Work Text:
The Dragon was massive, ancient and somehow haunting. The air was a biting bitter cold which tears through its bones. Its roars felt like cries against his ears. The air was filled with snowflakes the size of fingernails, wind howled in time with the dragon, sounding like distant wolves. Crows hopped around it, making merry under its protection. it was a black dragon with the most vibrant purple eyes he’d ever seen, He knew the dragon was old, one of the oldest he’d ever seen, its scales were the size of dinner plates, dotted with scars and liver spots, evidence of a life well lived.
It was dying, it was happy, it was… happy it was dying? No— it was alone. In the storm no other fires lit the darkness like he was used to. No red fire to the south; no blue fire in the Eyrie; no choral of fires in the capital. Nothing. Just the ancient dragon and its army of half a hundred crows.
Wait!
There. There was a distant lone fire to the far east, alone, so desperately alone. Dragons alone, so awfully alone.
Daeron jolted up from his sweaty sheets to be met with the oppressive darkness of his bed chamber. Huh, how long had it been since he bothered to make it to his bed?
With a strike of a match he lit the candle on his bedside table, “ugh, wha’s that’ suppose’d ta mean?” He groused putting a hand to his temple. The light dancing in the flame made a legendary headache swell in the back of his mind. Beside him a body shifted, hm, Kiera, so he’d managed to make it to bed and not wake up his wife. Perhaps he was losing his touch.
In the adjoining nursery a little girl slumbered clutching at stuffed dragon. Their little Vaella was a sweet child, he was glad for the dreams of a pink hatchling and a pony.
The dragons of Summerhall were a slightly better hidden motif than The Red Keep or gods forbid Dragonstone. But as he twisted the dragon shaped door handle he couldn’t help but groan.
He had had enough of Dragons for a lifetime. The dream flashed through his mind again. It wasn’t Lord Bloodraven, as he had always been a dragon with raven’s wings. Who or what could that have been?
He passed the library just to see another candle flickering in the darkness. Hm? Well with his father in the capital he was technically Prince of Summerhall and it probably wouldn’t do to have the entire place go up in flames with everyone inside.
Inside the library he found a familiar sight, Aemon asleep at the table, a book open in front of him. It made Daeron feel like a child again, when he’d cart his brother back to a proper bed before anyone else woke up. Yet Aemon had grown since childhood and Daeron hadn’t gotten much stronger. There was no way to get his visiting brother back to bed without waking him up.
Daeron sighed, and took the robe from his shoulders, at least he wouldn’t catch a chill, Aemon had always been susceptible to illnesses and miasma. Brushing back his hair Daeron blew out the candle, one less flame in Summerhall was always a good thing.
The Dragon snapped through the room, it was crying, rough awful wails and in its claw a letter—
Daeron jolted with a gasp out in the hall so he didn’t wake Aemon— what… what was that!? Aemon was the Dragon? No that didn’t make sense— Aemon was his baby brother, who insisted Daeron read stories ten times— but… Aemon hadn’t been that boy for years. Years and years. He would outlive Daeron by decades. Heh guess that made sense, Aemon would always be the one who would get out and escape their madness.
Daeron shouldered his way into the inner courtyard hand pressed to his shuddering mouth. He sat heavily by the edge of a fountain. More Dragons stared back at him.
Aemon was the first Targaryen born after the Rebellion. There had been a great tourney but all Daeron had been able to think about was the dimness of the capital without the Blackfyre’s twin flames to their own.
Aemon hadn’t liked the festivities at all, he’d ended up offering to stay back at the Red Keep with his little brother. Daeron didn’t like it either. Sometimes his dreams fragmented and they showed him every possible out come to something. When this happened during tourneys… no one wanted to hear his screaming for no good reason. Often too much blood was spilt to bear, one man lost an eye twelve different ways once, Cousin Elaena had not enjoyed his shrieking.
Aemon was probably the easiest child of Summerhall. Daeron was a lost soul, Aerion was cracked and then broken when their mother died, Daella was silent more often than not, Aegon was prepared to flee at a moment’s notice and Rhae was Sheira’s creature.
If Daeron was in a bad mood he could assume his brother likely leapt at the chance to flee their madness into grand libraries and eternal study. Lucky wretch, if Daeron had the peace of mind for it he’d definitely would have run away to the citadel. Who knows what type of shenanigans they got up to, he wouldn’t mind a go at the glass candle if you know what he means—
The Dragon would watch as each fire would burn brightly then snuff. He would rage and mourn but he would never move from his perch up on the Wall.
Aemon would out live them all.
Outlive their dynasty too.
Aemon his polite, kind, and whip smart baby brother would be forced to watch them die. His Aemon with his stupid kind heart and open love their father once called his “true weakness.”
Aemon, who never left anyone alone with Aerion. Even before Daeron figured it out Aemon never took his eyes off Aerion. Always calculating, always ready to push or pull.
That was his only plea before he left. He cornered Daeron and made him swear to look after Aegon and Daella. To not leave them alone with Aerion, blessedly Rhae had been sent to foster in Kings Landing (he also remembered Aemon’s face when she was sent away, pure unadulterated relief).
Daeron managed to fuck that up so terribly that Egg was still refusing to live in Summerhall and Daella married the first age appropriate man who crossed her path. Her eldest daughter, a tall, blue eyed girl of four was already betrothed to House Tarth. Daeron could admire the haste and determination.
He was proud of them. All of them had managed to figure it out on their own. Aemon was safe and sound and learning, Egg was safe and protected by his knight, Daella was out there building a perfect life and Rhae was travelling Essos with the aging Lady Seastar.
He also knew the end,
They were all doomed.
The last piece of the puzzle had been Aemon. His fate was the most varied to Daeron’s dreams, but that blank space had been filled with an image of duty and loss in the far far North where a Dragon with Raven’s wings will disappear.
“Daeron, husband, father of my child, you’re going to catch a chill. It is raining.” Blinking from his dream Daeron was met with the soft, tired eyes of his wife. “Kiera, my Lady, apologies it seems I stole your bed warmer.” Daeron always ran hot, even in winter, to the point his lady wife forgave his flailing and occasional screams.
“Yes well, return with me?” Kiera put out a hand to him, she was quite gorgeous, he took it and placed a kiss on her brow as he stood. With Kiera’s hand in his he left the garden, he should’ve been a better husband to her. His hand tremor had been getting worse, he knew the symptoms well from his excursions into Flea Bottom, if he was lucky he could hide it for a few more weeks then mental deterioration would become apparent.
“Kiera, if something happens to me… would Ella be safe in Tyrosh?” She would grow up to be a renowned seerer and would live in comfort. He had already seen it. “If something happens to you my Lord, I cannot stay in Westeros. Vaella will be safe, between myself, your father and siblings she will never be without love.” Kiera said, thumbing over his unscarred cheek.
“Good. Good..,” they trailed back into their dim chambers, as he laid back on the bed Kiera returned under her furs. “Kiera, I love you.”
“… I love you to Daeron.”