Chapter Text
To Daeron's surprise, he was brought to his mother before meeting the Queen.
Alicent Hightower was both everything he remembered and nothing at all. Gone were the elaborate styles and stern countenance; now she wore her hair and gown plain, her posture merely resigned. Her face was the same, as far as he remembered, but she held herself differently. Daeron supposed they all did, these days.
She still smiled to see him, though. It was a little thing, hardly a quirk of the lips, but it felt familiar. “Daeron,” said Alicent, voice quiet, but warm. “I am … very glad to see you.”
“As am I,” he replied, stiltedly. His hands twitched from where he held them behind his back. He dropped them to his sides, fists clenching nervously. “Glad to– to see you, as well, I mean.”
Alicent's smile did not widen, but deepened, almost pitying. She stood from her seat and approached him. Her hands raised as if to cup his face. When he winced and leaned away, they merely hovered for a moment, then dropped to reach for his own. He allowed it. “My boy,” she sighed. “My last boy.”
“Mother,” he said.
Her skin was soft on his. “I regret the circumstances that have brought us here,” she murmured, rubbing circles on the backs of his hands. It was almost soothing. “Your brothers …” Alicent shuddered. “And mine.”
Daeron hung his head, shame welling within him. Ser Gwayne had always treated him well. Daeron had not been there when he was killed. He wasn't sure if that was better or worse. “I mourn him,” said Daeron, then amended, “Them. A-all of them.”
Alicent's hands squeezed his. “We all do. But it is some consolation to have you here again. To be allowed to have you with me.”
His brow furrowed. That did not sound right. “Have me with you?” he echoed, uncertain.
“Yes.” She seemed confused. “Have they not told you …?”
“I had thought … am I not to take the black?”
“No. The Queen, in her mercy–” Alicent smiled again, but now it took on a sardonic air, “–has decided it would be better suited to keep you close. To keep you at home.”
Daeron's eyes strayed to the stone walls surrounding them. Black banners decorated each one. This is not my home, he thought. “Oh,” he said. “I … I will thank her.”
“Good.” She squeezed his hands once more, then released them. “Might you sit with me?” she asked, and Daeron did so obediently.
The room, like her, was plain; Daeron didn't recognize it, but then he had never known many rooms in this castle anyway. Still, it was a wonder. From the things he'd heard about his half-sister, he'd almost expected to find his mother wasting away in the dungeons, not in a guest chamber.
There were no lush carpets or thick tapestries adorning the room, as he had known in the Hightower. Nor was there a speck of green. There was a seven-pointed star on the wall, hanging over a set of shelves, and a carafe of water on a little table next to the settee they sat on. Not even wine was afforded, it would seem.
“Do you know when Her Grace might see me?” Daeron asked, a slight tremble to his voice, and Alicent gave him the pitying smile again.
“No. The throne keeps her quite busy, I fear. It could be some time …” She trailed off as the stomping of armored boots approached the door. “... or not.”
Daeron was on his feet before the door opened. When it did open, it opened with a slam, revealing an unfamiliar Kingsguard–or rather, Queensguard. The knight barely looked at Alicent, dark eyes instead set on Daeron himself. “Prince Daeron?”
He cleared his throat. “That– that is I, ser.”
“The Queen commands your presence.”
Daeron nodded hurriedly. Behind him, he could hear his mother begin to stand, and the Queensguard said, “Not you.”
“What?” said Alicent, startled.
“Her Grace only requested the prince. Not you.”
“I'm his mother,” she insisted. “Whatever Rhaenyra has to say to him, she can say to me as well.”
Daeron turned to face her, concerned. “It'll only be a few moments,” he tried to assure her. “I'll come back.”
Her eyes met his, big and affronted, and now she better resembled the mother he remembered. “No. No, I will come with you.”
“The Queen,” the knight stressed, “said only the prince. You are to stay here, Queen Dowager.”
Alicent's face twisted with irritation. “Ask Rhaenyra,” she demanded. “Ask her, if she would truly separate me from my son so soon. Ask her and she will tell you–”
The Queensguard grabbed Daeron by the arm, tugging him toward the door. Alicent's mouth shut abruptly, lips thinning as her annoyance turned to fear. “She only wants the prince,” the man said again. With another tug, he pulled Daeron out of the room. Daeron turned mid-step, catching his mother's wide eyes. Then he was tugged around a corner, and could see her no more.
He let the knight lead him down two more hallways before attempting to pull away. “You needn't be rough, ser,” he said quietly. “I go willingly.”
The Queensguard paused and looked down at him, gauging his honesty. Then he dropped his hand from Daeron's arm. Daeron folded his arms behind his back again, and when the knight continued, Daeron followed.
The man was half a head taller than him, dark haired and stern faced. That was common enough. His accent less so. Noble, but not one known to Daeron's ear. The white cloak and plate left no clues as to the knight's identity. The knight was the only Queensguard he had met so far; gold cloaks had brought him into the keep. Distantly, he wondered what had happened to the old Kingsguards, those of his brother and of their father before.
“Where are we going?” asked Daeron. The knight did not respond, so he tried again. “I do not know you, ser …?”
The knight glanced at him. “You wouldn't.”
Their walk continued in silence. Daeron thought back to his mother's words. Keep you here, she'd said. Keep you home. He told himself that it was better than being at the Wall. That it was better than being dead. It didn't stop the feeling that he was walking to his doom.
The doors to the chamber he was brought to were big and ornate, and more importantly, guarded by two more Queensguard, both as unfamiliar as the first. One stepped into the room, announcing, “Prince Daeron, Your Grace,” and as he took up his post again, the first knight led Daeron inside. The heavy doors slammed shut behind him, and he suppressed a shiver.
The chamber was dominated by a large stone table and very little else. Smaller tables with pitchers and cups stood on either side, and beyond the head seat at the table were the doors to a balcony, pulled shut. Between the table and the balcony stood a map. At the map stood a silver-haired woman. She turned her head at the sound of the door, and for the first time in his memory, Daeron met his half-sister's eyes.
Startlingly, she smiled at him. “Daeron,” said Rhaenyra Targaryen. Her voice was almost kind. “That is, if you truly are Daeron this time?”
The Queen's face was earnest, but her appearance was wicked. Her hair was braided and then braided again, a silver cascade of plaits down her back, and she wore fine black velvet and leather, embroidered and bordered in scales of silver, though they were more robes than gowns in truth. She looked less a lady and more a king. Most surprising of all was the sword at her hip. Daeron had heard many things of Rhaenyra Targaryen, but he had not heard her to be a warrior queen.
His hands shook. He tucked them behind his back again. “I am Daeron Targaryen, Your Grace, I swear it,” he told her. “U-upon the Old Gods and the New, I swear it.”
Her brow furrowed slightly, and too late he realized she was jesting. “Yes,” she said simply. “Well. I suppose we have not yet been acquainted, have we?”
Daeron shook his head, too nervous to further speak, too uncertain what to say. Should he introduce himself? Surely not; she knew who he was. He wasn't sure he could say the same. Does she expect an enemy of me, or a brother? Does she want to clasp my hand or take my head?
The Queen continued before he could make a choice. “I am your half-sister, as you well know. Our father named me heir, many years before your birth. He maintained this to his death.” Her head tilted. “Do you contest this?”
She expects both, then. “No, Your Grace,” said Daeron. Swiftly, he went to one knee, bowing his head until his eyes barely met her tall boots. “I swear my fealty to you, Your Grace, as a prince of House Targaryen. You are the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and I am but your humble–”
“Stand up.”
Daeron's head shot up, his confused gaze meeting her blank one. The warmth was gone from her voice. He hurried to obey. “Your Grace?”
The Queen's posture had turned rigid, and her violet eyes hard and cold. “I have no need for pageantry, brother,” she said flatly. “You will submit, or you will die. Spare me the rest.”
“I-I am sincere–” Her hand flexed on the pommel of her sword, and his protests died on his tongue. “... yes, Your Grace.”
She turned back to her map. “You must be wondering your fate.”
“Yes,” Daeron said honestly.
“My lord husband insisted that I kill you.” The Queen glanced over her shoulder, and for the first time Daeron saw the shadows under her eyes. “But my lord husband is not the king.” She stepped away from the map, moving toward the stone table, looking down at the papers upon it. “Then I thought to send you to the Wall.”
Unthinking, he said, “I had thought that was the plan,” then cringed back, cursing himself for interrupting.
Aside from a glance, the Queen hardly seemed to notice. “It was. Once. Then I met your imposter, the clever ruse Ormund Hightower put up.” Her mocking tone showed what she thought of that plan. “I realized how dangerous it might be to send you out of my sight. No matter how many guards I send or how many chains I wrap you in, you might still slip free … and it is a long journey to the Wall. Many chances to find allies. To recoup your army.”
I wouldn't, Daeron thought. I don't want your crown. I would go to the Wall, I would swear my vows, I would. But his uncle had sworn obeisance to the Queen, too, even as he handed over a false prince. Words were easy, which meant they were worth little; this was something Daeron knew very well. He held his tongue. “This is a risk I cannot take,” the Queen continued. “The only choice left, then, is to keep you here in King's Landing.”
She looked up at him then, gauging his reaction. Daeron bowed his head dutifully. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“You are very quiet.”
“I … I do not wish to speak out of turn.”
Her lips twitched. “You may b the first in our bloodline to say that.” She rounded the table, heels clicking on the stone as she approached him. The Queen reached up to touch his hair, and Daeron withstood it with an iron back. “Perhaps it's the Hightower in you. You have more of it than your siblings, it would seem.”
“I am often told I resemble my mother,” he admitted.
“You do.” The Queen pet his hair for a moment more before stepping back. “Speaking of, I trust you have spoken to her already?”
“Yes, Your Grace. For a few moments.”
“Good. Take it as a gesture of goodwill. I wanted you to see with your own eyes that she is hale and whole.” She nodded once as though to declare the matter finished, then returned to sit at the table, her attention turning fully to the papers laid out. Uncertainty warred within Daeron for a moment. He knew when he was dismissed, but …
“Your Grace, if I may … ?”
“Hm?” The Queen's eyes cut from the paper in her hand to him. “Is there something else?”
“I … I was not told …” Daeron struggled for how to say it. “That is … will I be staying in the cells?”
“What?” His words seemed to shock the Queen. “No. No, Daeron, you are still a prince of House Targaryen. I do not mean to keep you here to torture you. You will be given your own chambers and a rotating guard, just as your mother and Helaena have.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” He thought then of Tessarion, his oldest friend. She had been taken captive when he was, and he could only hope she remained unharmed, waiting for him somewhere. He wasn't sure when he would see her again, fly with her again … or if he ever would. But he dare not ask now, when the Queen had already given him much. “You are merciful. I am grateful, truly.”
“Yes,” said the Queen. “Well, if that is all, Ser Adrian will escort you to your quarters. He shall be your guard for the day.” The Queensguard from before, the stern one with the rough hands, stepped forward from his place at the door. “Good day, brother.”
Ser Adrian inclined his head and gestured for Daeron to follow. Well and truly dismissed, he had no choice but to obey.