Chapter Text
Daeron had done his best not to be too annoyed when he had thrown back his covers and climbed out of his bed to dress hastily. He was the king, inheriting the title from his father, but more importantly, he was the eldest, inheriting the responsibility for his siblings when their father had passed not long after their mother.
Elaena was still half a babe, he had reminded himself. One had to be gentle with her, patient.
His gentleness had been strained to its very bounds, when his sister had hauled him into her bedchamber, locking them in, risking a scandal should any of the guards dare open their mouth.
And as he laid on the bed, staring at the newly-hatched dragon, the first flush of disbelief and wonder and triumph faded somewhat, his sense of responsibility warred with bitter disappointment.
There would be no going to Dorne now. There was a newborn dragon to keep safe, to keep secret, until she was big enough to defend herself well enough.
Dorne had been his escape. He could be just a king, a warrior, a conqueror, a man. There was no need to be the responsible eldest brother in Dorne. There were only his men and battle and sweat and blood and sand and sweet, sweet freedom.
And there would be no delaying his marriage either. His freedom was truly at an end.
He had planned to wed Rhaena. Rhaena, sweet and gentle and beautiful like their mother, born to be a queen. Rhaena, too young to wed, affording him a few more years of time.
With the dragon hatched, and so very tiny and fragile, there was no other choice for him but Elaena. Once they wed, the Kingsguard could guard her without any questions being raised. Once they were wed, they could share chambers to care for the dragon without anyone caring.
Elaena was still laying on top of him, his little sister watching the living dream with her ear pressed to his chest, and Daeron was mourning his freedom. He should be disgusted with himself, he knew. He should be rejoicing. Dragons lived once more.
Dragons, he reminded himself. They needed more than one. He had given up hope of his egg ever hatching before first ascending the steps to the Iron Throne to seat himself in it. It was part of growing up, of becoming a man, he had convinced himself, to give up on impossible dreams.
But the dream had not been impossible after all. The proof was right in front of his eyes. Daeron had merely not done enough, not believed enough.
The knock on the door, when it finally came, was hesitant. “Your Grace, are you… well?”
Daeron huffed out a laugh. He wished he knew.
“Call for Aemon. Now!” he called out instead, pushing Elaena off him, ignoring her grumbles.
“You need to make yourself as presentable as possible without calling for maids. Can you dress yourself alone, or do I need to call for Daena?”
“What?”
He pursed his lips, biting down on a sharp reply. “You need to make yourself presentable,” he repeated himself. “For the wedding.”
“What wedding?”
Truly, sometimes it was a challenge not to reach out and strangle one of his siblings. This time, that sibling happened to be Elaena. “Ours.”
“Ours. What could you possibly mean, ours?”
“Ours, as in yours and mine. Ours. What did you think was going to happen, locking us in your bedchamber for gods-know-how-long?”
“But… but… I needed to show you…”
“Aye,” he agreed tiredly, “you did. And I needed to see. But now we need to wed. ”
“I can’t wed. I am too young,” she told him, wide-eyed.
Daeron rolled his eyes. “Mother was years younger when she wed father.”
Elaena did not seem happy, and he supposed that was fair. Neither was he. Elaena was a child, skinny and lanky and not at all pretty, looking too much a boy in the somber black gowns she preferred. Elaena was nothing like mother. She was nothing like a queen should be, but a queen she would be. His queen.
She jumped at the sound of another knock on the door.
“You called for me, Your Grace?” The puzzlement in Aemon’s voice was plain.
“Yes, I did,” he called and strode to the door, throwing a glance at the bed to ensure the drake was nowhere in sight before unlocking it and pulling it open with a well-practiced smile. “Come in, cousin.”
Daeron did not dare look at the other guards, the bewildered, worried expression on his cousin’s face more than enough to concern him. He employed Elaena’s move, seizing Aemon’s wrist and sharply tugging him inside, and slamming the door closed.
“Is anything the matter, Your Grace?” His cousin was entirely too composed the moment he regained his footing.
“Yes! He says we have to wed ! Now!”
Aemon paled dramatically, and Daeron closed his eyes in horror. The urge to do violence to his little sister was back with a vengeance.
“Are you well, cousin?” Aemon’s voice was kind, gentle. Daeron could feel the danger emanating from him, even as his eyes remained stubbornly closed. He had not bothered arming himself on the way to Elaena. His cousin had Dark Sister swinging from a sword belt even at this time of night.
“I was! I was happy !” Elaena’s teary voice sounded too, too loudly. “And then he just said to get presentable for our wedding. Our! Can you believe it?!”
“Is that the only thing that weights on you, cousin? Are you… Are you not injured?” Bewildered uncertainty creeped into Aemon’s gentle voice, and Daeron threw his hands up in disgust and stalked away to the pillow the dragon had buried herself under. He sank to the ground and poked at her slumbering form moodily.
“Your mistress is a child,” he told her morosely. “We will both have to learn to live with that, I fear. 'Tis a heavy burden we share.”
Elaena screeched and threw herself onto him. “Stop that! You can’t do that!”
“Protect your king!” He called to Aemon as he scooped up the little dragon, now coiled into a tight ball, out of his sister’s reach.
“Give her back! Give her back!” Elaena was ineffectively assaulting his back, and he laughed and laughed as he danced this way and that to keep his prize safely away from her.
Armed he might be, but Aemon was utterly useless. “What in the gods’ name…”
“I think I shall keep her,” he told his sister, “'tis plain you cannot keep her safe. If only you had an order of men sworn to keep you safe and keep your secrets like I do…”
“Aemon is not helping you!” she protested loudly.
“Do I look like I need his help? I am a dragon,” Daeron informed his sister, not the least bit graceful in his victory.
“ I am a dragon!” Elaena whined and stomped her foot.
“That might be,” he told her gently, “but only a little one. Anyone could come and take you or harm you. Like Meraxes.”
“I don’t want to wed,” she wailed, fat tears running down her face.
“Well, that makes two of us. I do not want to wed either.” Not now and not her. “But it is necessary. To keep you safe. You and Meraxes both.” He gentled his voice further and cradled the drake to his breast, soothingly stroking her back, as he delivered the final blow. “Mother and father asked me to take care of you. To keep you safe. This is how I do it.”
His words rendered her mute, but though her expression remained mutinous, the tears stopped flowing.
“Now, can you make yourself presentable without a maid, or need I call for Daena?”
“I want Daena,” she told him, her voice wobbling.
“Very well,” he acquiesced, handing her her dragon, that she sheltered from his sight immediately after.
Daeron rolled his eyes and turned to his wide-eyed cousin. “Come, Aemon, let us speak in my chambers while my excited bride-to-be readies for the ceremony.”
“Don’t forget Daena!” Elaena called over her shoulder just before he reached the door, and he rolled his eyes again.
“I will not.” She was going to be a delightful wife to have, he could tell already.
“You will stay with the dragon during the wedding,” he told Aemon the moment they were sequestered in his chambers. “No one can know of her existence. No one but you. And Daena,” he allowed. Daena would listen to him and keep her silence, he was sure.
“Her,” Aemon repeated, still not quite recovered.
“Her,” Daeron confirmed. “Meraxes.”
“ How ?”
He was left to shrug at his incredulous cousin. He did not know. Not exactly. Elaena in all her excitement had hardly been a font of wisdom.
“You do not want people to know.”
Daeron shrugged once more. “The more people know, the greater the danger to them.”
“Not even the family? Father would-”
“Not even the family,” he cut in resolutely. He trusted his uncle. He was not so certain he trusted him to keep the secret from his son. Aemon would.
Daeron paced, glaring at the ground. “Do you think you could bring her here while everyone is… occupied?”
Elaena’s chamber was a chamber, not fit for a queen and most certainly not fit to house a king, much less both of them. His chambers were somewhat better, he supposed. They were chambers, at least, but still less a bedchamber. He cursed whoever had had the bright idea to have the king’s and the queen’s apartments so far apart. He could sleep on one of the couches for the time being, but not for years. And the dragon would need its own space soon enough.
Daeron had meant to leave and bring Dorne to order. Now, he would be stuck remodeling the royal apartments.
Without thinking, he walked to a heavy chest sitting almost forgotten by the heart and opened it, reverently caressing the treasure inside. Perhaps it would be worth it. Perhaps dragons could truly return. Dorne was nothing compared to that. Anyone could handle rebellion. Daeron and Elaena could breathe life into myths and legends.
His teeth would be ground to dust before long, he came to believe, when a guard appeared to summon him to Elaena’s chamber once more, but he followed, Aemon faithfully at his back.
It was Daena that greeted him, all smug charm, and his newly-acquired belief firmed when his eyes landed on the beaming Elaena.
“I have terms,” she brightly informed him, in sharp contrast to the stern black gown she wore.
“Terms,” he repeated flatly.
“Yes, terms,” Elaena affirmed in a sing-song voice. “I wish to have a marriage like father and mother had.”
Daeron was struck speechless for only a moment. “You are nothing like mother!”
She glared at him. “So? You are nothing like father! Does that mean we cannot have a loving, faithful and fruitful marriage?”
He cocked his head to the side, examining her sunny expression critically. “I do love you,” he told her after a long moment of deliberation, “you are my sister.”
His sister was not impressed. “So does Baelor love Daena. I will not have a marriage like theirs.”
“You are a child, ” he reminded her, “you did not wish to wed at all barely an hour past!”
Her chin jutted out. “I know that, but I will not be a child forever. I meant… When the time comes.”
“When the time comes,” Daeron agreed forbearingly, his eyes planted to the ceiling.
“So, I want a faithful and fruitful marriage,” Elaena repeated herself firmly.
He hummed amiably. “When the time comes.”
There was a beat of silence, too long to be safe.
“Fruitful when the time comes,” Elaena enunciated carefully, “faithful the whole time.”
Daeron choked, tearing his eyes away from the ceiling to stare at her. “You are a child! It will be years before…”
“So? Mother was younger than I am, and father was always faithful to her.”
His sister was a child, he reminded himself. He had believed such at her age, too. He was a man now, and he knew better. She was an innocent, unaware of things Daeron learned, having lived among men at war.
Elaena was an innocent, he reminded himself and gave her a slight smile. “Very well, I will be faithful to you, like father was to mother.”
A wide smile split her face and she threw herself around his neck, causing him to stumble. “I will be the very best wife you could dream of, you will see!”
He rolled his eyes once more and patted her back.
Daena’s brow was crinkled, her arms folded over across her chest, and she watched him critically, but he paid her no mind. He had won, and she had caused him enough trouble already. He regretted not having called for a maid. A mute one could not be that difficult to find.
Six knights of the Kingsguard and Daena stood witness as Daeron wed Elaena in the royal sept in the middle of the night in front of a dazed septon and under the sharp, judging gaze of his sisters’ septa.
Cold spread through him as he listened to the septon’s preaching voice and stared at his little sister. He had removed her cloak, and he had cloaked in his own. What use had that even been? Daeron had been the head of their House for years now, all of his siblings his to protect. What use was cloaking Elaena in his cloak of protection again ?
“The love of the Seven is holy and eternal. The source of life and love. We stand here tonight in thanks and praise to join two souls as one. Father… Mother… Warrior… Smith… Maiden… Crone… Stranger. Hear now their vows.”
Cold or not, he had to speak, so speak he did. “I am yours and you are mine. Whatever may come.”
Elaena nodded solemnly, her eyes determined. “I am yours and you are mine. Whatever may come.”
He wondered fleetingly whether his lips were blue as they pressed to her flushed cheek. They felt blue.
“Here, in the presence of gods and men, I proclaim Daeron of House Targaryen and Elaena of House Targaryen, to be man and wife. One flesh… one heart… one soul… now and forever.”
The words sounded like a sentence.