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Blood of Dragons, Grass of Red

Daeron

The city was silent, as if there were no living people inside. Everyone spoke in whisper. Everyone listened with both ears, looked around for the city gates, as if expecting the darkest misfortune or the most glorious news of all.

Those who, thirty-five years ago, had sent their fathers and brothers away with the Young Dragon to conquer Dorne were now anxious about their sons and husbands. And those who had spent their nights without rest worrying for their sons, now prayed to the Seven to spare their grandsons' lives. So many years had passed without wars that people had almost forgotten what war tasted like – and an entire generation, indeed, didn't know. Daeron preferred it this way and he had done all he could to keep it so.

Should Daemon win now, the first thing he would do would be pushing the realm into a new war with Dorne. It wouldn't even matter whether he wanted it or not – his martial supporters would leave him with no choice. Daeron shook his head. Do you even know what you're getting yourself into, you silly boy? he wondered. Of course Daemon didn't. He only saw things in the short term – remedying the wrongs he imagined had been done to him, marrying Daenerys – Daeron still wondered what Daemon intended to do with his current wife – and win Dorne with his sword. Daeron held some memories of the Young Dragon – very vague, indeed, but he remembered how charming and self-confident he had been. And how he had ended up – he and the realm both. No matter what would happen now, Daena had done her son no favour feeding him tales of battles and glory, and how he was so very much like his uncle… Sooner or later, Daemon would end up badly – if not in this battle, then in another one, or just by the hand of those who pushed him when he finally realized that they were pushing him and tried to put an end to it. To his own surprise, Daeron still didn't want Daemon to come to harm, although rationally, he had no doubt that the boy should be eliminated. It was either this or endless wars. Either Daemon or Daeron's own children. There was no doubt in his heart that he had made the right choice.

He just wished he hadn't needed to.

The meeting of the Small Council had just ended and Daeron was glad he no longer needed to sit there. Aside from the very grave matters they discussed, Baelor and Brynden's empty seats were a constant reminder that their occupants were so far away and in mortal danger.

The Red Keep was as silent as King's Landing itself. Of course, Myriah would not let her worry show but her ladies felt it anyway and shared it – they all had someone to be anxious about, so they were not in the mood for chatting and organizing festivities. Lyselle was at the end of the fourth month of her pregnancy and usually slept for most of the day. Daeron had been quite horrified at learning that she had come by ship all the way from Dragonstone but he was now glad that she was here. With the speed the events were unfolding, there was no safe place in the realm. And it was a good thing to see her with child – for a while, everyone had feared that she'd never be able to give Baelor another babe.

From Aelinor's chambers, there was a constant flow of music, all hours of the day. Myriah avoided going near there because it angered her, although both she and Daeron knew that their daughter's conviviality and laughter were just another form of anxiety. Aelinor had all kind of tunes played for her and she danced and twirled for hours until she threw herself on the couch and fell asleep right there. Daeron only worried because for a few weeks, she had looked quite ill, although she insisted that she was fine and hadn't let any maesters near.

Now, Daeron made a quick step backward when a door suddenly opened and a young woman stormed out. Had he not stepped back, she would have bumped right into him. "I am sorry…" she started and then blushed furiously, realizing whom she was talking to. "I apologize, Your Grace," she said.

Daeron smiled. "No harm done, child. Where were you going?"

She looked unsure. Her pale hand trembled to her side. Daeron wondered whether she had taken any nourishment today. According to Maekar, she had been having trouble eating since the very beginning of her last pregnancy and it showed. And the war now was not helping matters. Her skin was so pale, it was almost translucent. Her silver-golden hair had lost its brilliance.

"I don't know. Somewhere away from my chambers," his gooddaughter replied. "The children have decided to make as much noise as possible and even I can't control them, let alone the others. They don't seem to hear what I am saying. I don't know why this is. I just had to get away before I gave them a good spanking." She blushed.

Daeron smiled, amused all of a sudden. So there was something that could make Naeryne lose it. He had thought that if she could tolerate even Maekar's temper with her usual gentleness, there was nothing in this world to provoke her into something even remotely violently. "How familiar," he said. "Hearing by choice. Since their father has been suffering from the same malady since he was a year old, you'd better get used to it."

Naeryne looked ready to protest but then reconsidered. Instead, she sighed. "And how did you deal with it?" she asked and started walking next to him. The King knew better than taking her by the hand. She seemed to have developed aversion to their touch – even Maekar's. Or maybe especially Maekar's. His son hadn't said a word about it but the news about the deformities of the stillborn babe had reached King's Landing almost immediately. As much as he hated it, Daeron knew that stillborn children with dragon traits were born in the Targaryen line, not the Velaryon one.

"It was hard," he said. "Five children, each affected by this contagious illness earlier than the older ones. A few times, Myriah considered taking them to the maesters to have two more ears carved into each of their heads."

Naeryne laughed. For a moment, she looked like the woman she had been only a year ago, her eyes shining, her lips set apart in the wide smile that could win any heart.

"Will you come to keep us company tonight?" he asked. He didn't like seeing her secluded in her chambers and that was what she did each night after dinner. She was always busy with her many charities and she seemed to purposefully avoid the rest of the royal family.

She hesitated. "I… I don't want to intrude, Your Grace."

"Ah Naeryne! You're my son's wife and therefore our own daughter, and you can never intrude. It's your home here, just like in Summerhall. Come on, let's go to Myriah. She'll be glad to see you."

He figured that if the two women could spend some time together saying unkind and downright unfair things about him and Maekar, it would do them some good. At least, it couldn't become worse – Naeryne could hardly discuss her husband in a negative way with any of her ladies. And she would not bother Lyselle with this kind of troubles. The Mother knew that her goodsister was scared enough that the same thing might happen to her. Naeryne was too kind to do this to another woman. Myriah, though… like Naeryne, she was an outsider come into the family by marriage. She was pretty repelled by some of their customs, too. And she had blamed Daeron when it had become clear how Rhaegel was. Right now, they had stopped sleeping together and indeed, living together. Yes, Myriah could use some chance to rant about him, too. And she would be right. She had insisted that he send Daemon away as soon as he was crowned. She had repeatedly warned that things with the boy were going too far. He hadn't listened and that was where they were. They could lose their kingdom. They could lose their sons at the battlefield. No, he could not blame her for being angry.

Naeryne lowered her lashes and blushed, clearly ashamed that she had made it look like she avoided her goodmother. Then, she smiled faintly. "I will," she said. "As soon as I come back."

Daeron knew that each night, she went to the Great Sept. He had only insisted that she took a good number of guards, for as popular as she was with the people, caution was never expendable. She had complied.

He left her in the rose garden and went to meet the new envoy of the Iron Bank. Then, he had to see the commander of the Gold Cloaks, for with all the refugees flowing into the city, the pillaging and disturbance could become a regular thing. Then, he had to see the Master of Laws who had asked for a private meeting…

As always, the Great Sept and the square in front of it were full of people. The lines went along the road leading up to Visenya's Hill but everyone parted for the Princess of Summerhall's group, the sturdy guards flanking the small slender woman and her entourage of four ladies. She looked just as haggard and worn out as the rest of them who had sent their husbands to the war against the pretender. Her violet eyes looked larger, darkened to indigo. The whispers rose. Had she heard something that they hadn't? For weeks, everyone had looked up at the sky for ravens.

Naeryne entered the Hall of Lights, passed the aisles, crossed to the dome and bowed to the Great Septon. He opened his mouth to start the ceremony of the public prayer. Everyone knelt.

With a swift motion, Naeryne took her cloak off. Everyone stared, surprised. The Princess had always liked jewels but she avoided wearing too many at a time. Now, she was adorned like the statues some of the Essosi worshipped. Huge rubies, sapphires, and diamonds shone on her neck. Heavy earrings reached her shoulders. A magnificent coronet held her fair hair tamed. Four rows of diamonds cinched her slender waist. Slowly, she took the coronet off, unclasped the girdle, reached for the earrings and necklaces. Everyone stared, astounded.

Naeryne went to the altar of the Father and placed her jewels next to the candles. Then, she knelt down for a short prayer. Her lips were moving but no one could hear what she was saying. Then, she rose and said softly, "I am donating them for the treatment of those suffering from the greyscale… I beg the Seven to have mercy on the Seven Kingdoms."

For a moment, there was a complete silence. Then, all the ladies gathered in the Great Septs started pushing their way to the alter. Each of them took off whatever she wore – rings, necklace, bracelets… The small pile next to the Princess' jewels started mounting. The huge hall was filled with soft whispers, prayers for luck, for victory, for their men coming back alive…

Finally, the Great Septon started the ceremony. They all knelt down, giving the double doors a last look in their search of ravens.

Late in the night…

When he was reasonably sure Myriah was asleep, Daeron finally dragged himself towards their bedchamber. He was terribly weary, worn out with anxiety and keeping the calm façade. He could barely stand, his head was full of questions with no answers at all, his heart was full of worry for those who were far away at the battlefield and he could say that sleep would not be quick to come to him tonight.

He intended just to have a look at Myriah before he went to bed. For the last few months, their relationship had become more strained than he remembered it in all their years together. They could hardly stay in the same room anymore without going at each other's throats. They still appeared in public together and spoke to each other but the moment they closed the doors to their private wing, they went on their separate ways. Daeron had moved out of their bedchamber, instead of suffering Myriah's presence and making her suffer his. Still, each night before he went to bed, he entered their chamber and stood next to the bed looking at her, listening to her breathe. It calmed him down.

This time, though, she rose in bed as soon as he opened the door. He didn't know whether she hadn't gone to sleep at all, or he had been noisy. She opened her mouth for an angry remark and then her eyes went all over him and her face changed, softened in the yellow candlelight. She lay back and pulled the bedcovers back for him. He undressed, blew out the candle and lay next to her, unsure what her intentions were. To his surprise, she immediately reached out for him, holding him tight. Hot tears moistened his neck. "I am so sorry," she whispered.

She was sorry? Why should she? She wasn't the one who was weak and despised by the more martial of the lords; she wasn't the one who had not felt the danger in advance and failed to act accordingly. He was the one who had sent his most precious beings to fight his battle because he was incapable of doing so. If anything, he should be the one sorry for putting her through the greatest horror a mother could come true. He told her that and she clasped him more tighter. "These are words Aegon planted in your head decades ago," she said firmly. "And I don't want to hear them ever again. There are only two men who are responsible: Aegon and Daemon Blackfyre. And you're better than both of them combined. I don't think the young fool realizes how much he owes you. He's amazingly blind when it suits him. He doesn't want to see how bastards are usually treated here… and if I had had my way, he would not have been strutting around at court. Instead, he would have spent the last fourteen years somewhere off in a Northern castle forgotten by all. At least he would have had some cause to whine about the evil Dornishwoman, then."

Daeron could say that this time, she didn't mean it like a reproach but it still felt like one because that was what he should have done to prevent this carnage. "Yes," he said. "You were right and I was wrong. But at the time, I couldn't do anything else."

Myriah squeezed his hand. "You love him still," she said and for the first time since the beginning of the rebellion, it didn't sound like an accusation. "This traitor, this self-conceited prig."

Daeron was silent. It wasn't something he could control. He still held some fondness for the boy Daemon had been – and the man, he pitied, for no matter what Myriah thought, Daemon was noble. The rebellion was not his doing, at least not entirely. He hadn't had a clear idea what he was getting himself into.

Not that it mattered, he was still the enemy.

Myriah clung to him once again. "Forgive me," she said softly. "I am only a stupid mother and I fear for my sons. My fear blinded me for everything else, including what you are going through, and it was cruel of me. But it's all over now. I came to myself. We'll make it through this."

Words were wind. Their sons were those who had to make it through this alive and victorious, for any of them to be able to survive. But it felt so good to be forgiven and accepted back. The last few months had been incredibly lonely. He had become used to her warmth and constant support and when she had withdrawn them, it had hurt him more than Daemon's ingratitude.

As if reading his thoughts, she murmured, "I feel so bad when I wake up and you aren't next to me where you belong. I don't want you to go, ever again. Don't leave me. Better with you, no matter what, than without you."

He smiled in the darkness. He had often thought the same, for his life with her was anything but a quiet one. He would not trade it for the world.

Still, it was yet to be seen whether they would have a life at all after the dragons met at the battlefield.