Pentos, 297 AC – Sixth Moon, the hour of the wolf
Sleep took me like a thief.
One moment I lay on silk sheets that smelled of lemon and myrrh, the great black dragon curled in his pocket sky, the taste of dragonflight still on my tongue. The next I was falling, falling through years that were not mine and yet were, memories rising like blood in water.
I was small again. Four, perhaps five. The Red Keep's nursery smelled of milk and candle-smoke and the faint copper tang of fear. Mother sat on the floor with me, skirts pooled like spilled cream, letting me braid her silver hair with clumsy fingers while she hummed an old Valyrian lullaby about dragons dancing above the Fourteen Flames. Sunlight slanted through the high windows and painted purple shadows on the Myrish carpet. She laughed when I tugged too hard, a sound bright as breaking crystal.
Father's laugh was different.
I saw him through the open door of the throne room, seated on that ugly seat of swords, cheeks gaunt, eyes wild. Lord Chelsted was on his knees, begging. The pyromancers stood behind him in their robes of black and scarlet. Father's fingers drummed on a twisted blade. "Burn them," he said, and laughed again, high and delighted, as the first torch touched the oil-soaked cloak.
Mother's hand went tight around mine. She pulled me back into the nursery and closed the door with trembling fingers. That night her screams came through the walls—another babe lost, another stillbirth clawed from her womb by the maesters while Father raged in the throne room about traitors and wildfire.
Then Dragonstone: black stone, dragon-glass windows, the sea always roaring. Mother heavy with child again, belly swollen beneath a gown of mourning red and black. Viserys, eight years old, strutting in a too-large doublet, telling everyone who would listen that he would be king one day and feed Robert Baratheon to the dragons. I remember the way the castellan looked at him, pity and terror mingled.
The fleet came at dawn. Redwyne sails on the horizon. Ser Willem Darry lifting me onto his shoulders while servants ran with chests of gold and jewels. Mother clutching the swell of her stomach, face white as bone. The ship lurched; I vomited over the rail while Viserys screamed that he would not run, he was the dragon, the dragon did not flee.
On the deck of that creaking galley, between Dragonstone and Braavos, Rhaella Targaryen went into labour. The storm howled like a dying dragon. The captain swore the sea itself wanted us dead. I remember the cabin reeking of blood and salt, the midwife's hands red to the elbow, Mother's face turned to me, violet eyes already looking somewhere beyond the world.
"Promise me, Daeron," she whispered, voice ragged. "Promise you'll keep them safe. Viserys… he is so angry. And the new babe… Daenerys… promise me."
I was eight years old and did not understand death, only that Mother's hand was growing cold. I promised. I promised with a child's desperate certainty while the storm screamed and the ship groaned and somewhere beyond the cabin door Viserys kicked a cabin boy for spilling his wine.
She died before the sun rose. They wrapped her in a red cloak and gave her to the sea. Daenerys lived, small and red and squalling. Viserys looked at her once and sneered that she was no dragon, only a mewling girl.
The memories came faster now, sharp as broken glass.
Braavos. The house with the red door. Ser Willem Darry teaching us letters and sword forms in the courtyard while fog rolled in off the canals. Viserys refusing to hold a blunted blade because princes did not train with common knights. Me drilling until my palms blistered, because someone had to be able to protect the little sister who still believed the world could be kind.
Ser Willem's corpse in his bed, grey and cold. Servants stealing the silver, turning us out into the streets with nothing but the clothes on our backs and a chest of dwindling dragons. Viserys selling Mother's crown for passage to Tyrosh, then selling her jewels in Myr, then selling the last of her gowns in Lys.
Viserys growing taller and crueler with every city. Slapping servants for looking at him wrong. Telling Daenerys she would marry whichever magister offered the most soldiers. Telling me I was nothing, a second son, a spare, that when he sat the Iron Throne I would be lucky to keep my head.
I stood between them every time. Took the blows meant for her. Told her stories at night when the inns were cold and the food was thin: of Aegon and his sisters, of Daenys who dreamed the Doom, of Jaehaerys and Alysanne who flew north to the Wall and south to the Summer Sea. I told her the names of every dragon that had ever lived, and she would fall asleep whispering "Balerion, Vhagar, Meraxes" like a prayer.
Pentos at last. Illyrio's manse, perfumed and gilded and false. Three moons of soft beds and rich food that tasted of ash because every smile hid a ledger. Viserys preening in silks, calling himself king to slaves who laughed behind their hands. And two nights ago, drunk on Arbor gold, telling Illyrio he would give his sister to any savage with horses if the price was right.
I had prayed to gods. Not to the old gods or the new, but to whatever had listened when Ethan Carter died raging at a television screen.
Take me, I begged silently. Take my life, my soul, whatever you want. Just keep her safe. Let me fix this. Let the dragons rise again.
And something answered.
The memories slowed. I saw Old Daeron—small, quiet, watchful Daeron—standing in that godswood, fists clenched so tight the nails drew blood. I saw the exact moment he offered himself, the exact moment the deal was sealed across worlds.
I felt him looking at me now, across the gulf of death and rebirth.
You came, he whispered, wonder and relief and grief all at once. You really came.
I will keep the promise, I told him. Both promises. Daenerys will live. The dragons will fly again. And the throne—gods forgive me—the throne will have a dragon who is not mad.
His memories folded into mine like rivers meeting the sea. The weight of them settled in my bones: every slap Viserys had given, every night Daenerys had cried herself to sleep, every time I had stood shield and taken the storm so it would not break her.
I woke gasping, moonlight silvering the bed. My cheeks were wet. For a moment I did not know which boy was crying—Ethan who had died alone, or Daeron who had watched his mother slide into the sea and promised the world to a newborn sister.
I sat up and pressed my palms to my eyes until the tears stopped.
Two lives. Two sets of memories. One purpose.
Outside, the manse was silent. Somewhere in the west wing Daenerys slept, thirteen years old and still believing her brother Viserys would protect her. Somewhere in the east wing Viserys dreamed of crowns and vengeance and waking dragons he could never hope to control.
I rose from the bed and crossed to the window. The moon hung low and red, a dragon's eye watching.
"I made you a promise," I whispered to the night, to the boy I had been, to the sister sleeping down the corridor, to the mother buried by the sea. "I keep my promises."
In the pocket beyond the world, Snydor stirred and rumbled agreement, a sound felt in the marrow rather than heard.