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Somewhere on the Seventh Cloud

Daeron

For all the fascination and reverie that books and scrolls held for him, there were certain claims in them that he was quite skeptical of and the description of the afterlife was one of them. How could the maesters know? It wasn't as if someone had ever gone there and returned to tell the tale. In truth, Daeron held more faith in his grandson and namesake's dreams than he did in the afterlife part in any parchment. Perhaps because the Targaryens had already had people like young Daeron and they had been proven right, partly, at least, while the religious visions of King Baelor had only led to death. His own.

Or perhaps Daeron simply had more of his father in him than he'd like to admit. King Aegon had little respect for the Faith's teachings.

At any case, Daeron had always believed that death was the end of everything. And when it came, he did not even mind it. He had long ago started thinking that he had stayed on this earth for too long. He would have happily died before he realized that the plague seemed set to decimate his realm and he could do nothing. Before his grandsons died, adding the worry about the succession to his grief. Certainly before Baelor died by Maekar's hand.

Not that he thought about these things when the disease stormed into his chambers. Albeit brief, its duration was an agony that left no room for anything else. But he had these thoughts before it came and he had them when he rose from his pyre while staying there at the same time. As he found himself in the throne room and spun around, terrified of what he would see behind, the sight made him stop dead in his tracks. Dead. Of course.

Mariah's lips almost smiled. In the stateliness of the throne room, she looked as young as when she had been his glorious young queen, yet she was dressed in the attire he liked best, a green dress that was quite informal and she had worn it only in the privacy of their own chambers. When she moved, a stir of the air brought to him the faint whiff of the scent he loved best on her, something heavy and of the night, something that reminded him of rose and amber, and her favourite blood oranges at the same time.

But then he remembered what was the last thing he had heard before he felt the first symptoms of the plague. How could he have forgotten, even for a minute!

"No," his queen said immediately, as if she had read his thoughts. "Rhae isn't here. She made it. She's going to recover."

Daeron stared at her, not daring to rejoice. A tiny slip of a girl who caught every childhood's disease around had managed to do what robust men had not? But Mariah would not lie to him. He looked away and she allowed him his space until he got his feelings under control. Then, he looked at her. "So, it's real, then?" he asked. "This is afterlife? Is this what they call heaven or hell?"

Mariah snorted. "Sometimes, I'm not quite sure. I can't say I'm happy to see you here but… I've missed you."

He made a step towards her and finally did what he had been longing to – took her hand. It felt divinely warm and real in his and he suddenly felt the emptiness of all those years when he had not held it. She had distanced herself from him when he had sent Aemon to the Citadel and she had been almost unfailing in her determination but now, she acted as if she had forgotten all about it. "So, you have forgiven me at last?" he asked casually but his heart skipped a beat anyway.

"He looks happy now," she said. "And grudges cannot last forever."

Hers could and had but Daeron did not remind her about this. He simply enjoyed the renewed closeness that they had just fallen back into. Looking at himself, he realized he was the same age as her, as he had been in their shared life.

Unfortunately, this moment of bliss lasted as about too many similar moments in the beginning of their shared life.

"So, you finally made it," a sickeningly familiar voice said. Daeron did not need to turn back to see who the speaker was.

"I'm happy to see you as well, Father," he said tiredly. "You were saying something about hell?" he added to Mariah, not bothering to lower his voice. Aegon was fully informed of what his son's attitude to him was.

"You mean I'm your hell?" Aegon's perception of this idea was evident by the sneer in his voice. Unsurprised, Daeron saw that his father looked somewhere in his middle twenties. He was starting to realize that in this place, people were at their best age and Aegon's years of kingship were undoubtedly his worst. He even had this tanned complexion that, together with the age, made Daeron suspect that this was the Aegon who had returned from Dorne after taking part in the submission of Sunspear. "You've always had some strange ideas. You've been wed to her most of your life but I'm your hell?"

Mariah smiled and Daeron followed. He would pay to see the first exchanges between his father and his wife. Here, Aegon was not the man Mariah had always been forced to take into consideration in her conduct. Instead, he did what he had always longed to do and been unable to in twelve long years: he turned his back on Aegon and asked Mariah, "So, is Baelor here?"

"Don't you dare ignore me!" Aegon said angrily.

"Why?" Daeron asked. "What are you going to do, take my son hostage, or start a new rumour? What?"

"Yes, he's here," Mariah said, delaying the clash without it being her intention. "Right now, he isn't in his best mood, so I guess we won't be seeing him for a while." Her face fell. "I can't fault him. I was heartbroken when the boys arrived."

Aegon looked up from the goblet that he was pouring himself. Strange enough, he seemed to be sniffing at it as he poured liberally. "Of course you were heartbroken," he said contemptuously. "Your father's neat little plan failed thoroughly, did it not?"

Daeron blinked. In all the years he had spent despising his father, he often thought that he had finally gotten some idea how Aegon's mind worked, only to later realize how little he knew. But this time, Mariah seemed bemused as well. "My father's plan?"

"To weaken our House. Make us lose our Valyrian traits. You almost succeeded with this Dornish son of yours – and then his sons looked nothing like Targaryens. Of course you were heartbroken. Your bid failed."

Daeron wondered if his father truly believed this. Even Aegon could not be as deluded as to believe Mariah or her father could control such things. Plan for them. Especially when Mariah had left nothing of herself in her younger three sons. Some good plan, this one was! Who had said, "It's obvious who their father is. Now, about the mother…" Elaena?

Mariah smiled Aegon's own contempt back at him. "My bid came true," she said easily. "No matter what, my blood will flourish on the Iron Throne and I am seared in their thinking and behavior while you are forever sealed out of influencing any of the Targaryen kings. Dorne will become greater and more powerful and my descendants will play a part in this."

She looked at Daeron. "Come on, let me show you around."

It would be quite presumptuous of her to show him around his own castle that, unlike her, he had been born in. But this was not the Red Keep. Despite the likeness, it wasn't that and Daeron felt even more sure when he realized that the halls were longer than they should be, as if they elongated in reaction to his and Mariah's wish to make the walk last. "Has he ever… done something to you?" Daeron finally asked, not quite sure what he was asking. "Wounds sustained here are real, are they not?"

She shrugged, obviously unconcerned, and stopped to pick up a lovely yellow flower. "They are but the first time he became physical in his anger, I threatened to curse his manhood. This stopped him immediately."

Yes, Daeron imagined that it would. And if his father believed that Mariah had arranged Baelor's looks, he could certainly believe that she was a true witch. He had positively behaved as if she were during his lifetime.

"I can see I have much to learn about this place," he said. "It's the same and yet, it isn't."

"I'm going to help you," she promised. "Remember, whatever happens here, it can't make the past worse than it was. Whatever happens here stays here."

He scowled at her. "It isn't my father," he stated. "Who are you warning me about?"

"I imagine it's about me," a dreadfully familiar voice said. Mariah spun around and shot the intruder a look of pure fury.

"I swear, boy, I was underestimating you when I repeatedly warned Daeron about you. I thought you just wanted more than what you were give. I'm now starting to think that you are just driven by the lowest of instincts. Couldn't you leave me and my husband alone? Did you spy on us in our private chambers in the Red Keep, or what?"

Daemon paid her no attention. Instead, he looked at Daeron, his face a curious mix of utter defiance and belated regret. "Look, I didn't mean for things to happen this way, you know?"

And now, Daeron discovered something about himself. He could bear grudges even better than Mariah. After thirteen years, his anger at Daemon was as fierce as in the day he had ascertained the boy's intentions. He smiled. Death had freed him from the chains of ruling but also the chains of responsibility – for peace, stability, family. Finally, after all those years when he had been trying to influence Daemon into honour by treating him with honour, he could tell the boy what his real opinion on him was.

"I know. What does it matter?"

A. N. Happy New Year to everyone! I hope it's a glorious one!