Dragonstone
Daeron felt refreshed after taking a long bath. The smell of sulfur, brimstone, and salt of the sea was washed from his skin, and for the first time since landing at Dragonstone, his muscles felt at ease. He now wore a new set of clothes provided by the servants who had drawn the bath for him. The fabric was fine enough, though the fit was slightly off at the shoulders and a little loose at the waist. They were certainly not garments tailored for a king, and the cut was more Westerosi than he preferred, but Daeron had few options at the moment. He would make do with what was offered.
After waiting for some time in his assigned chamber for a summons or a guide, and receiving neither, boredom crept in. Rather than sit idly, Daeron decided to tour the only stronghold of Valyria—or what remained safe for him—he could presently access.
Alone, he wandered through the corridors of the keep. His boots echoed faintly against the stone as he paused before carved dragons, running his fingers across cold scales shaped from basalt and obsidian. He examined the craftsmanship of arches and murals, touching stone dragons and ancient artworks with idle curiosity. More than once, he allowed his fingers to linger along carvings, half-hoping some hidden mechanism might reveal a concealed chamber filled with forgotten magical scrolls or relics.
He was studying closely the dragonglass eyes of one such stone dragon—dark, polished, and almost lifelike—when the distinct clank of mail drew his attention.
Ser Barristan Selmy stood a few paces behind him, wearing a knowing smile—the smile of a man who had witnessed something mildly amusing and entirely unexpected. Instantly, Daeron straightened his back and stepped away from the wall, placing a respectable distance between himself and the dragon carving.
"Her Grace is currently in Aegon's Garden," Ser Barristan said with calm composure. "She commanded me to ask if you would care to join her for a small talk." There was a softness in his tone that seemed slightly out of place for the hardened knight. "She also said she would appreciate it if you accepted. But you may decline if you are weary and require rest."
Daeron considered for a brief moment before replying, "I am not tired, not even a little, as you can plainly see. And Queen Daenerys' beauty is far more preferable to me than that of these stone dragons and gargoyles." He gestured lightly with his hand. "Lead the way, Ser."
Ser Barristan's lips twitched faintly. "I apologize, King Daeron, but I find your claim of preference doubtful when I discovered you gazing at that same stone dragon as though you intended to kiss it moments ago." There was light amusement in his voice, though caution remained in his side glance.
"I was merely examining the dragonglass eyes," Daeron defended himself with a short cough.
"Whatever you say, King Daeron," Ser Barristan replied, his tone deliberately neutral.
"No, you do not understand—"
But the old knight had already begun walking.
Aegon's Garden
Daeron exhaled softly as they stepped into the garden. It was dark and shadowed beneath towering pine trees, yet the gloom soothed him rather than unsettled him. After the hearing, the sharp jabs from Ser Barristan, the quiet hush of the place felt like a reprieve. The scent of earth and pine mixed with faint salt from the sea below.
The old knight, Daeron realized, was as sharp with words as he had ever been with a blade. And he had taken clear pleasure in catching Daeron in that mildly embarrassing position. The future king of the Seven Kingdoms now mildly regretted examining that not-so-special stone dragon so intently.
Daenerys stood beneath the shade of a pine tree, holding a wild rose delicately between her fingers. She was not dressed in the dark attire he had seen her wear earlier. Instead, she wore a soft white gown that left her arms bare and revealed much of her upper shoulders. The pale fabric caught the dim light filtering through the branches.
For a moment, Daeron stood still, struck by her appearance. Then he regained his composure and glanced toward Ser Barristan, who had stopped a short distance behind and assumed a guard's position.
There was a hopeful expression on the old knight's face now.
"I hope you mean what you said, King Daeron—that my queen is to your preference," Ser Barristan murmured quietly. "Before the Stranger takes me to whatever awaits beyond this life, I would wish to see the House of the Dragon united and powerful as it once was. I would see men fight and die beneath the banner of the dragon—the red one—not the black." His aged voice carried a faint tremor of longing. "You would grant this old man at least that hope, would you not?"
"Cannot promise it," Daeron replied honestly, though not unkindly. "But I am not opposed to it either. And look at your queen—who would not desire her?" He allowed himself a small, playful smile.
Ser Barristan snorted quietly, but visible relief softened his face.
"Go then, Your Grace," he said. "Accompany that beautiful woman and leave this old man to his duty and his thoughts."
Daeron inclined his head and walked toward Daenerys, not overlooking the fact that Barristan called him 'his grace'. Daenerys still seemed lost in thought as she turned the rose slowly in her hand. He did not interrupt her immediately. Instead, he allowed his gaze to wander briefly over the garden—the dark pine trunks, the scattered clusters of wild roses, and the thick greenery that gave the place its secluded air.
Before he could finish his quiet inspection, her voice broke the silence.
"I am glad you accepted my invitation," Daenerys said, her tone calm and far gentler than the urgency he had heard earlier in the day. "I hope there has been nothing lacking in your stay here?"
"No, there was nothing left to want. I thank you for your gracious hospitality." Daeron inclined his head slightly in gratitude, his tone formal yet sincere.
A quiet settled between them once more. This time, however, Daeron found the silence heavier than before. The wind stirred faintly through the pine branches above, and somewhere in the distance, a dragon gave a low, restless rumble. Before Daeron could gather the right words to break the stillness, Daenerys spoke first.
"Did Ser Barristan ask you about Ser Arthur?" she asked, watching him closely.
"No. He spoke nothing of the sort," Daeron replied, confusion flickering across his face. A heartbeat later, realization dawned on him. Of course—across the realm, Ser Arthur Dayne was believed long dead. Yet the same man now walked at Daeron's side, though at the moment the same man might be raging in the vast halls of Harrenhal. Anyhow, it would be only natural for Barristan Selmy, Arthur's old sworn brother, to question Arthur's return or anything about him.
"Well," Daeron added thoughtfully, "either he chose not to speak of it, or he was occupied with other thoughts. I wager it is the latter rather than former." He cast a brief glance over his shoulder toward the old knight standing vigilant at his post.
"May I ask," Daenerys continued, her lilac eyes intent upon him, "how Ser Arthur came into such sudden reappearance?"
Daeron allowed himself a small exhale. "The miracle does not rest upon my shoulders alone. Lord Howland Reed—the only man who returned alive with my uncle, Lord Eddard Stark, from the Tower of Joy—kept Ser Arthur alive all these years." He paused briefly before continuing. "There was no love lost between them. Lord Howland struck him from behind in that final battle. And perhaps it was guilt, perhaps honor in his own strange measure, that compelled him to preserve the man's life."
He continued evenly, though his words carried weight. "The Sword of the Morning was breathing still, though barely—slow, ragged breaths clinging to life. In Lord Howland's telling, he chose mercy over pride. He tended to him in secrecy, and through herbs, care, and whatever strange resilience Arthur possesses, he endured. Years passed. And when the time came, he emerged once more."
Surprise crossed Daenerys' face first, followed by a faint, incredulous smile. "A crannogman saving the greatest knight of his age," she murmured softly. "The gods do enjoy irony."
Their conversation shifted after that. Daeron asked her about Essos—not merely the years of rule, but the years of wandering. At first she hesitated, her fingers brushing absentmindedly against the petals of the rose. But when Daeron spoke of Winterfell—of cold halls and colder stares, of Catelyn Stark's sharp words and silent resentment—something in her expression softened.
She began to speak.
She told him of hunger. Of being paraded through courts because of the name she bore. Of being welcomed into grand manses only to be cast out after a few moons when Viserys' temper burned too brightly. She spoke of pleading for bread, of nights spent uncertain where they would sleep next. And then her voice shifted when she mentioned the house with the red door in Braavos. Of Ser Willem Darry. Of lemon trees and a brief, fragile illusion of safety.
Her voice trembled faintly at that memory.
Daeron listened to it all without interruption, giving her the courtesy of full attention. When she finished, he did not offer grand speeches. Instead, he offered a small smile and reached out, giving her hand a firm, reassuring squeeze. It was a simple gesture, but it carried weight.
Silence followed again—but this time it was not uncomfortable.
At last, Daenerys drew a steady breath. "I called you here to speak plainly," she said, her tone firm, the softness gone and replaced by something regal. "Are we to be enemies or allies? Ser Barristan tells me you intend to take the Iron Throne because you believe a great threat approaches from the North. Whatever the cause, our goal is the same. We can either stand against one another—or together. What would you choose, nephew?"
"If you ask me," Daeron replied carefully, "I would rather not add to the list of my enemies. You are right—our cause aligns in many ways. We both want to send Lannisters our regard. And not to mention the Iron Throne, the throne must be reclaimed to untie the realm."
His blue eyes hardened slightly. "But we both know only one may sit upon that thrice-cursed chair. And I assure you, I do not intend to be the one who steps aside, dear Aunt."
A faint sigh escaped her. "There is only one way."
"No," Daeron countered quietly. "There is another."
She looked at him with a raised brow, curiosity sharpening her features.
"You are my aunt. A princess of the blood," he continued. "I could grant you any great keep in the realm—even Casterly Rock itself once it is taken. There are many seats in need of a strong ruler. You may choose to marry or remain unwed. If you wed, your children could be joined to the main line. You would remain honored, powerful, secure."
"I did not endure all I have to become some lady of a keep," Daenerys replied sharply. "Why would I reduce myself to a Lady from the Queen I am, I rule three free cities and command dragons, or have you forgotten that, Nephew?"
"No, I have not, Aunt Danerys. I proposed that because," Daeron answered calmly, "those cities will never truly accept you. Not as one of their own. They will smile and bend the knee, and the moment you turn your back, they will scheme to unseat you. In Essos, you are a conqueror. In Westeros, you are the blood of the House of the Dragon. The blood that ruled this land as kings for three centuries. Here, there are still some people who see you as their own and not an outsider."
He stepped slightly closer, not threateningly but earnestly. "Here, I stand beside you. Your only living kin. Blood of your blood. In this land, the name Targaryen still carries weight—fear, reverence, loyalty. This is the true home of the House of the Dragon. Not Essos, not after the Doom." His voice was low, steady, and resolute.
Daenerys' anger wavered, and now Daeron was no longer at the sharp end of her glare.
"Still, I do not intend to become the lady of some keep, even if that keep is Casterly Rock. What would I do with that rock—alone and forgotten?" she asked, her chin lifting slightly. "I intend to remain Queen, Nephew. Tell me, do you not wish to marry me? Is that why you suggest these other paths? Do you not want my armies and my dragons standing behind you when someone raises their voice against your claim—or when this great threat you speak of comes knocking at your door?" Daenerys' voice was every bit as regal as the crown she claimed.
"I did not say I do not intend to marry you, Aunt," Daeron replied evenly. "You said there is only one option. I merely showed you that there is more than one road before us."
He held her gaze without flinching. "And yes, I do want your armies and your dragons—of that, have no doubt. But I also believe in myself, in my men, and in Caraxes. I do not intend to pay too steep a price for reinforcements. You understand what I mean." His tone sharpened slightly. "So state your terms carefully if you wish us to be allies."
He turned fully toward her now, interest clear upon his face. Daeron had always known his worth—or at least he believed he did. However striking she might be to him, however much he might desire her, he would not surrender authority merely because of that. And yet, deep within, he did want her as his wife.
Might as well lay the cards upon the table, he thought, and see how they fall.
Daenerys studied him, her expression shifting—offense, pride, irritation, calculation—all flickering across her features in turn. She was about to speak when Daeron offered one final piece.
"There is one more thing you should hear before you decide, Aunt."
She inclined her head, impatience flashing in her eyes.
"I have heard that you cannot bear children…"
"It is true," Daenerys cut in sharply. "My dragons are the only children I shall ever have." Her gaze was steady, almost defiant.
"Let me finish," Daeron said, his tone firm but controlled. A faint hint of embarrassment crossed her face before she stilled again. "If we bind this alliance in marriage, then your condition cannot remain as it is. I have my doubts, but there is a strong possibility that I can undo whatever the maegi did to you. I believe I may be able to restore what was taken."
He paused briefly. "Though I cannot promise how long it would take."
Daenerys went very still. When she spoke again, her voice had changed—quieter, edged with something far more vulnerable than pride.
"I will state my terms after I consult my small council," she said carefully. "But I am prepared to be your wife—and your queen—if you can truly do what you claim, Nephew."
She stepped closer, and for a fleeting moment the regal composure faltered. When Daeron looked into her eyes, he did not see anger or calculation.
He saw hope.