Once again, a huge thanks to all of you reviewers.

Blood of Dragons, Grass of Red

Daeron

The soft glow of the dawn washed in rosy caress the courtyard, the bedchamber, the great oak bed with carved dragons. Standing near the window, Daeron watched the silent rest of Maegor's Holdfast, the relief of the guards on its entrance. Even the palace dogs had picked on the lack of any activity, it seemed, for now they made no sound while usually they were the first to greet the new day with their excited barking.

A chambermaid with a basket of laundry crossed the yard in a hurry – and she seemed to be the only one awake. Usually, the servants were astir far before the first faint glean on the horizon but now, the entire palace was in a state of lethargy that kept them going at a lower pace, as if concern paralyzed them, as if they saw no use of hastiness when they might not survive for more than a month yet.

Behind him, Myriah stirred and let out a soft moan. Daeron turned around and made his way back to the bed. She hadn't awoken yet but she had curled in a ball, pressing her hands between her thighs. Daeron carefully reached out and disentangled them, rubbing gently. She didn't stir.

He bit his lip. Her dark fingers were now very white, with a bluish cast even. A quick look at the fireplace showed him that the fire had died out. After taking care of that, he climbed back in bed, holding her close and rubbing her hands. She had never taken winters well but with age, her condition had spread over even to colder springs. Daeron wished for summer to come. All her gloves and warm clothes were little help against the illness that kept her hands and feet spasming, making it hard for her blood to reach them.

She snuggled close, again without opening her eyes. She wants to sleep through all the time until we get some news, he thought. Even pain cannot rouse her. Her fear was stronger. Usually, she was up at sunrise, if not earlier, but not now. Now, she would have nightmares all night long and fall asleep only before dawn, a heavy sleep that brought no relief but no pain either.

All of a sudden, he remembered her long naps each time she had been with child. Once, she had told him that she wanted to sleep through her way to the birth and wake up to be handed a babe. So long ago it had been. And how she had cherished her sleep afterwards, going to sleep wherever he placed her, the moment he did!

"There is no room for me here," a small sad voice said in his mind; with his inner eye, Daeron saw Baelor, no more than three of four, peeking at them from the foot of their bed, small face wrinkled in a frown. It was all drama, of course, Baelor knew that his father would reach out for him and suddenly, there would be room for him. And then, the crying of an infant; at Maekar's birth, Myriah had been so sick with exhaustion and worries that she could not wake up even when Daeron held the squealing newborn right to her face. And it was not because there was a problem with their son's lungs – their attendants could hear him from behind the door and down the hallway.

They are so different, always were. Baelor, thriving on caresses, attention and mischief, even as a babe, and Maekar who had hated being squeezed, carried around and kissed to no end. With him, every attempt to hold him, rock him to sleep or cuddle him would have been violence against someone who could not defend himself. Myriah had felt terribly guilty.

Would they come back? Were they still alive? It had been ten days since the arrival of the last raven. They all could be dead now – Baelor, Maekar, Brynden and yes, even Daemon. Just like Myriah, Daeron wanted to go to sleep and wake up in a world where it was all over.

With a heavy sigh, he rose and looked at her. To his relief, the crisis had gone away and her fingers were back to normal. A moment later, she opened her eyes and smiled at seeing him there but the smile faded quickly replaced by a questioning look.

"Is there…?"she started.

He shook his head and she closed her eyes again. Soon, her breathing evened out. Now that he was once again aware of how her days went, he knew that after waking up, she'd attend to her household affairs, admit the city women who came to make various appeals to her, and then sit down with her ladies to sew for the poor – obsessively. That would go on until it was time to go and visit the charity she held most dear – a house for very sick children whose parents could not tend them or who simply had no parents.

As to him, he had to receive the chosen representatives of various guilds who were rightfully concerned about the losses in their trade thanks to the war, decide on what measures he should enforce to keep the relative order around the Kingswood – for there were many who took advantage of the war to steal and kill on their own and then hide in the wood where no one could touch them, - then discuss the best route for sending new provisions since Daemon had broken the last line… In the beginning, he would do all that with the nagging thought of them still in his mind but with time, work would engulf him. From time to time, the fear would come anew but Daeron suppressed it, firmly reminding himself that the only thing he could do to help them was to keep what he was doing. And that those three were more than capable of holding their own.

This morning, there was someone waiting for him who came near as soon as he left his chambers. Daeron took her in, surprised: since the very start of the rebellion, their relationship had been strained and since the host had left this last time, she had purposefully avoided him – and he had not sought her out, either. Now, he noticed that she didn't look much better than Myriah, her silver hair disheveled, her frame appallingly gaunt. It was clear that she was not sleeping well either. He hadn't expected that she would.

"What are you doing here so early, Daenerys?" he asked.

"I was waiting for you."

"You shouldn't have," he said. "You could have come to me later. I wouldn't have turned you away, you know."

Despite the open antagonism she had been demonstrating towards him, he wouldn't have.

She nodded curtly. "I know, I know. But people stare and whisper and I…" Her voice broke. "What is going on? No one is telling me anything."

And why is that, Daeron asked in his head, cynically. Was it possible that it was due to the fact that she had openly defied him, claiming that she prayed for Daemon's victory? Maybe she truly was, he didn't know. What he knew was that that even if she wasn't, she was capable of lying, just to spite him. She hadn't taken into account that there were dozens of people listening. And now she had found herself alienated from everyone at court. There were simply no supporters of Daemon's cause left here.

"Nothing happened," he said. "At least that we know of."

Her violet eyes bore into him. "Are you telling me the truth?"

He shrugged and indicated that he was about to leave and that if she wanted to continue this conversation, she'd have to do it walking. She obeyed.

"Why would I lie to you?" he asked.

His voice was even. He could mean that he would not bother lying to her or that there was no use of that, since she would learn the truth, eventually. Daenerys didn't know which one it was and it was evident. He didn't tell her.

Finally, she nodded, satisfied. But she did not leave.

She's starved for human company, even mine, Daeron realized. "Will you join Myriah this morning?" he asked. "I know she'll be happy to see you."

He would take care of that because right now, Myriah was certain to be anything but happy to see Daenerys.

Her chin lifted defiantly but a moment later, the longing for a human contact won over. Daeron felt pity for her, for no matter how the war would end, there would be no winning situation for her. His wonder and anger at Daemon's foolishness arose for a hundredth time – had the boy really imagined that Daeron would give him Daenerys, and for a second wife?

"Go to your chambers and eat something, Daenerys," he said. "And then, you can join them. They'll meet you most cordially, I assure you."

For a while, they kept walking silently. They were already at the huge doors leading out of the Maegor's Holdfast when Daenerys caught his hand and squeezed it briefly.

"I didn't…" she started. "I wasn't… You know I didn't mean it."

All of a sudden, he laughed. Those children! They thought themselves so smart, so complicated. They didn't realize that he knew them better than what they would like. "I know," he said.

She hadn't meant it because now, she had no idea what she meant. Looking at her, he only prayed that one day, she'll find peace.

Later in the evening…

"Did you manage to see something?" Myriah asked as they were having their evening meal in the great hall. Now, it was important to keep appearances up, for appearances kept spirit and helped the normal functioning of the palace and hence, the city. It didn't matter that very few of them wanted something other than retiring to their chambers where they could let their brave masks down.

In the tense silence that followed, Shiera Seastar shook her head. "I haven't been able to glimpse anything for days, my lady."

"I hope they are all fine," Myriah murmured.

Lyselle closed her eyes in a prayer. Naeryne stopped pretending that she was eating and stared at Shiera, as if she could force the truth out of her. Aelinor's breath hissed in from between her teeth and even Daenerys sagged back into her chair, disappointed.

"It has already happened," the boy sitting next to Naeryne said confidently.

"What?" Myriah asked.

"The battle of the dragons. " The boy's eyes were wide and fearful. "They were clawing at each other in the sky and everywhere they flew, the grass went red."

His words echoed in the quiet hall, as if he had shouted.

"When?" the King asked, tensely. "Daeron, when did you dream of that?"

"It doesn't mean anything, Your Grace." Naeryne's lovely face was now white. She sounded like someone who was trying to convince herself. "Just a childish fantasy…"

Daeron and Myriah looked at each other. As hard as Maekar and Naeryne denied it, the King and Queen knew that their grandson had dreams that were not like other people's dreams. He had probably told his mother immediately what he had seen – and she had kept it a secret.

"Daeron, keep silent," Naeryne ordered angrily. "Are you doing this for effect?"

Couldn't she see that the boy wasn't? Daeron was clearly scared of his dream. He could not have invented it. Next to him, Aerion opened his mouth but a single look from his mother was enough to make him close it again.

"What did you see?" Myriah asked. "Did you see the colours?"

Young Daeron shook his head, his expression helpless. "I couldn't make them out. You see, there was so much blood…"

From all directions, huge shouts erupted. Everyone startled. Myriah slowly rose, her hand on her heart. Running steps approached. Someone threw the doors wide open. The castellan stood at the threshold, his face changed with emotion. A few guards rushed forward. Everyone was shouting at the same time.

A man hurried forward, a man covered in dust and dirt. He ran for the dais and barely stopped to bow.

"Which one is the Princess of Summerhall?" he asked.

Naeryne slowly rose, leaning against the table.

The man ran up the stairs and handed her a small leather casket.

"It's from the Prince! We won! We won!"

Now, the great hall really erupted. The man turned to Daeron and handed him a piece of parchment. Daeron broke the seal and immediately recognized Baelor's handwriting.

A seat away from him, Naeryne gasped and he looked at her. At the magnificent necklace of emeralds and diamonds that she held in her hands. A silver bracelet followed. Two rings with rubies…

"What…" she whispered.

"Silviana Blackfyre's jewels! She was captured when her husband fell!"

Daemon was dead. It was over.

Daeron had never expected that cutting through the joy and relief overcoming him, the pain would be so sharp.