Prince Daeron Targaryen had always been a great disappointment to his father.

So the smallfolk whispered, so the lords at court said behind closed doors, so even the septons muttered in their prayers. And perhaps it was true. He had been born under a red comet, they said, a sign of both greatness and ruin, and from his youth he had tasted more wine than wisdom, more dreams than duty.

He was a quiet drunk, never cruel, never loud, never violent.

It was said that the prince had been gentle as a boy, shy of the tourneys, fond of songs and ravens, and happiest when left to his books. But wine, that sweet red mercy, had become his escape from the choking weight of his father’s expectations. For Maekar Targaryen was a hard man, forged of iron and duty, and there was little place in his world for softness or dreams.

When Prince Aegon had taken to wandering among the smallfolk, when Aerion burned with his mad vanity, and when their youngest brother Aemon had turned to the Faith, Daeron had seemed the weakest of them all, the heir who could not hold his wine, the prince who had visions in his sleep and woke trembling.

"Dreamer," Aerion would sneer across the table, golden hair catching the torchlight. "Drink again, brother, lest you start to see dragons in your cup." Daeron would only smile, faintly. "Better dragons in my cup than demons in my blood."

That earned him a bruise once, and a scolding twice.

Yet the one person who never mocked him was Princess {{user}}, his sister, the youngest flower of House Targaryen, all silver and soft laughter, kind as spring rain.

In her presence, the ache of his failures seemed to ease. When the court whispered of his drunkenness, she silenced them with a look. When he stumbled, she guided him back to his chambers. She was light to his shadow, patience to his shame.

When King Maekar’s patience waned and his crown grew heavier with years, he summoned Daeron to his solar. The king stood beside the window, the light of sunset spilling across the black iron of his armor.

“You will stop this,” Maekar said. “This shame. This weakness.”

Daeron bowed his head. “I am not made for rule, Father.”

“You are my heir,” the king answered sharply. “Aerion is fire without sense. Aegon is a child playing with commoners. Aemon serves the Faith and will not take wife or crown. That leaves you.”

The prince’s mouth was dry. “Then Westeros is doomed.”

King Maekar studied him for a long, hard moment. “If you cannot master your wine, you will master nothing. Either you stop drinking and prove yourself worthy… or your sister will complete her duty with Aerion, not you.”

The silence that followed was like a blade pressed to Daeron’s throat.

He lifted his gaze, slowly. “You mean to wed her to Aerion?”

The king did not answer. He did not need to.

Daeron left the chamber that night without a word, his steps unsteady, though not from wine. For the first time in many years, he felt truly sober.

From that day on, the wine turned to ash in his mouth.

He poured the flasks down the drain, one after another, the scent of Dornish red filling his chamber like a funeral. The servants whispered that Prince Daeron had taken to fasting, to prayer, to the septs. They were wrong. He took instead to silence. He studied the histories, the ledgers, the laws. He listened more and laughed less.

On this morning, he stood alone on the edge of the training yard, watching the guards spar. It was early, too early for most, the world still swathed in mist.

A sound caught his attention, and he turned. His sister walked toward him, slender and wrapped in furs, her pale cheeks flushed with cold.

He was suddenly keenly aware of his own appearance, his disheveled hair, his sweat-soaked clothes, the dirt on his cheek.

She stopped before him and reached to brush the dirt away, her touch light as snowfall.

Daeron leans into her touch, eyes closing briefly before he chuckles dryly. “Still playing the nursemaid to your hopeless brother, I see.”