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Chapter Text

Elia tries to keep away the memories of a scared her who ran through the corridors of the Red Keep's while tears streaked her face, her dress torn, the blood dripping from her arm leaving a trail throughout the corridor she was running, her son Aegon - who had turned one only two months before - held tightly in her arms and Rhaenys - her firstborn - who ran with her clutching the skirt of her dress as they tried to escape from the men who wanted to attack them, who wanted to kill them.

She faintly remembers the sound of the bells that echoed through the corridors, the soldiers who with heavy steps entered from the main entrance and then she had seen the light, she had seen Rhaegar who had arrived in the castle with his armor still stained with blood with an army behind him.

"Fear" was what kept Elia grounded while her husband -The future King- was negotiating with the new and young Warden of the North -Eddard Stark, the quiet wolf- about the future that would befall on the prince of House Targaryen who had been born not even a few days before.

You heard right, Rhaegar -her husband- had run away with Lyanna Stark -a young girl Elia tries to keep in mind, tries to chase away the thoughts about her young age, the dreadful fate that had befallen upon her and tries to keep at bay the retching that was rising in her throat- they had copulated in a tower that ironically was named the "Tower of Joy" that hear hear was located in the Motherland of his wife, the mother of his children, HER.

Rhaegar had coldly clarified that the copulation had been consensual, that Lyanna Stark had not been "kidnapped" against her will and that he had not pressured her to perform any sexual act without her consent, everything had been consensual, everything had been done with awareness on both sides so the blame had to be shared.

Elia would have liked to laugh at that statement, but not because her husband had exclaimed in such a cold and remorseless way that everything had been done in a "conscious" and "consensual" way, she had known since the first night of their arranged marriage that Rhaegar wanted his "Three Dragon Heads" and that his wife's physical impossibility to give him the third one would’ve pushed him to share the bad with other ladies, she would have liked to laugh because her husband still could not understand that Lyanna was too young, she knew that Rhaegar had probably enchanted the poor lass with a thousand promises, Lyanna was nothing but a victim, a child who had thrown herself into something bigger than her and who had died for it.

"The child will grow up in King’s Landing, to him will be given the education expected of a prince and will grow up alongside his siblings Aegon and Rhaenys," Rhaegar had calmly stated, as if he were talking about the weather and not of a child born outside their marital bed, then had continued, "He will not be a bastard, he will bear the name of House Targaryen, Lyanna and I were married before the gods and I made a promise to them, I cannot afford to incur into their wrath, especially not now."

Elia had scrutinized the rigid form of the young wolf that was sitting in front of them, his posture was impeccable, his hands were resting on the ends of the table that divided them and were relaxed - there were no signs that he was angry - but when Elia had moved her gaze to his young face, she had met those solemn gray eyes and she had glimpsed it, she had glimpsed the infamous "Wolf Blood" of the Stark house.

The body transmitted nothing but calmness but the eyes promised war, the wolves of House Stark craved for blood and justice and who was Elia to say something about it? No one.

Their family was the one that had lost the most, first it had been the father who had fallen and then the brother - both dead at the hands of a Targaryen, King Aerys and partly because of Rhaegar - and finally there was the sad death of Lyanna who had stumbled upon an arduous childbirth, a labour she had had to face alone without any type of help and had bled to death.

"I know it seems hard to believe but I will treat him like a son, I will take care of him, in my homeland, Dorne, children are not blamed for their parents wrongdoings" Elia had tried to reassure the young man, but it had been a futile attempt.

"No" had been the curt reply of the Warden, then his gray eyes had first scrutinized the well dressed up figure of her husband and then had rested on her and only then he had continued his speech "Daeron will be raised by his family -or what remains of it, the subtext was that- in the North, I will raise him alongside my own children, I will be a father to him and my wife Catelyn will be the mother figure that my sister Lyanna cannot be for obvious reasons, he will be raised according to the rules of the North, according to the traditions of the Stark house, it’s what my sister wanted".

The young Wolf’s iron eyes were daring them to deny him that concession, daring them to say "No", Elia knows that House Stark that the North would not accept any other solution, the North was claiming the son of their beloved lost daughter and if House Targaryen would’ve denied them their winter prince they would have been ready to fight, ready to quench that bloodlust.

The armies of the North had "surrendered" not after the death of Robert Baratheon but only when Rhaegar had shouted loudly in the middle of the battlefield with a bloody sword in his hands that he knew where Lyanna was but certainly he hadn’t expected to find her between life and death while a newborn was crying in her frail arms, Elia was not ready for a new war.

The North would fight brutally and they would be flanked by the armies of the Tullys - courtesy of the marriage with the young Catelyn who during the war had given birth to the future heir of Winterfell - the Arryns - Jon Arryn had married Catelyn's younger sister and had been like a father to the quiet wolf and certainly wouldn’t back down in times of need -, the Baratheons led by Stannis would have joined claiming that they were seeking revenge for the death of his brother and most likely seeking the throne for himself, not to mention the social climbers of the Tyrells and the Lannisters, Elia would not allow it, she would not find herself once again covered in blood, with a torn dress running through the corridors of the castle in search of salvation.

The next day when they had met again in that room, taking the same positions of the days prior they had found an agreement.

"Daeron will be raised in the North with his mother’s family, he will carry the Targaryen name but in line of succession he will be under Aegon and Rhaenys and any other children Elia and I will have, he will be given a princely education as his rank demands and he will be protected by a Royal Guard" Rhaeagar had stated with confidence.

The night before, Elia had furiously shouted at her husband to give in to the negotiations, that she and her children would not be helpless pawns in that game of war once again, that it was the North’s right to have that child after the losses they had suffered but she had insisted on one thing, she had accepted the humiliation of that child born out of wedlock, of copulation with another woman because she was tired but the line of succession was another matter.

"My children will sit on the Iron Throne after us," Elia had stated in a harsh tone. "Give the North what they are asking for, we are not ready to face a new war, but write down that our children will have precedence in terms of succession over Daeron." Elia had concluded, she had had that clause inserted partly because she had been put under pressure by her brothers - Doran and Oberyn who demanded vengeance for the embarrassment that Rhaegar had caused to her - and partly by her who, although tired, wouldn’t see her daughter Rhaenys be overtaken by a son of the North.

Chapter Text

Daeron had been hosted in the royal nursery of the Red Keep's, the baby had received - even if with little notice - a twin cradle like that of his brother a year older than him, with fine finishes and dragons carved in the colored wood.

Rhaenys spent most of her time in the nursery at the bedside of both brothers without making distinctions, Elia had understood that this was a defense mechanism that her eldest daughter had adopted to go trough what had happened in those walls.

When Rhaenys had noticed that a second cradle had been added to the nursery’s, one identical to that of her younger brother, swiftly noticing that it’s interior had been populated by a dark-haired newborn she had turned towards the form of her mother and with wide eyes had asked "Who is this baby?".

Elia had explained with calmness to her that the baby in the cradle was called Daeron and that he was her little brother, that the little boy was her brother as much as Aegon was, then she had recounted her about Lyanna Stark - obviously she had avoided mentioning the more lugubrious details such as the fact that her father had copulated with a little girl and that the same little girl had died in a pool of her own blood after having shared a long labor alone, without the help of a maester and of a midwife because her husband had been so stupid not to have thought of a possible early labor- Elia would have expected a markedly different reaction, she would have expected screams or hysterical crying, but her daughter had only nodded and had asked her in a rather soft voice "Can I pick him up?".

It was only a few days later that she understood that Rhaenys was hiding from the cruel reality that the war had brought to their castle, her home. Her daughter was avoiding processing what she had suffered, no matter if the man who had terrorized them had been brutally killed by Rhaegar himself, what they had suffered would've never gone away, it would always be there, hidden in a corner of their minds ready to come out at the most inappropriate moments.

Then one day that bubble of comfort had been brutally shattered by Eddard Stark who had given the order to prepare supplies and horses for the journey that Daeron and his mother's body would have had to face until the lands of the North.

"The child is fine here. He is treated like a prince just as much as Aegon, there are no preferences, could he not stay here a few more days, maybe until Rhaegar's coronation" Elia had tried to suggest trying to not let her desperation seeping into her tone of voice.

"I prefer that Daeron leave this city as soon as possible. I do not like the other nobles looking at him as if he were a rare animal to be observed and scrutinized carefully, looking for even a slightest movement or reaction. My wife Catelyn has already settled in Winterfell with my eldest son Robb, I sent a knight ahead to give her the notice necessary to organize everything." The Lord of the North had explained to her with a shocking coldness "I think it is only appropriate that Daeron moves to his lands, to his home, in the North".

Elia could do nothing but nod, the Lord of the North had decided and his eyes were still, nothing and no one would have made him change his mind. If Elia had been another woman she could have tried to soften him by telling him about what had happened in her royal apartments, about what her precious daughter Rhaenys had suffered and how she had clung to her brothers to survive but she hadn't done it, the point had already been made.

When Rhaenys had heard the news - from the servants and not from her mother - she had been furious, she had stamped her feet on the ground, she had refused to eat -a gesture of protest-, she had screamed that it wasn't right, that her brother had to be with her and not with some strangers, that his place was there, that she was his family, then she had gone trough an hysterical crying that had lasted until the day of the departure.

Daeron had left with an escort of guards carefully chosen by Lord Eddard in person - all people from the North Elia had noticed - and with a nanny named Vanesia who would’ve taken care of the child. The only person who seemed to have nothing to do with that Northern picture was Jaime Lannister who had been sent by her lord husband as a royal guard for the little prince.

Jaime had killed King Aerys, Lord Tywin had tried to negotiate the release of his son, promising lots of gold, even a bride but Rhaegar had been stubborn and had decided in a sadistic way to punish both the golden lions and the wolves of the North by sending the kingslayer - a name that had been given to the young lad - as a guard who would've protected the prince at all costs, from any harm, that or the wall Rhaegar had explained with an icy voice, the choice had been more than natural.

Eddard had not said a word about that peculiar choice, but his eyes had expressed the disgust he felt for that outrageous choice, he had taken it as the provocation that it was. The not so subtle subtext from her husband was "You take my son Daeron, a crown prince, and hide him away in your frozen North without giving me a choice and I send you the Kings layer you and your people loathe so much as the prince's sworn shield", the threatening and warning glares that Eddard Stark was throwing towards the golden lion were very visible, then he had given the order to his men to never leave his nephew alone with him.

Lord Eddard in the end had been merciful and had allowed Rhaenys to say goodbye to her brother, Elia had seen a wooden figure that represented nothing less than a black cat - her cat, Balerion the black dread, her daughter had called him - placed in the carrier in which the northern looking prince had been placed. Then she had placed a soft kiss on her brother forehead.

After the departure, Elia with the tone of a mother had inquired about the reasons hidden behind that peculiar gift, her daughter had merely answered with a childish voice and without thinking twice that in that way her brother would’ve always have with him a part of his home, something that would’ve reminded him of his elder sister. Elia would have cried later in the secrecy of her apartments, she felt broken.

Chapter Text

15 YEARS LATER

WINTERFELL

Daeron walks through the halls of Winterfell with Ser Jaime Lannister in tow, his mind can't help but retrace the odd morning that occurred a few days earlier. When a servant had informed him that his uncle, Lord Stark, was attending him in his solar because he needed to talk to him about an important matter, he beamed, and with a hammering heart, headed towards the solar, practically running.

When he entered the large room, the presence of his aunt, Lady Catelyn, stood out to his eyes. She was standing —with perfect posture— next to the crouched figure of her husband, who was sitting in the enormous armchair behind the desk. Aunt Catelyn's right hand was on her husband's shoulder, squeezing. His uncle's gray eyes were fixed on the piece of paper clutched between his large hands.

Viserys was sitting on the opposite side of the desk, his posture looked rather relaxed, but his face showed perplexity, much like that of his nephew Daeron. When he had been summoned to his uncle's solar, he had expected to see Robb waiting for him, not Viserys. Robb and Daeron  -it was no secret in the North- had started a love affair a couple of years ago, nothing too scandalous. A few days ago, they had taken aside Uncle Ned and had spoken to him about a possible marriage. His uncle had rejoiced, giving his consent and stating that he would’ve written a letter to King Rhaegar to inform him of their plans and ask for permission. Therefore, Daeron had expected that the summons was for that reason and nothing else.

"Take a seat, Daeron. News has come from the South," his uncle, the Lord of Winterfell, stated in a solemn voice. His gray eyes temporarily shifted away from the piece of paper —which now looked utterly crumpled— placed in his hands. His eyes rested first on the seated figure of Viserys and then on Daeron, who was closing the wooden door behind him.

When Daeron took his seat, his eyes automatically met those of Viserys in search of clues. His uncle simply shrugged his shoulders as if to say that he knew nothing. Then his left hand moved automatically, as did Viserys's, their hands meeting halfway, painfully clutching —a habit they had developed over the years— seeking comfort.

"Princess Rhaenys Targaryen has died in labor while giving birth to a prince, a boy named Vaegon Targaryen," Ned Stark exclaimed gravely.

Viserys had squeezed Daeron’s hand —a little tighter than he’d intended— searching for reassurance. Both had reacted to the grief differently: his uncle had paid his respects, choosing to mourn the loss of his niece by sharing a prayer or two in the Sept that had been built for Lady Catelyn in the North. On the other hand, Daeron had tried to feel something —he could have sworn it on his mother’s grave— but how could he feel something for someone he didn’t know? Rhaenys was his sister in blood and name, but was she?

In his room, Daeron kept in an ornate box the wooden figurine —the only gift he owned from his sister— of a black cat she had once owned. Rhaenys had been a silent shadow hanging over his head for all his life, both lacking Targaryen colors apart from the eyes colors and some physical features. She had never uttered a word out of place about him, she used to call him "my sweet brother" whenever his name was mentioned at court, unlike Aegon, who scornfully calls him "half-brother." Not that Daeron cared, but still.

The only feeling he had managed to feel had been sympathy. He had somehow empathized with her. His uncle had read the royal letter where it had been written, "died in childbirth," but the spymaster —who had been loyal to the deceased Queen Rhaella— at court had been less formal, her words more brutal: "The princess's body was torn apart as if she were an animal to slaughter. Her cries for mercy and her pleas seem to haunt the castle nowadays, all for a prince."

"Ser Jaime, if you have to follow me with that air of gloominess attached down to your bones, I shall give you the order to take the day off," Daeron had thundered in a callous tone of voice. Normally, Daeron was more than happy to share his days with the knight attached to his hip, not minding his presence, but today Ser Jaime was irking him.

The shattered expression that Ser Jaime had directed at him made Daeron regret his biting tone a bit. "No one will hurt me within these walls. The Starks are my family, not my foes. Besides, I am going to Robb," the prince added, trying to use a softer tone.

"My prince—" Ser Jaime had tried to rebuke, but Daeron had stopped him. "Viserys will be safe. He is considered family. I know you are grieving for Princess Rhaenys, and I’m not cruel enough —as the fools of the South like to think— to withhold that against you. Take the day off, get drunk, cry, do whatever you have to do, but please try to leave this mournful air as soon as possible, you are getting on my nerves," Daeron had explained. He knew Ser Jaime was grieving; he had known his sister and, in some strange way, had grown fond of her —perhaps he was mourning the child princess he used to know, not the grown-up version.

"As you wish, Prince Daeron," Ser Jaime had stated with surrender. "Did Princess Daenerys find out about her niece's fate?" Ser Jaime had tried to inquire, his blue eyes inquisitive.

"How would I know? No one knows the whereabouts of my aunt," Daeron curtly replied.

Daenerys —or Lady Aneira, as she calls herself these days— knew about Rhaenys, but what could she do? She saved herself from that dreadful fate the day she ran away from Westeros. From Rhaegar.

Ser Jaime nodded —but his face said he didn't believe a word— leaving the hall after a short bow of reverence.

Daeron was not cruel, he understood and respected his sworn shield's grief, but that did not mean he had to share it. He and Viserys had recovered rather quickly, never sharing much love for their family.

There was a time when he, Viserys, and Daenerys had been inseparable —not that they weren't now, but the circumstances were different— when his grandmother had still been alive, not accepting the idea of having a grandson of whom she knew nothing except for his birth name and the color of his eyes. Robb had been utterly jealous, dubbing them the "Rhaegar Targaryen Hate Club." It had been a very fitting nickname.

When Rhaella had arrived in the Northern lands with only a small entourage and the presence of her two children —Viserys and Daenerys— she had imposed that the three of them become friends. Daeron had hated the very idea, thinking that Viserys and Daenerys hero-worshipped Rhaegar. Daenerys and Viserys had shared the same thought about him.

Then one morning, Daeron had uttered with pettiness, "It must be fun living in the Red Keep, sharing the company of the King." Nowadays, he can vividly picture in his mind the revulsed expression that had shadowed Dany's visage, followed by a snide reply "Are we talking about the same person? The 'dickhead' King?".

Daeron remembers guffawing at her statement. It had been nice to find out that there were people in the Seven Kingdoms —besides the people of the North— who couldn't stand the King's presence, even if it was for different reasons. It was easy to talk with Robb when the King —while he sat blasé on his throne in the south— perturbed Daeron with undesired lavish gifts, but it wasn't stimulating. Robb loved Daeron and didn't know King Rhaegar, so when Daeron vented, Robb tended to agree with him regardless. Finding two other members of your father's kin who couldn't stand him and could argue back was another story.

Eventually, over the years, they had even developed a game: pretending not to be Targaryens. It had been pretty simple. They had donned clothes that belonged to the servants who lived in the furthest wing of the castle more times than Daeron could’ve counted on his fingers, pretending to be something they were not. He didn't know who had come up with the idea, he didn't remember. Maybe it had been Daeron after a southern guard had compared him to Rhaegar, earning a menacing glare in response, or maybe it had been Daenerys after receiving an unvarnished compliment about her beauty, alluding to how lucky her lord husband would be, a husband that would’ve been carefully chosen by Rhaegar and not by her or by her mother.

They felt trapped by the rich and elaborate name they shared. But while sporting servants' clothes, pretending to be bastards, while walking through Wintertown without a care in the world —just enjoying the food and the company that had been offered to them— they felt good, felt free. Ser Jaime had discovered them immediately, it was not a surprise. He had followed them, his tall figure covered by a dark cloak. He had trapped them in an alley and had almost forced them to return to Winterfell, but their pleas had been more persuasive.

Their back-and-forth —under Ser Jaime's strict supervision— had been going on for three years until one night they had been discovered. The fault lay entirely with Daenerys, Rhaella had informed her that she would’ve gone to her chambers in the late evening because they needed to talk, and Daenerys had simply forgotten.

That night had been wild —in and out of Winterfell's walls— almost as if the three of them had sensed that it would be their last escapade. Daenerys, in a sign of rebellion, had cut —with the help of a sharp blade— her very long and shiny silver hair. Afterward, she and Viserys had dyed their hair coal black.

While their plan was slowly crumbling when his grandmother had found their quarters empty —almost giving her a heart attack— her anguishing screams alerted the Starks of the dire situation. And while that night the Northern guards, together with those from the South —putting aside their disagreements for a while— had gone in search of the royal children of House Targaryen, trying not to think the worst, like a kidnapping, the three of them were celebrating the night with poorly but overflowing cheap wine and bawdy songs strummed by a drunkard.

When Ser Jaime had accompanied them back to the castle, it had been truly a sight to behold.

The courtyard of Winterfell was quite crowded. Daeron's purple eyes had noticed a couple of guards belonging to House Stark. Then his eyes landed on the broad figure of Robb training with Theon Greyjoy under Ser Rodrick, keen-eyed.

Daeron had ignored them, opting to take a seat beside his uncle Viserys, who was snuggled on a turf bench. "Where is Ser Jaime?" his uncle had inquired without moving his gaze from the book he was reading. "I dismissed him. He was getting on my nerves."

Then Viserys had rested his head on his shoulder. The book he was reading had been relocated a few inches so that Daeron could have a look too. "Robb interceded for me," his uncle had explained. "It's part of a rare collection. I begged Master Luwin to lend it to me, but he refused. Robb found me moping outside the library, and dear nephew, you know quite well the power you hold over the heir of Winterfell."

They had laughed, and Daeron's heart had warmed. Robb knew how much Daeron was attached / fond of his uncle, and he did everything to make Viserys feel welcomed and comfortable.

While Robb relentlessly trained with Theon, Daeron and Viserys studied the ancient tome as the cold breeze blew. "When I begged Maester Luwin to lend you that dusty tome, I didn't think you'd use it to steal my lover's attention, traitor!" Robb's shrill voice made them both jump in fright.

Theon and Robb shared a hearty laugh at their fright. Daeron unceremoniously named them "Brutes."

Robb assumed an air of mock offense, clutching his heart. Daeron lightly shook his head, and Viserys chuckled, the laughter echoing on his shoulder. Daeron went along with the pretense, crossing his arms over his chest, a mocking glare on his visage.

Then Robb had slightly walked away, his steps measured. From that position, he could only see his cousin's sweaty back, his tunic clinging to his skin, outlining the formed muscles of his broad back. Daeron felt his cheeks heat up. After a minute or two, he returned, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. He held out his hands, a bunch of mismatched flowers in them. Daeron took them and smiled.

"They are pretty," Daeron voiced. "Shouldn't I get a reward for my loving deed?" Robb asked with a broad, almost childlike smile, leaning forward.

"What makes you think that you deserve it, Stark? After all, aren’t you the one who came here with the intention of harassing us?" Daeron mused, mirth clear in his amethyst eyes.

"Why do you always have to be so mean to me?" Robb wailed, almost deflated, making both Viserys and Theon chortle at his childish antics.

"Because I'm the only one who can bring you down a peg or two," Daeron acknowledged, making Robb pout.

Deciding to put an end to the pantomime and alleviate his lover's misery, Daeron pulled Robb closer by the sweaty tunic he was wearing.

Their lips touched without hesitation, fitting perfectly together like puzzle pieces. Robb placed his hands on Daeron's cheeks, gently stroking the flawless skin. The kiss was soft and gentle, filled with infinite tenderness. When they parted, they looked into each other's eyes, their breathing mingling, their lips swollen.

The magic was broken by the amused voice of Aunt Catelyn, who threatened Robb to take a bath before supper, teasing her son by calling him "The dashing knight."