lean limbs, but they stopped him with only a gentle push. He had to get permission from the crown prince first, they said.
Daeron wasn’t proud to say that he struggled like a child trying to get out anyways, but that he did. Pride meant little to him, it had always meant little, so he kicked and shouted for his father to save him like a small boy would. Maekar never had heard his pleadings for rescue when he was little and stuck on his nightmares, and he certainly wasn’t hearing them now either. So he gave up ridiculously quickly, as he always did. And his pride was pitiful, it was pitiful, so when the craving for wine grew too strong he did ask for Valarr’s permission to go out with an acrid taste at the back of his mouth.
He was denied.
It turned out that he did have an ounce of his father’s thunderous anger, for it was manifesting now. Daeron clenched his teeth, eyes watering out of helplessness. He clutched the handrail of the balcony until his fingertips coloured into a harsh red. He hated the fact that he was weak, hated that he couldn’t move things in his favor out of sheer violence like Aerion did. His brother was an omega like himself, even his father was, and yet he was the only one of them who could break like a candle stick within the minimal threat of violence. He didn’t bite back, he didn’t know how. So he had all the anger of his father, and yet couldn’t do anything out of it.
That made his rage amass like lead on the tip of his fingers. Daeron exhaled slowly out, trying to will the impulse to lash out away like the weak were forever doomed to do. How could he lash out, anyways? The only idea which seemed feasible was to jump the balcony and set himself into a heap below, hurting Valarr in the only way he could by playing with his sense of guilt. I would be dead and he would be haunted forever by the ghost of me. He had done it before, and it had worked. But, as amusing an idea as it was, he was much too cowardly to do the deed. He was incapable of hurting others as much as he was terrified of hurting himself. If he wasn’t, he would be dead already.
“Are you going to kill yourself?” A soft voice came from the interior of his room, and Daeron turned sharply. He smelled the ash and smoke, the rain and forest, and immediately thought about the pop of chickens’ necks under the hands of the scullions. “We are only on the second floor, I fear it isn’t high enough.”
“I will kill you!” Daeron spat, walking to Valarr with heavy steps. He pushed him, hands harsh against his chest, and almost cried on the spot when his cousin hardly stumbled. Valarr took his wrists in his hands, face impassable. “Let me go, you bastard!”
“I am no bastard,” Valarr said, calmly. “There were plenty of people around to assure that.” He sighed, face scrunching up in worry. “I am sorry. It’s for your own good, and you will thank me someday.”
“You better find yourself a food taster, I am poisoning you.” Daeron struggled, bony knees trying to land in between Valarr’s thighs. Unfortunately, his cousin was well versed in wrestling while he had never truly cared about listening to any of his father’s lessons. Valarr pushed him backwards until he was with his back against the wall, body pressing against his own to restrict any chance of kicking. “I will make sure you choke to death.”
“The fact that you have warned me about it makes me think you don’t really wish for it to happen. ” Valarr pressed him further against the wall, and Daeron felt oxygen leaving him. As quick as it came, his strength waned and he turned as useless as a ragdoll. If he was to be an animal, it would be the kind who feigns its own death. “I am sorry.”
“Put your apologies up your arse,” Daeron mumbled, but it was as weak as he was. “Tell those fuckers to get out of my door.”
“I can’t do that.” The blond gave him such a rageful look that Valarr resignedly amended: “I won’t do that. I can, but I won’t.”
Daeron went numb. Valarr kept whispering, each exhale landing softly against his face, but he became incapable of discerning whatever it meant. He could only dread. There was a time, many moons ago, where his father had had the very same idea of the crown prince’s. Dyanna had just died, leaving Rhae bereft of her warm breast and Daeron of his only defender, and Maekar became a frenzy of nerves. His father suddenly couldn’t stay still, not even for a second, and he took it in his strong hands to fix every single problem inside Summerhall to not go mad. Every single problem, and that meant Daeron as well. Maekar cut out the wine, cut out the little visits to inns and brothels and kept him locked on his very own Maidenvault. For months.
Four, to be exact. No matter how much Daeron screamed himself raw, how wretched he became, Maekar didn’t relent. He could hear his elder raving behind closed doors, and he did nothing. He heard him cry, and did nothing. It was only when Daeron fell from the balcony, having wandered deliriously about while half-conscious, that he did something. The doors were opened the next morning, and still the blond had been incapable of getting out of bed with his set of broken ribs and swollen eye. Maekar never acknowledged his faults, but at night he himself had poured wine to his son, cup after cup, to the rim, until he recovered completely. Never again, he had said, and that was the closest thing to I am sorry that Daeron had ever gotten from him.
He still felt those days like an open cut. He hadn’t drunk a drop back then, had even forgotten the exact shade of red that used to be his wine. If he dreamed of chalices, they were only bloody. And he had dreamed, constantly. In the first month, he spent days without a blink to evade the dreams, just to collapse from exhaustion and dream more vividly than ever before right after. In the last months, given his refusal to willingly doze off, he began hallucinating in plain light. He saw struggling figures on the walls, felt fire licking his skin and heard heart-breaking screams of men, women and children. He had heard Egg’s sweet timbre drowning in despair, and had felt like the castle would soon crumble over his head. He heard his mother crying next to his ear, and Aerion’s choking as if the burn came from his own lungs.
Never again. He couldn’t go through it again.
Daeron closed his eyes tightly, running away from Valarr’s tender expressions. This is torture, he thought, he is torturing me. Perhaps it was torture, yes, and that was the answer to solve things. Perhaps all his cousin wished was to torture him into righteousness, as Baelor used to do. Maekar’s philosophy leaned heavily on physical punishment, but Baelor used to gently lead his sons until they came up with the right answer by themselves. What was the right answer? Daeron’s breaths turned ragged, body trembling against his will. He let Valarr hold him without protest, didn’t even flinch when he gently sank a hand through his disheveled hair, when he softly touched his scar from Ashford. What was the right answer? He couldn’t bear extending his punishment, so he had to know.
And perhaps he knew.
“You always give up so quickly,” Valarr said, softly as an afterthought. His chest was pressed against Daeron’s, the steady rhythm of his heart mocking the frenetic march that was the blond’s. He sighed, and his breath smelled like fresh mint leaves. “It worries me.” His hand came up to his cousin’s jaw, lifting his face into view. “This way the world will break you.”
Daeron inhaled sharply, eyes stinging from the threat of tears. He felt ashamed, but he had learned. He had learned, he knew the answer and although humiliating he would deliver it.
“Call my father.” He stammered, desperate. A part of himself, a part which was always terrified of his father’s punishments, regretted as soon as he pleaded it. He abhorred pain, his body couldn’t take it. But Valarr was worse. He would be worse. “Call my father and I will tell him the truth. You won, I shouldn’t have done it. I am sorry. I have learned.” He weakly placed his hands on Valarr’s shoulders, lilac eyes crazed. “I have learned, there is no need- no need. Call him and I will tell him the whole truth, I will tell him how I have lied and that I am ashamed of it.”
Valarr stared at him without moving a single muscle. His face was a mask that Daeron couldn’t decipher. He was hard to read, always had been, because, most of the time, he was as quiet as a lake. It was hard to disturb the surface, and harder still to see what lay underneath. After a pause that seemed to drag for eternity, where his mismatched eyes seemed lost in space, his hand, before placed on Daeron’s cheek, traveled to his waist. Feather-light. He was gentle, and that made Daeron more paranoid. He didn’t like gentle, for it was never predictable. From his father he knew exactly what to wait, but Valarr’s slow movements and soft touches irked him. Something in himself was always expecting the blow, and to not know when it came, if it would come at all, made him restless.
Valarr inclined, cheek gliding softly against daeron’s, lips a breath away from his good ear. The one that hadn’t been maimed when he feared for his life a fortnight ago on a young girl’s birthday. When he spoke, Daeron felt each word, tasted each vowel.
“I will tell you what will happen, cousin.” His hand traveled, caressing fine fabric, until it rested, seething hot, against Daeron’s lower belly. Over the small swell, which was new, guarding the thing amidst his entrails. “You are strong, and you-”
“I am not strong.” Daeron whispered rushedly, heart beating wildly inside his chest. Valarr’s hand was a heavy weight against him, and he felt him everywhere. Everywhere. “I am not.”
“You are.”
“I am not.” He pleaded, trying to make himself heard. “I am not.”
“You will be.” Valarr nuzzled against the crook of his neck, grinded his cheek softly against his. Like he wanted Daeron to smell like forest and rain, like he wanted to drown the wine completely. His thumb caressed the fabric of the tunic, right above his navel. “You will be strong. You will carry the pup to term, and it will look exactly like you, with your golden hair and pretty face. Just like you, the nose like yours, ears like yours. Even the toes will be yours, love.”
Daeron tightened his grip on his shoulder, feeling out of touch with reality. Only his mother had ever called him love, and it sounded unfit to hear it from foreign lips. His father called him boy, his siblings called him brother, and Valarr was supposed to call him cousin. That was righteous, and nothing beyond that. They had never been close enough to gather other endearments, after all. Aerion called Valarr shitty king, but that was because they were close, because in their age they only knew mockery as affection. But with Daeron, who was three years older than him, Valarr was only polite. Sometimes he was condescending, even, because clearly he saw himself above any of Maekar’s kids. But never affectionate, never that.
If Valarr didn’t want to teach him a lesson, if he wasn’t taunting him for a right answer, then what could he want from him? Daeron felt helpless, because he didn’t know. He didn’t know his cousin well, not like Aerion did. He only blamed him for things knowing that he would, invariably, plead guilty. All else was a mystery. All else frightened him, for he never liked to meddle within uncharted territory. He wasn’t spontaneous like Egg or brave like Aerion. He liked to know exactly what was coming.
“You won’t drink a drop.” Valarr’s voice brought him back to his room, to the palm on his belly and the breath next to his ear. He traced a soothing circle over Daeron’s stomach, and the blond felt nauseous. Every word his cousin said sounded as ominous as a dream. “Not one. You are their mother, so you won’t drink.”
“I can’t do that,” He whined, helpless as a child. A pup carrying another, he felt like. His voice was only a thread, a weak, pitiful thing, and his eyes were swollen with tears. “I will go mad.”
“I won’t let you go mad, beloved.” Valarr pressed his face even closer, nose against Daeron’s scent glands, and inhaled. Daeron cowered in his arms, and the tears spilled without notice. He rested his forehead against Valarr’s shoulder, feeling worn beyond years. Whatever the alpha wished, at that moment, he was fated to permit. It was his fate, as he had been born weak. “I will marry you in a few weeks, perhaps days, if I have a say in it.” His lips touched Daeron's neck, not daring more than a tender encounter. Too gentle. “And our pup will come out strong.”
Daeron sobbed. That was all he knew to do when despair seized him. He thought about reminding Valarr that he wasn’t the father, that it had been a lie. He thought about it, but when the alpha raised his face from his neck his mismatched eyes held a glint that made Daeron feel it wouldn’t be welcomed. Valarr held his jaw, forcing the blond to meet his gaze. Daeron relented, the fair sight of his lashes replaced by his teary gaze. The lilac shone brighter that way, and his cousin seemed fascinated by it. Daeron shuddered, a knot forming around his throat and turning his voice impossibly raspy. He cried, because he was no warrior and that was all he knew how to do. He cried, and he pleaded:
“Call my father,” A single tear trailed down his cheek, gathering on his uneven scar. More came, and he felt that if he couldn’t escape he would never be able to stop them. “Please.”
Valarr’s face flushed, and his pupils almost drowned brown and blue. He had freckles scattered all over his face, and Daeron had never seen them so up close. He thought it impossible to ever fully count them.
“No.” He swallowed dry, as if under a haze. “I won’t do that.”