Chapter Text
Chapter One: Arbor Red
If there was one thing Daeron Targaryen would never pass up, it was an excuse to drink. After all, they didn’t call him Daeron “the Drunken” for nothing. No reason was below him, no occasion too sacred. A feast to celebrate his little sister’s tenth nameday? Well, that sounded perfect, didn’t it?
Unfortunately, it was more difficult than it should have been–than it would have been before Ashford. In the wake of his brother Baelor’s unnecessary death at his own hands, Daeron’s father had decided to reevaluate his relationships with his own children. With Aerion in exile, Aemon at the Citadel, and Egg off gallivanting across Westeros with the hedge knight Ser Duncan the Tall, Daeron was the only son left at Summerhall… which unfortunately meant that he received far too much of his father’s attention.
And his father had, evidently, commanded the servants to ration his wine.
His wine… as if that was going to help things.
“You are going to dry out,” his father had told him once they’d returned from Ashford. “You are going to dry out, and you are going to get yourself together. You are my eldest son, and you are my heir, whether I like it or not. One day, this place,” Summerhall, “will be yours, and I refuse to die thinking that you will fill it with whores and their ilk after I am gone.”
“Would that be so bad?” Daeron had asked. “I think it would be preferable to…”
His father had waved a disgusted hand and stormed off before Daeron could finish with, “I think it would be preferable to how quiet it will be without my brothers.”
And it had been far too quiet those first several weeks. Summerhall wasn’t as large as the Red Keep, no, but it was far too large for what had become a family of four, even with the servants buzzing around. Aerion had been a monster, but at least he’d kept things interesting, and Daeron did miss Egg. His sisters? Well, he’d never had much in common with them, and his father seemed happy to spend more time with them now anyway. With everyone else gone, the girls were the last children his father had left. He probably figured that at least they hadn’t been entirely fucked up yet and maybe they could still be saved… though Rhae had once put a love potion in Egg’s drink.
In any event, that was how the party for Daella’s nameday had come about. She had asked, and their father had said yes. Daeron had never known their father to host a party–not willingly, at least–but apparently this was part of his new determination to make sure that not all of his children wound up as fucked up as Daeron and Aerion had become. The list of invitees had been small, limited to the families of nearby lords with daughters of the right age. Daeron had heard whispers that some of the young ladies might be invited to remain at Summerhall as companions for the young princesses. The only peer Daeron had ever had growing up had been his younger brother Aerion.
He’d been given one flagon of wine–one measly flagon–and told it would have to last him the whole night. When he’d complained, he’d been told those were his father’s explicit instructions. Daeron was a prince, yes, but his father was the Prince of Summerhall and much, much more frightening.
That flagon–that one measly flagon–only lasted halfway into dinner before it ran dry. Daeron glanced at his father, sitting beside him, to see if he’d noticed. His father took one look at the empty flagon, then at Daeron’s empty goblet, and looked at him as if he were the dregs at the bottom of a barrel before turning his attention back to Daella, the star of the evening.
Daeron sighed and looked back down at his plate. Alright, so his father had noticed. Well, he was simply going to have to find someone else to help him get some more. His father couldn’t watch him every moment of the feast, could he? He certainly couldn’t watch every person Daeron spoke to to make sure that they didn’t acquire more wine either.
Once dinner concluded, the musicians struck up a lively tune, and Daella and Rhae joined the other young ladies their age dancing. Oh no. No, no, no. There was no way he could sit there and watch a bunch of little girls dance without more to drink. He was uncomfortably sober and needed to do something about it immediately.
His father rose, moving to speak to… Lord Grandison? Maybe it wasn’t. Daeron admittedly wasn’t sure, but that wasn’t important. Craning his neck, he peered over at his father’s cup… only to sigh audibly and hang his head to see that it, too, was miserably empty.
Another plan, then. Daeron scanned the hall, and his eyes fell on a young lady maybe a year or two younger than he was, the seat next to her vacated by the probable Lord Grandison when he’d risen to speak with Daeron’s father. She had pretty, long brown curls and appeared to be alone for the moment, sitting with one elbow on the table. Most importantly, though, there was a flagon in front of her–a flagon that, quite possibly, contained more wine.
Seizing his opportunity, Daeron picked up his cup, rose from his seat, crossed the room, and plopped himself down on the bench beside the girl. She turned her head, raising an eyebrow at him, but he didn’t say anything at first. He picked up the flagon… and didn’t bother to hold back a sigh of relief when liquid sloshed within it. “Oh, thank the gods,” he blurted out as he poured, filling his cup to the brim, and took a desperate sip.
“Thirsty?” the girl asked, her eyebrows raised.
“Oh, you have no idea.” Daeron drank about half the cup at once, then topped himself off again.
“Is there something different about this wine that you couldn't get at your own table?”
Daeron chuckled. “Actually, yes. I don’t have to ask anyone for it.” It was already there, already served, free for the taking.
She eyed him over the rim of her own cup. “No,” she conceded. “I suppose you don’t, but it might still have been polite to at least introduce yourself first.”
He laughed again. “I was not aware that I needed an introduction.” Did his reputation not precede him? She was there in his home, after all. Hadn’t she heard of Prince Daeron the Drunken?
“You do not,” she said flatly. “But I did not say you did. I said it would have been polite.”
Daeron blinked. Maybe… maybe she had a point. Usually, he wouldn’t have cared, but usually he was capable of acquiring his own drinks. If he were going to convince this young lady to help him with his problem, then perhaps he ought to apologize. “You are right,” he said, inclining his head. “Pardon me. Allow me to introduce myself, My Lady. Prince Daeron of House Targaryen. With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking and sharing this lovely, unattended wine?”
She eyed him for a moment, smiling in a way that suggested she was trying not to laugh. “Lenore Redwyne,” she said. “How… interesting it is to meet you, Your Grace.”
“Ah,” Daeron said, raising his cup to his lips for a drink. “Not many have called me interesting so you are kinder than most.”
She let out a chuckle, then took a drink herself. “Tell me, Your Grace. Are you enjoying this lovely, unattended wine?”
“Are you not?” Daeron did enjoy all wines, yes, but they did usually only have the best of the best at Summerhall. Though… Was it possible his father had chosen to serve swill instead, hoping that that would deter him? He looked down at his cup, as if it had betrayed him. Was it possible that he hadn’t noticed?
“Well,” Lenore began, “it is a Dornish red, isn’t it? I prefer–”
Daeron cut her off, suddenly understanding. “You prefer Arbor red! Ah, of course.” He laughed. “You’re a Redwyne.”
He was about to say something else–to assure her that he did like Arbor wines as much as anyone else, but he stopped, mouth open, when his father came back into the hall. “I have an idea.” He drank again, then picked up both his cup and the flagon. “Why don’t you find some more wine? I am certain we have some Arbor red somewhere if you just ask. And then come outside so we can compare the two? Decide which is truly superior?”
She looked over her shoulder at his father, still distracted by Lord Grandison but coming ever closer to where they were sitting, then turned back around to eye him, again trying not to laugh. “Prince Maekar is watching your drinking, isn’t he? That’s why you made such a big deal about this wine being ‘unattended’.”
“Yes,” Daeron admitted in a hushed voice. He rose to his feet, clutching the flagon of Dornish red to his chest as if it were the most precious thing in the world. “And I would appreciate it if you would help me.” He leaned over, close to her ear, and added, “Your prince commands it.”
And then, before she could say anything–before his father could catch him–he vanished from the hall.
Outside, in the early hours of the evening, it was pleasantly balmy. It was always pleasantly balmy at Summerhall. That was one of the things Daeron liked most about it, actually. He sat, finding a bench on a terrace overlooking the grounds. With a sigh, he poured himself some more wine and drank. Unfortunately, the flagon he’d taken with him had precious little left in it. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to wait long for Lenore Redwyne to come and find him.
Hopefully she came at all. Hopefully she didn’t go straight to his father.
She wouldn’t. Would she? She’d seemed amused by him, if not particularly impressed.
When she appeared, carrying not one but a total of four flagons, two in each hand, Daeron wanted to cry with joy. “Gods, the Mother is merciful,” he breathed. “I think I might love you, Lenore Redwyne.”
She laughed, crouching to carefully set the wine down on the ground in front of them. “Be careful not to kick it,” she warned.
“Me? Oh, you do not know me at all if you think I would be so careless.”
Rising, she tossed her hair over her shoulder and sat beside him. “Unfortunately I had to leave my cup inside,” she said, holding up her empty hands. “I assumed you would rather I bring the extra wine and wouldn’t mind sharing one?”
“Oh, you assumed correctly.” Daeron poured the rest of his original flagon into his cup before offering it to her. “Usually I would never but for you, Lenore Redwyne, who has saved me from a dreadfully dull evening of watching my sisters dance with all my wits about me, I think I can manage it.”
She took the cup and drank, then passed it back to him. “How kind of you, my prince,” she drawled, a smile on her lips. Oh yes, she was definitely amused by him.
“So,” he asked. “What brings you here, Lenore Redwyne? You hardly seem like you want to be a companion to my ten-year-old sister, and it is a long way to the Arbor.”
She sighed, holding her hand out for the cup. Daeron took another drink before handing it back to her. “I was wed to Lord Grandison’s second son,” she explained. “I am not a very important Redwyne, you see. The Lord of the Arbor is my uncle, and he has his own children to worry about. My own parents are dead, so, after my husband died last year, no one demanded I go back home. Lord Grandison’s younger daughters, however, have become very fond of me, so he did not care to send me back either. That is why I am here.”
“Ah,” Daeron said, taking the cup back after she’d taken a drink. “Well, I suppose the Arbor’s loss is Grandview’s gain. And mine,” he added, bowing his head. “Tonight at least. Rest assured, as far as I am concerned, you are the most important Redwyne.”
Over the course of the rest of the night, they continued on like that, passing the cup back and forth together as they chatted through the four flagons Lenore had procured from the staff. As she explained to him, each flagon held a different varietal: a Dornish strongwine, a dry Arbor red, a sweet Arbor red, and, finally, an Arbor gold. As they went, she pointed out the distinct characteristics of each of the four, identifying differences in taste that he, honestly, was numb to. Daeron had spent so many years just drinking to cope with his unpleasant family and even more unpleasant dreams that it seemed he’d lost his appreciation for what could make wine truly special.
By the time they’d just about made it to the bottom of the Arbor gold, it was the middle of the night–nearly the hour of ghosts, if he had to guess. Daeron was sitting with his body turned toward her, one elbow resting on the back of the bench, his chin propped up on his hand as he listened to her go on and on about Essosi wines. Or try to go on about them. They’d both had quite a bit to drink, though Daeron had likely had more. Their cheeks were flushed and their eyes glassy, and Lenore had caught a terrible case of the hiccups.
“I… hic… I do like… hic… Lyseni whites,” she was struggling to say, and Daeron couldn’t help but laugh. She gave him a shove, which only made him laugh more. “It’s not… hic… funny. I don’t usually… hic… get like this.”
“I am sorry,” he apologized, still laughing, though he didn’t really mean it. “It’s just…” He trailed off, not bothering to finish his sentence because he’d been about to say that it was cute and something told him that would only make her hit him again. Instead, he bent down to pick up the last flagon, the one with the Arbor gold. He emptied its contents into their singular cup, then tossed the flagon aside, leaving it to clatter across the stones.
“Let me have some,” Lenore asked, reaching for the cup.
Daeron pulled it back, out of her reach, not even noticing when some of it spilled onto his sleeve. “Oh no,” he said, shaking his head. “No, no. It’s mine.”
“No,” she protested, drawing out the ‘o’ sound. She scooted closer, leaning forward to try to take the cup from him, but he caught her wrist. “Please?” she whined. “You owe me.”
“Oh, I do,” he admitted. Without her, the evening would have been very, very boring–not just because he wouldn’t have been able to have more to drink either. “I could listen to you talk about wine all night–hiccups or no hiccups.” As he said it, he found that it was the truth. He had very much enjoyed sitting there with her, just listening and… well, yes, drinking, but not alone for once.
She laughed. “Oh, now you’re… hic… mocking me.”
Daeron chuckled. “No,” he assured her. He shifted his grip on her, taking her hand in his. She looked down, following their hands as he lowered them to her lap. “No, I am not…” He shook his head. “I am not mocking you.” He wasn’t sure what he was doing or what he was saying. She was the one hiccuping, yes, but he had plenty to drink as well.
“Lenore…”
She looked up at the sound of her name. Somehow, her face was inches from his. Her hair and eyes looked almost copper in the torchlight. Daeron let go of her hand and brought his thumb to her bottom lip, stained red from the evening’s activities. Slowly, he leaned forward, suddenly wanting nothing but to taste the wine on her lips…
Somewhere in the distance, a bell chimed, announcing that the hour of ghosts had come.
Lenore gasped, pulling back. “I… I should go,” she stammered, suddenly no longer hiccuping. “I am sorry, Your Grace, but it is late and Lord Grandison will want to leave early on the morrow.”
“Lenore,” he protested, but she was already scrambling to her feet.
“Have a good night, Your Grace,” she said, stumbling through a drunken curtsy. Daeron rose, reaching for her again, but she turned, and his hand caught only air. Before he knew it, she was gone.
Alone, he let out a sigh and lurched back onto the bench. Seven hells… He tilted his head back and groaned. They’d been getting along splendidly, and then those cursed bells…
Well, there was only one thing left to do, wasn’t there?
Daeron drank the rest of the wine, suddenly wishing he’d agreed to share it. Leaving the empty cup and empty flagons behind, he staggered back inside, through the hall where the servants were cleaning up after the feast, and all the way upstairs to his room, where he was all too happy to collapse into bed… and dream of the most delicious red wine.