daeron I targaryen
Beside him, Daena has the gall to laugh. “I quite like these Dornish that you seem so transfixed by, brother. You don’t suppose you could marry me to one, do you?” Daeron doesn’t bother pointing out that she is already married, her husband sitting not a foot from her, his head bowed in silent prayer over his empty dinner plate for the late Lord of Highgarden.
Their uncle ignores her as well. “Lord Tyrell, however foolish he was, was all that was holding your rule in Dorne together. The other lords fight to contain it, but the Dornish are empowered again, wild as only rebellion and the end of winter can make a man. I fear it may be only days before the Martells have control of the kingdom again, if they don’t already.”
Damn them all to seven hells. Them, and their bloody scorpions. It had taken him years to finish what Aegon the Conqueror had started. Years of sand and sun and fire and blood and death. He would not have it all undone in a matter of days. “How long would it take to reform the armies?”
His uncle stares at him down his nose, the same condescending look in his eyes he would have when Daeron was a child. It only serves to anger him more. “Your Grace, Dorne is likely lost already-“
“I will not lose Dorne!” His voice echoes off the walls, and his family sits in silence, none of them daring to move or meet his eyes. “What are my titles?” His uncle looks up, confused. “Prince Viserys, what are my titles?”
“The…First of Your Name. King of the Seven Kingdoms-“
“Seven Kingdoms, Uncle. Seven. That title has been a lie, a courtesy taken by my fathers, all the way back to Aegon the Dragon, when he left his conquest incomplete. I mean to finish what he started. I mean to say that I am King of the Seven Kingdoms and have no man contest it. And I will not have everything that I have fought for ruined by a bit of trickery. So I ask you again, how long would it take to reform the armies?”
This time, Viserys does not hesitate. “Months. Four, five, at best. The lords have not been long in releasing their soldiers; those men won’t be quick to return. Some not at all.”
Daeron crooks his finger. His wine steward shakes as he pours his cup too full. “See that they do, my lord Hand, and quickly. I intend to march for Dorne as soon as possible.” The wine is lukewarm in his mouth, but he barely tastes it; his mind is filled with the burn of the sun on his skin, the sight of the red dunes turned redder by bloodstains. I will see this done. I will see House Targaryen finish it’s work. Even if it kills me.
daeron “the drunken” targaryen
His hands shake as he lifts the too-full glass of wine to his lips, the motion spilling red liquid onto his hands. It’s early in the morning- too early for drink, Aemon would say- but he passed caring years ago.
Fire, nothing but fire, burning- burning everything- but not her. Not this woman. And the eggs- the eggs are opening, they’re hatching! And the sounds! The sounds of the dragons!
He shakes his head, trying to shake off the night’s dreams. He’s had that one before, many times. The music of the dragons would sing him to sleep as a child, when the visions of fire and blood would keep him awake in the night. He’s seen it so many times, but never like this. This time it changed, the visions of fire morphing into ice then back again nearly seamlessly.
It’s cold, it’s so cold. There’s nothing but ice and snow and things moving in the darkness. And a dragon. A dragon lost in the snow, burning brightly against the darkness.
He doesn’t understand it, but he never really has. He sees the future more than he sees the present, but it seldom ever makes sense. It’s a mad world we’re going to live in. A mad world filled with blood, and ice and fire.
Daeron pours another drink.