Daeron Targaryen
Daeron let out a long breath as he retreated to his chambers, Ser Gerold Hightower shadowing him.
"If you've something to say, old man, best say it," Daeron muttered.
Gerold's jaw tightened. "If that was truly happening, you should have come to me. I may wear white now, but my name is still Hightower. I would have dealt with the septa."
Daeron gave a sharp laugh. "And what then? Send her scurrying back to Oldtown, where she'd boast of striking a princess? No, Ser. That would have caused more trouble than it solved."
Gerold exhaled heavily, but said nothing.
Daeron's voice dropped, more thoughtful. "Still, I fear our house is not what it was. I still wonder to this day, what keeps the great lords from breaking away like foolish old Lyonel, from crowning themselves kings once more?"
"Oaths," Gerold answered. "Not all lords are as faithless as you imagine."
"I'll see for myself," Daeron said with a wry chuckle. "This 'punishment' hardly feels like a punishment at all. The Reynes are growing bold, and Roger Reyne—ambition is written on that man's face. There's much I could learn from him. And the eldest Lannister boy… Kevan, is it? I hear he's ambitious as well. We must be wary."
"Not Kevan," Gerold corrected. "Tywin. He and his lord father quarrel often, if the whispers are true. And I'll be coming with you, Daeron. We leave in a week, once Lord Reyne's reply arrives."
"Fine, fine," Daeron sighed, pushing open his chamber doors.
He froze. Three voices cried his name in unison.
"Daeron!"
Jenny of Oldstones, his aunt. His mother, Princess Shaera. And his sister, Rhaella. All rushed toward him at once.
"Are you hurt?" "Are you bleeding?" "I was so frightened—"
Their words tumbled over one another, and their eyes went wide at the sight of crimson streaks in his hair.
"Gerold, get the Grand Maester!" Shaera shrieked, her voice thin with panic. Jenny, ever practical, had already seized a linen cloth and was pressing it against Daeron's head, her own hands trembling.
"I'm fine, Mother," he said, his voice weary but firm. He gently took the cloth from his aunt's grasp and wiped at his hair, cleaning away some of the blood. "It's not my blood."
Shaera and Rhaella were still trembling, their hands fluttering uselessly over him, but Jenny's voice cut through the panic.
"Daeron, let's get you clean. Shaera, Rhaella—calm yourselves."
She guided him gently toward the adjoining chamber where a copper tub had been drawn beforehand for herself, steam rising faintly from the water. Daeron yielded without protest, though a faint smirk tugged at his lips at how his aunt fussed over him.
Jenny set about her task with quiet efficiency, loosening his soiled garments and easing him into the bath as though he were a babe once more. She dipped a cloth into the warm water, pressing it to his face, his shoulders, his hair, washing away the bloodstains until the water swirled red around him.
[A/N: Daeron Age: 7]
"You court trouble too often," she murmured, her hands steady though her voice betrayed a thread of worry. "What were you thinking, coming back to us like this?"
Daeron leaned back against the tub's rim, closing his eyes. "I was thinking I could handle it, as I always do. And I was right—see? Not a scratch on me."
Jenny shook her head, wringing out the cloth. "Bravado will not keep you safe forever. And now you speak of going to Castamere, ward to Lord Reyne of all men? I heard of their problems with the Lannisters."
He cracked an eye open, the faintest hint of defiance in his smile. "Perhaps danger is what I need. I'll learn more from Roger Reyne than from any dusty tome or some wretched septa. Besides, it is decided."
Jenny said no more, but the silence between them was heavy. When she was satisfied that every trace of blood was gone, she helped him from the bath, wrapped him in linen, and guided him back to the bedchamber.
Shaera swept forward at once, her worry spilling into sharpness. "You reckless boy," she scolded, gathering him into her arms before Daeron could protest. "Do you not see how you torment us with your foolhardy games?"
Daeron only sighed, too weary to argue. He let himself sink. After she let him go, he went to his sister, his head finding its place in Rhaella's lap. His sister's hands trembled as she brushed his damp hair from his brow, her eyes brimming.
Jenny broke the quiet at last, her voice measured. "There is something you must all know. Daeron will spend time as a ward of Lord Reyne. It is the King's will."
The words struck like a blow. Shaera's face paled, her lips parting soundlessly, while Rhaella's tears spilled over at once. She bent over him, clutching at his shoulders as though she could hold him there forever.
"Don't cry, Rhae," Daeron murmured, lifting a hand to wipe at her cheeks. "I hate your tears. It will not be forever. I'll return."
But Rhaella only shook her head, her tears falling faster, and even Jenny—calm, composed Jenny—turned her face away lest they see the grief in her eyes.
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Duncan "The Small" Targaryen
"Don't worry, Jenny," Duncan said, drawing her into his arms, one broad hand patting her back. "It won't be dangerous. Five years, no more."
"Five years?" Jenny choked on the words, her face buried against his chest. "Your brother died just last year, and now we send my little one off to God knows where."
Her grief was raw, but Duncan knew it wasn't only fear that drove her tears. Jenny had always clung to Daeron more than the others. When his father had forbidden them children—fearing the quarrels a rival line might bring—Jenny had swallowed her sorrow. But when she saw Aerys placed in Shaera's arms, the longing cut deep. For a time, they had even spoken of fleeing to Essos, to live freely in Pentos as nameless exiles. Duncan had already brought his house enough shame; he could not bring himself to heap more upon it.
Then Rhaella and Daeron were born, and Jenny poured her heart into them. She became their shadow, their nurse, their second mother. To lose Daeron, even for a few years, was a wound she could not hide.
Duncan tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. "This is the King's command. Daeron must go. He will be safe enough—Ser Gerold will see to that. And he will come back stronger for it."
Jenny sniffed, clutching his tunic. "Safe or not, it feels like they're tearing him from me."
"I know," Duncan said quietly. "But you've given him more love than most boys will ever know. That won't leave him, no matter where he goes."
Her sobs eased to a shudder. Duncan kissed her temple and guided her gently toward the door. "Come, love. There's something I must give Daeron before he leaves."
As they approached the Party, they were greeted by the rest of their family. Jaehaerys crouched down and hugged Daeron and handed him a small box before getting up. "Open it when you get there, My Boy." He heard him saying.
Before Daeron could speak, Jenny swept forward, nearly knocking him off his feet as she scooped him into her arms. "Daeron," she whispered into his hair, her eyes glistening. Only after a long moment did she set him down, her hands lingering on his shoulders.
She set him down, and Duncan stepped in next, smiling as he reached to ruffle the boy's silver hair.
"Unclee…" Daeron groaned, squirming away as he tried to smooth it back into place. "It took me forever to set it straight."
"Haha, forgive me, nephew, a force of habit," Duncan laughed, eyes warm with mischief. "But I've something better than a ruffled head for you." He raised his chin toward the stables, giving a nod.
A stableman led forward a young Filly, its coat a sleek, gleaming black. Though still small, it carried itself with the proud carriage of its line, ears pricked and dark eyes bright. The little horse tossed its head as if it already knew it was special.
Daeron's mouth parted in awe. "She's for me?"
Duncan laid a steady hand on the boy's shoulder and gave him a gentle push forward. "This is the daughter of the strongest destrier in the Seven Kingdoms—the daughter of my own Sweetfoot. She's young, about three years old, but trained to bite, kick, and trample the ones she sees as enemies; she's got fire in her blood. Now go, Daeron. Approach her."
Daeron hesitated only a moment before stepping closer, his small boots crunching on the straw. The Filly snorted, stamping once as if to test him. Duncan's voice rumbled behind him.
"Prove yourself worthy of her."
=====================================
Daeron Targaryen
Daeron stared into the Filly's honey-colored eyes, wide and watchful, as if she were measuring him just as much as he was her. His throat tightened; his hand trembled slightly as he lifted it toward her poll.
A sharp whicker escaped the foal, and she jerked back a step, ears flicking.
"Ugh! I'm sorry," Daeron whispered quickly, his voice barely carrying. "I didn't mean to startle you. Please… come on."
He took a slow breath and steadied himself. The boy's violet eyes locked with hers, and for a long heartbeat neither moved. The stableyard felt too still, the air thick with waiting.
Then, carefully, Daeron raised his hand again, slower this time, his chest pounding like a drum. Inch by inch, he stretched his fingers forward, determined not to look away.
The Filly let out a low, uncertain nicker, but she didn't step back. Her ears tipped forward, and at last, her muzzle brushed against his palm—warm, soft, alive.
Daeron exhaled a shaky laugh of relief, "Thank you," He ran his hand through his majestic black mane, "Does she have a name, Uncle?"
"No, I figured you would want to name it." His Uncle answered back. "Go on, give her a good name."
"Hmm." Daeron glanced back at the Filly's honey-colored eyes, shining like molten gold against her black coat. A smile tugged at his lips. "Nike," he said at last.
"Nike?" Aerys frowned, puzzled. "Where did you get that from?"
"I read it in a book I purchased," Daeron replied with a spark of pride. "She is the goddess of victory, from a lost civilization." He turned back to the Filly, voice softening. "So, do you like it, girl? Nike, the goddess of victory."
The Filly gave a gentle whicker, then tossed her head and neighed with sudden excitement. Daeron laughed, wide and unrestrained. "Haha! She loves it!"
A warm, amused voice carried over the yard. "She does indeed, grandson."
Daeron turned, and his eyes lit up. The Queen herself, Betha Targaryen nee Blackwood, stood watching, her smile faint but fond. "Grandma!" he cried, dashing forward to wrap his arms around her waist, squeezing as if he'd never let go.
"Ho, ho!" she chuckled, patting his back. "If you squeeze that hard, you'll break my old bones."
"That's right, you little brat," came another voice, gruffer and sharper. King Aegon V stood beside her, arms crossed, his frown only half-serious. "We are old. Show some restraint."
Daeron blinked at him, then broke into a mischievous laugh. "Hahaha!" He ran forward and hugged him too. "Take care, Grandpa."
Aegon V harrumphed, but his hand found the boy's silver hair all the same, ruffling it with surprising gentleness. "Try to learn something, Daeron. Even your uncle—your namesake—died because he was too reckless."
From his pocket, the old king drew out a small object and pressed it into Daeron's palm. "Here. It's Valyrian steel. Keep it clean."
It was a ring engraved with the three-headed Targaryen Dragon, with a silver chain attached to it.
"You can wear it when you're bigger," Aegon said, his voice low and stern, though his eyes betrayed a glint of pride.
Daeron slid the chain around his neck at once, letting the ring rest against his chest. "I'll keep it safe," he promised. His hand closed around the steel, and for a heartbeat, he looked every inch a prince of the blood. "When you see me again, Grandpa, it will shine just the same."
He turned next to where his mother and sister waited, tears streaking both their faces. Their grief struck him harder than he had prepared for.
"I suppose I'll see you in five years," he said gently, trying to steady his voice. "Or sooner, if there's a great tourney."
His sister lunged at him, arms wrapping tight around him, clinging as though she could keep him here by force of will alone. His mother soon followed, gathering them both into her embrace, enveloping her children in her warmth.
"Be safe," Shaera whispered against his hair.
"Don't make too many enemies," Rhaella added, her small voice breaking.
"I'll try," Daeron said, his throat tight as he pulled back.
He straightened, forcing a brave smile, and turned once more to the filly that waited patiently for him. Nike's golden eyes met his, bright and alert.
"Let's go, girl," Daeron whispered.
He approached her slowly, letting her sniff his hands and settle under his weight, then swung up and settled into the small saddle. The filly shifted, muscles coiling, then stood steady beneath him.
The gates of the Red Keep creaked open, and the morning light spilled onto the courtyard. Daeron lifted a small hand in farewell, and through the gates he saw the figures of his family—His Mother and Father, Rhaella, Aerys, His Aunt and Uncle, even the King and Queen—watching him go.
With a final wave and a deep breath, he nudged Nike forward. The foal picked up a trot at first, then moved into a confident canter, carrying the young prince away from the Keep.