Chapter Text
On his third night without a drink, Daeron collapses into the first bed that will have him.
The tumult of restraint turned Summerhall’s grand interior into a maze of lights and limestone, making him feel strangely seasick on dry land. It was his uncle Baelor’s visit to the castle that urged him to sober up, even if he knew it was not something he could simply waltz through. He’d already tried to part with the taste of wine in days past, but it was not so easy to cast aside that which he had sworn himself to. And only the gods above knew just how many times he’d made a fool of himself, straining to live without a crutch.
In truth, the welcome feast was torturous, as were the formalities that followed. Empty talk and brimming plates of sweetmeats. Goblets upon goblets of the finest wine within his grasp, the winds of winter coursing through his veins. He tried his best to look gallant, he truly did. And not once did he yield to the lure, not even as his mouth turned dry as cotton. By the end of the third course, it seemed to him he’d aged five years within the hour.
No one in the family knew of his private labor, so to them, he must've looked like his usual sottish self, only slightly more measured with his words. If they did notice a turn in his demeanor, they were either too courteous or too unmoved to speak of it. He’d long decided it was no use bending their ear with empty promises, nor hoping for their pardon — for being only half a man, and not much of a brother. Most days, he simply wished for peace and quiet. On this weary night, he wished for the morrow.
Fortunately for him, all eyes were on the Hand of the King and his porcelain kindred, sweet Matarys and dearest Valarr. Bright as the sun, elegance embodied. Daeron was grateful for that generous charm of theirs, which captured every soul around and left him a mere shadow in its wake; sheltered from critique or question, tending to his eroding mind. As things stood then, he had no wish to draw their notice to his health, his older cousin’s least of all. No matter how long the Young Prince rested his gaze upon him, Daeron could not find it in himself to meet it kindly.
How very droll, that the blood of the dragon should be sick as a dog. There was only so much he could hide behind a measured smile.
Hour after hour, the one thing that soothed him was the promise of a soft place where he could finally lay himself to rest. So after all was said and done, he slipped away from the gathering and wandered the halls with heavy steps, trying to remember which chambers were still vacant for the night. His own bed was a long way from the Great Hall, and his body already felt as if it could no longer contain him. It mattered not where he would end up spending the night; no one would come looking for him anyway.
Clad in sweat and near the end of his tether, he pushed open a door to his momentary refuge and let the dark engulf him, hiding him from the world. There — private air, sacred air. An unfamiliar room, but one that should serve him well enough. In the black, he could trace the outline of a window, a fireplace, a most welcoming bed. Precisely how he made his way into the bed, he could not tell.
Now that he finds himself in a pool of silk and linen, his body feels like an open sore, a swarm of fire ants in the shape of man. Oh, dear Mother, keep him whole. Scrape the varnish off his soul.
He tries to sit with the feeling a while, like old friends round a campfire. To reason with it, ask of it: go on then, hollow me out. Make it dire enough so this need not happen again.
In his greener days, he used to believe that just as a fire burned itself out, so too would his woes pass, if only he endured them a little longer. Then on the third night of his trials, each and every time, he’d wonder why he kept trying to give up the drink, if he was so very useless without it. Just to hole up in a different kind of hell? To have the dreams return twice as cruel?
Well, damn his blood. He’s running out of options.
It could very well be that no trial by fire could ever cleanse him, and his life shall remain one unlived, always spent in precaution. He cared less to be well loved than to be well tended, at least since his lady mother’s passing. Some days, truly, he found himself not caring much for anything at all, which was a frightening truth to consider. There was already a brother in the family who cared for no one but himself. Lest their nameplates should read alike, Daeron often imagined his own would say: Prince Daeron the Drunken, well bred and well whipped, forever circling his own tail. Either that, or a virgin stone might suit him better.
Another thing he’d always found curious about withdrawal is the manner in which it twists hunger for food into hunger for flesh. Why else, though he shakes and he swelters, does he long for release every waking hour? For a tender touch to mend him, and to strip him of his smallclothes?
In times like these, all it takes is one look from a certain someone to stir his wildest thoughts, made all the more consuming by their impossibility. Seven hells, he’d fuck a bloody vase if he could, just to feel something different, to stop his mind from eating itself.
But the trouble is, as of late, that his cock is not much good for anything other than pissing, despite his or anyone else’s efforts to rouse it. At present, he doubts any whore in the Seven Kingdoms would even want to lie with him, man or woman or otherwise. All the same, he knows there is no trickery at hand, just the bitter truth that he had somehow drunk so much and for so long that his cock had shriveled up and died. Something most men come to heed in their middle years, but alas, he’s always had one foot in the future.
I should like to be a pond of melted amber, deaf and sightless.
Find myself in the vast, and fuck myself back to normal.
His toiling for coherence had left him feeling feverish, heart hammering in his chest like some captive animal. This is yet another godforsaken trial, likely as futile as the rest. Perhaps if he makes it till morning without succumbing to sleep, he will either grow a pair of wings or lose his head for good, all by the whim of his luck. But until then, he must first survive this aching ardor. So in the shelter of his solitude, he unlaces his breeches, sloughs off his braies and takes himself in hand, looking to drain his body of what little it has left to offer.
Against better judgement, he works himself dry, seeking the kind of pleasure that would leave him worn and empty-headed. Starts with slow, lazy strokes from the base to the crown, a more patient touch than he would usually allow himself. Easy now, gentle now. One cannot rush a miracle. His hands are cold, so very cold, despite the fire lurking in his loins.
In the quiet hope that his senses would catch up with his intentions, he tries to think of all the bodies that once pleased him, that gave to him and took from him in equal measure. Their warmth and their soft edges, movements that revealed a firm grasp on the trade of pleasure. With his right hand, he grips his cock tighter, while his left wipes the sweat from his brow, before coming to rest over his weary eyes. Not to ward or to comfort, but only to deepen the dark.
By some strange occurrence, the memory of his various couplings does not stir much within him, or rather, not enough to bring him closer to that which he desires. If truth be told, he cannot remember them that well, for he was in his cups on most — if not all — of those occasions. As distant from himself as from those who hungered for his coin. And only now does it dawn on him that this might well be a most foolish endeavor. Try as he might, time wears on, yet he remains as soft as his pillow.
No, this is nowhere near enough, much like trying to warm oneself to a sun that shines through crown glass. He ought to hurry, lest the tremors start again, oh, the bloody tremors. With eyes still shielded from the world, his hand roams blindly across the bed until it finds his braies, gathering the fabric into a tight fist. And he wastes no time wrapping it around his cock, feeling the linen rub against his skin as he settles back into a steady pace of movement.
Come what may, he will not stop until he’s had his fill, may the Seven be his witness. This is all that keeps the craving from forcing his mouth open, the one way he can still quicken his withering heart. As he slaves away for even a little drop of pleasure, he tries to empty his mind of faces and bodies, focusing instead on the pressure coiling in his belly, the steady rise and fall of his chest.
Still, he longs for more, and more is not like to come easy. Even if he could stroke himself for hours on end, his flesh might yet refuse to answer.
Ah, sometimes he finds himself wishing he were born a woman, or a nightingale. Somewhere far from here, be it in the future or in the past, though the two had begun to grow entangled in his mind. Perhaps he should call for the Kingsguard, claiming some strange ailment only a soft mouth could temper. Or perhaps he should turn to the pillow, a most obedient lover. Perhaps it would be wiser to loosen his grip once he hears the door open, but alas, he doesn’t.
“Pardon me.”
A clear voice in the dark, masking surprise with an ease that could never belong to a lesser man. Intruding upon the intruder. If Daeron were any younger, he might’ve bolted like a scalded cat, yet all that he can manage now is a slow turn of the head, uncovering his eyes to a folly of his own making.
Many an odd thing could happen in the hour of ghosts, as the night’s wry wit would have it. Daeron tries to blink away the fog in his mind, and himself, and the whole wide world with it. His lips are painfully dry, and he cannot help but ache all over as he says:
“Val?”
“Cousin.”