Chapter Text
The epidemic – the Great Spring Sickness, as they called it – stretched its jaws in a deadly yawn lasting from as early as late February to as late as mid August, still claiming victims every now and then. This was evidenced by the insipid ordeal that was the funeral of Daeron's, now late, cousin Valarr.
Through the sheet of cigarette smoke, Daeron watched at a distance, the homogeneous crowd, all clad in various shades of black, intercepted with splotches of white here and there, move and undulate, mingling between each other as if trying to form a silhouette of some great black bird. Late afternoon sun did little to soothe the dull echoes of the hungover that Daeron was still nursing since morning; forgetting to bring a pair of sunglasses was a faux pas on his part. He was on the brink of seeking out Aerion and asking him for a spare – earlier he spotted his brother ridiculously sporting a sleek pair of Ray-Bans on his head in addition to another pair loosely hanging from his black v-neck. Daeron, however, wasn't that desperate as to ask his brother for favors.
Silently cursing the Seven and squinting against the August sun, Daeron let himself glace over the crowd once more.
At that moment, either by some divine providence or the irrevocable curse that was his existence, his eyes fell on the one person Daeron least expected to see. In retrospect, it made perfect sense: Leo Tyrell was the rector of one of the best universities in the country, which Daeron, and more importantly Valarr, happened to attend. Showing up at the funeral of one of your students, from such a distinguished family at that, and after all the misfortunes that befell them – it was only decent.
Only now seeing his rector here, in person, had Daeron feeling like his heart just fell out of his ass.
Worse yet, Daeron watched, cigarette smoldering on his fingers, as if in slow motion, Leo Tyrell greet his father with a firm handshake; an infinity must have passed as the two exchanged some words in hushed whispers and then inexplicably, as if sensing Daeron's dumb vacant stare, Maekar's eyes snapped straight at his son. Cigarette singed his right hand middle finger at the knuckle as it fell from his grasp. He watched as his father's expression morphed from resting indifference to almost customary fury – even from that far, Daeron could picture a vein protruding from his father's forehead as his face gained a comely shade of red, complimenting his stark white hair.
Before he could register his father advancing closer, groweling an enraged "Daeron!!" – Daeron was running. To the great detriment of his black slacks and black dress shoes, yet still he was running. Breeze scattering his hair as he gained speed was a nice change; running east, away from the setting sun, was nice too. His lungs, surprisingly, didn't burn as Daeron sprinted across half a cemetery, dodging gawkers and headstones, and in some unprecedented feat of acrobatics managed to seamlessly clear a low fence. Only then, once a physical barrier separated him from his father, did he let himself breath and, by the Seven, did it hurt like a bitch. Perhaps I should quit smoking. Perhaps. Someday.
Daeron allowed himself a moment's respite before continuing on his journey. Just as he was about to cross the cemetery driveway, a dark brown pickup truck slowly appeared round the corner. Glimpsing through a window the familiar livery that his family's chauffeurs would customarily don, Daeron, in a rush of adrenaline, flug himself rather dexterously across the hood of the vehicle to get to the passenger side. Breaks making a predictable screeching noise as the car came to halt had Daeron's heart beating faster; he wrenched the passenger door open and dropped inside, slamming the door shut again – he rarely felt so alive.
"Drive! Go, go!"
He must've looked hysterical, with his hair wind-blown, eyes wide. The chauffeur gave a moment's hesitation before restarting the car and gingerly driving off. It frustrated him how slowly they were moving, made Daeron want to claw at his own skin – up until the moment they finally hit the freeway. He let out a sigh involuntarily turned into a laugh, which startled the poor driver. He must've looked completely mad.
Daeron briefly took in his surroundings – the car wasn't of the likes to be owned by Targaryens, the interior looked too modest and lived in. The next thing Daeron noted were big strong hands gripping the steering wheel, almost dwarfing it. The fella driving wasn't any chauffeur familiar to Daeron personally, for he was huge in frame; the brim of the chauffeur's cap obscured the driver's eyes from Daeron, but the livery the man wore was unmistakably his family's mark.
For all he cared, Daeron could've fallen into the hands of some cunning black market organ dealer, who was cosplaying as a staff member in his family's employ. Right that moment, personal safety gave way to the scattered jumble of his thoughts. There was only one and one thing only that could quietten them even for an iota.
"Where to... sir?" the man beside him spoke hesitantly.
Daeron remained silent, mind reeling, his eyes danced from sidewalk to sidewalk, until he spotted it.
"There, parking lot on the right, near the bridge".
After dropping off Egg at his cousin's funeral, Dunk was spared only a dismissive glance from Maekar Targaryen as the man ushered his youngest son closer to the procession. It was clear Dunk wasn't welcome to stay and to even pay respects to the deceased; he felt an uneasy feeling forming in the back of his throat at that. They agreed that the boy would stay with his family for the remainder of the month, up until the beginning of the new academic year. Otherwise, Egg usually stayed in the dorms or was travelling abroad during holidays, all the while under Dunk's express supervision.
He tugged at the collar of his formal attire – Maekar insisted he wear something decent before showing up lest he embarrass himself. Even though the uniform was custom made for Dunk, it still sat somewhat awkwardly on his frame – or perhaps it was just the stifling late summer air. Still, Dunk couldn't help but fidget with his sleeves, which from moment to moment, seemed to shrink in size as he moved. Out of the corner of his eye, the lapels seemed to stick out at an odd angle, but actually, looking down, they were perfectly well-behaved.
Dunk tried to shoo away the mounting anxieties with the thought of his plans for the evening: Raymun suggested going out for kebabs later that day.
Delicious food and perhaps a pint of ice-cold cider – sounded positively divine.
He got into his pickup truck and was starting to drive out of the cemetery driveway, when a moving blur caught Dunk's eye. It took him a moment to identify who was barreling right towards his vehicle. With all the grace of a concussed raccoon, Dunk watched as Daeron Targaryen near flung himself across the hood of his car. Gods, Dunk thought. How did he manage to get so sloshed already?
As Egg's eldest brother forced his way into the interior of his car, Dunk was astonished at the state of the man – hair sticking in all directions, gleaming in the afternoon sun like dry straw, face flushed, eyes impossibly wide and bloodshot. Just looking at him made Dunk's own eyes prickle a little. Daeron's black on black funeral clothes were also completely askew which, in turn, made Dunk self-consciously check his own lapels once again.
They drove on, mostly in silence except for Daeron's urgent request to just drive and an occasional fit of laughter which did little to put Dunk at ease. Finally, having been given a specific direction, he promptly stopped in the parking lot of some convenience store, near a freeway bridge. Immediately Daeron shot out of his seat and bolted outside. Dunk couldn't help but muse:
What could have had him rushing from Valarr's funeral so fast? They seemed to be on okay terms. Granted, Dunk didn't know the full extent of the relationship between two cousins.
Dunk was still somewhat cross with Daeron for siding with his brother and father during legal battle which took place nigh 2 years ago (a long tale which ended with Dunk being proven right in the court of law, and with Egg's uncle, who testified in Dunk's favour, tragically dying not long after from a brain aneurysm, potentially caused by his own brother during a friendly game of paintball; the perpetrator Aerion, on the other hand, got bailed out and, from what Dunk had heard, sent on a vacation trip to Ibitza of all places), so Dunk begrudgingly sat in his truck, waiting.
During the summer school trip abroad (which Maekar apparently didn't sign off on as Dunk later found out, How can an 11 year old be so good at forging signatures?), Egg told him stories about his family: about his younger sister Rhae who would make concoctions and potions from shampoo and gods knew what, and always tried to feed them to Egg. Or about how when Daeron was sixteen he once shaved Egg's head, which for a several weeks made him the most popular kid in pre-school. It was in the way Egg told those stories – it was clear, in spite of everything, he cared for his father and his siblings. Well, most of them.
Dunk was staring ahead at the freeway bridge, reminiscing, when it finally hit him.
What a moron he is, slow as an ox, as his pa used to say. Seven hells, the lad is going to off himself and I practically gave him a ride to his doom.
It took Dunk another moment to get his seatbelt off and go outside after Daeron. Only the man was nowhere to be found. He couldn't have gotten to the top of the bridge that fast, nevermind jumping off of it. So where is he?
The parking lot was empty, save for some pigeons loitering around the trash can at the store's entrance. It took two more minutes before the automatic doors slid open and out walked Daeron, something rectangular cradled in his hands – a box color of deep plum. At a closer inspection it turned out to be a carton of some sort of boxed wine.
"Of course," Dunk sighed in relief.
Never had Daeron praised the Seven more for managing to find loose cash on his person, which was just enough to buy him the first booze he got his hands on. He turned out his pockets, coins and bills rattling and scattering all over the checkout counter; once the clerk had confirmed that it was more than sufficient, Daeron grabbed his wine and walked away, not bothering to wait for the change. Wrestling a bit with the plastic cap, he managed to get it unscrewed as he exited through the automatic doors.
He saw the chauffeur was waiting for him still. He probably expects to be tipped, Daeron thought sourly. The last of his cash was now held between his left forearm and torso, sloshing about in a cardboard box, which reminded him – if he didn't take at least one sip of that aqua vitae, right that moment, he might very well perish.
Bitter acrid flavor assaulted Daeron's lips. Must've grabbed a dry red. Were circumstances different, he'd love nothing more than a sweet hippocras they served at his uncle's residence.
Only Baelor was dead, his sons were dead too and Daeron was strapped for cash. Ah well, beggars, choosers etc.
He gave it a couple more rapid gulps, liquor starting to pleasantly warm his insides, before he looked back at his accidental tagalong. The man had taken off the black cap with red trim which had been sitting low on his brow earlier, concealing his features – now Daeron recognized the face he hadn't seen in a while. Aside from his hair being a tad grown out and a solid short beard, Duncan Pennytree really hadn't changed all that much.
Last time they saw each other, however, he treated Daeron to nothing less than undiluted vitriol.
And perhaps Daeron would've felt some pangs hadn't his conscience been just doused with the convenience store liquor.
"'Tis you..." Daeron looked over the man's attire. "Did you quit teaching? I suppose, living even on a boarding school teacher's salary must be tough these days."
"No, I just gave Egg a lift." Duncan tugged at his cuffs. "Your father insisted I dress appropriately."
Daeron looked over him again, appraising. "It suits you. Very dapper."
Duncan only cleared his throat awkwardly, shielding his face from the setting sun.
"And why are you, all dressed up, not at Val's funeral? Aren't you supposed to look after my brother?"
"I–," Duncan started, then fell quiet. "Why aren't you?"
"Huh?"
"Why'd you leave? He was your cousin after all."
Daeron stared dumbly forward and took another sip before unceremoniously plopping down on the sidewalk curb. Duncan moved forward to help him up, but the man only waved him away.
"There was not much to see," Daeron sighed. "But I bet the urn they will keep him in is quite pretty. I hear Kiera picked it out."
He swallowed another mouthful.
"Besides this sidewalk here looks quite enticing. With ample company too." With a lazy smile on his face, Daeron nodded towards the small flock of pigeons, some of which were cautiously waddling their way.
Duncan crouched down and, to Daeron's amusement, was apparently trying to pet a pigeon nearest to him, the one with pretty purplish-green iridescence on its neck. The giant tentatively held out his wide hand, palm down – the skittish thing blinked its ember eyes and tilted its little head to the side, bumping it against Duncan's fingers once and then immediately fled, in the process startling the rest of the flock as well as Daeron.
"Aww, look at what you've done. You're scaring away my entourage."
Despite the high alcohol tolerance, honed with care throughout the years, his BAC must've been already sky-rocketing – that's what you get for drinking on an empty stomach – because Daeron was certainly imagining things; like how now Duncan was looking at him with such heartrending concern that it made him want to run away again. Where's all that vitriol gone? Where's the disgust?
Daeron sniffed loudly and indolently nursed his boxed wine.
They stayed like this for a while, until Duncan unbent his knees and offered Daeron his hand again.
"Come on," he said. "I'm going to ride you back."
"No!" Daeron wrenched himself away, panic coiling in his gut. "I can't go back! I can never go back!"
"Okay, okay..." Duncan murmured soothingly. "Care to explain why?"
"Not really, no."
"Right... 'course."
Daeron warily observed, clutching his precious box, as Duncan scratched the back of his head looking around.
"Well, I can't just leave you here like that."
"Why not?"
"Good question," Duncan murmured under his breath. "At least let me drive you home?"
Daeron was about to retort again when the inner pocket of his jacket started vibrating. Ah, shit.
After a long pause, hoping the continuous buzzing would cease on its own, he gingerly fished out his phone and held it out between his thumb and the forefinger; without peeking at the screen he could well surmise who it might be.
The longer it continued to drone on, the more Daeron could feel coldness seeping into his fingertips making them clammy.
"You gonna answer that?"
Daeron glanced up at Duncan with what he hoped came off as animosity and not the look of some pathetic pitiful meow-meow that needed comforting.
Finally, the thing stopped ringing, Daeron let out a sigh.
"I don't think I can go home either."
"It's getting late though. Do you have somewhere you could stay?"
Daeron shrugged. None of his drinking buddies or an occasional one-night stand were what one might call "friends" exactly. He could just lie and tell Duncan that all was well, so that the man would leave him alone; afterwards, he could find some innocuous bench and hope that the night was warm. And then what?
Silence stretched between them only broken by the hubbub of the passing vehicles.
"Come on, you can sleep it off at my place."
Duncan offered his large calloused hand for the third time, which, after a moment's deliberation, Daeron finally accepted.
Once inside Dunk's truck, Daeron shucked off his jacket, complaining about the heat, and carelessly bunched it up on his lap. Dunk started up the car again; it wasn't actually that hot inside, but he could see sweat beading on Daeron's forehead and temples, his hair was sticking to his face. Dunk rolled down the window on the passenger side a bit, earning a grateful smile and a nod from the other lad.
Daeron was carefully sipping wine next to him, mindlessly toying with his cellphone, as the car trudged on. After a while, Dunk asked:
"I've always wondered, was it because you shaved Egg's head that one time, is that how he got his sobriquet?"
Daeron turned to look at him quizzically.
"I'd asked, but the boy doesn't know himself."
"Hmm, not sure... but I think Aemon came up with it. I don't remember the details, but it was after I broke into my father's liquor cabinet for the first time," he smiled wryly. "I was so sauced, I don't know how I'd managed not to nick him."
Setting his gripes with underage drinking aside, Dunk humored him, "Impressive. Why d'you do it?"
"Dunno, just seemed like a fun idea at the time," his smile waned a little. "Of course father didn't find it very amusing. I don't know what he was angrier at: one of his kids being bald or that I got to his expensive cognac. Anyways, I might not remember much, but the hiding I got was memorable enough."
As if sensing their conversation, Daeron's phone started buzzing again.
Speak of the devil.
Dunk watched out of the corner of his eye as Daeron groaned and quickly chucked his phone onto the dashboard. It landed face up and sure enough the pre-cracked screen was insistently flashing with three letters:
Dad
The ringing let up after half a minute only to start up right away. Dunk was about to ask what actually happened, when suddenly Daeron grabbed his phone and, in a flash, pushed it through the gap in the window – the poor black rectangle instantly disappearing from view to be crushed somewhere along the road.
"What did you do that for?!" Dunk exclaimed.
"I'm adopting a radical anti-technology stance," Daeron mumbled, slowly starting to slide down the seat. He tried to take another sip of alcohol, but the thing must've been nearly empty, so he tilted his head all the way back, trying to get the last of the liquor out of the box.
Stopping at the red light, Dunk turned to see some of the dark crimson escape from the corner of Daeron's mouth and run down the column of his neck. For some reason, the view of Daeron's throat made Dunk's own throat go a tad dry; he must've been parched himself.
Once Daeron was done, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared out of the window. To Dunk the expression on his face seemed forlorn, although, it was hard to say for sure as the half-lidded eyes and an exaggerated pout could as well be taken as a sign of deep inebriation.
"..Green."
"What?" Dunk asked, confused.
"It's green now." Daeron pointed ahead.
Trying to suss out the mood of his unlikely passenger, Dunk completely missed the traffic lights giving a good to go. Dunk frowned.
"At least don't throw it out of the window too," he nodded at the empty box.
"Don't worry, I'm not a total heathen."
Eventually they made it to the apartment block, which wasn't situated in the most illustrious part of the city, but at least it was lively in the evenings and within the walkable distance of most critical infrastructure. As they got out of the truck, Dunk noticed Daeron staying stock still, staring intently at a colorful sign adorned with red and green apple decals. Dunk threw the empty wine box into the nearest trash can and tentatively nudged Daeron to move, trying to divert his attention.
The apartment itself was on the second floor, just above the aptly named Cider Hall. Dunk swiftly run up a flight of stairs and then watched as Daeron, clutching his jacket in both hands and swaying a little, unhurriedly followed suit. Unlocking the door, he led his guest in first – despite having three rooms and an open plan kitchen, the place was cramped and cluttered even for an average-sized person. Before turning on the lights in the tiny hallway, Dunk had to catch Daeron at least twice as he stumbled on something, likely to be pairs of shoes scattered about.
"Easy now." Dunk gently held him by his forearms until he was sure Daeron had got a sure footing.
Unsteadily turning around, Daeron declared, "I need to piss."
Dunk gestured to the door on the right and Daeron promptly swayed in its direction. Dunk set about cleaning some things around, mostly moving stuff out of the way: loose boxes and crates with Cider Hall logo stamped on them, a stack of magazines which could serve as a nice tripping hazard. He noticed that apparently Daeron forgot (or didn't bother) to close the bathroom door. Without looking in, Dunk carefully nudged the door closed with his foot on the way further into the apartment and sighed.
He was freeing up space on the couch in the middle of the living room, which morphed into the kitchen, when Daeron finally came out.
Lazily looking around, he said, "You live alone?"
"With a roommate." Dunk righted the throw blanket, but then decided to take it off completely. "His shift's about to end. You don't mind crashing on the couch?"
In the way of confirmation, Daeron just plopped down on the thing. "And he wouldn't mind my staying here?"
Dunk just shrugged slightly, folding the blanket and placing it on the back of the couch, then he suddenly slapped his forehead. "Raymun and I had plans tonight! I almost forgot."
"Do you need me," Daeron hiccuped, "not here?"
"No, no. We were actually going to go out... You can come with," Dunk carefully added, "if you want."
Daeron sank deeper into the cushions and grabbed a decorative pillow, hugging it close. "I'm good."
"As you say," Dunk solemnly nodded.
When Dunk came out of his bedroom, having changed out of the stifling uniform into more casual wear, Daeron was softly snoring sprawled along the length of the couch, still holding the throw pillow; his head rested at an angle on the armrest. Oof, this looks mighty uncomfortable.
Dunk located another decorative pillow on the floor nearby, gave it a bit of dusting and gingerly lifted the lad's head to place it underneath for some padding. Daeron was apparently a deep sleeper as he neither did awake at that nor when the front door accidentally slammed shut from the draft as Dunk was leaving.
They were standing in line for kebabs a few blocks away, as Dunk finished regaling Raymun with the news of their guest.
"Daeron Targaryen?" his roommate asked incredulously, Dunk nodded. "The drunkard?"
Dunk's nod was less sure this time.
"By the Seven, Dunk, why would you do that?"
"What's the big deal? He's just gonna sleep it off–"
"Aye, more like choke on his own vomit on our couch, and then we'll have a rich Targ-shaped corpse on our hands."
"Come off it, that won't happen."
"Sure, still I'd rather hurry back, if it's all the same to you." Their turn in line was coming up. "But I gotta grab something extra for Rowan, she's staying over tonight."
"See you're having a guest over, why can't I?"
"Not the same thing, man. For one, we'll be staying in my room, and my fiancée isn't a vomiting, pissing and shitting hazard."
"Dunno, maybe she has some hidden depths you just don't know about." He quickly dodged out of the way as Raymun raised his palm aiming for the back of Dunk's neck, and laughed heartily as his best friend missed.
They got their food and at Raymun's urging hastily returned to the apartment. Daeron was still in the same stop Dunk left him.
"See, peaceful as an angel," Dunk whispered as he carefully stepped up and made sure the lad was actually in the position to avoid choking, just in case.
"A hellspawn more like. It's already stinking in here." Raymun stepped over some crates to get to the balcony window and opened it.
Dunk wasn't gonna lie, in addition to the usual stale air there was a distinct aroma of booze and a faint cigarette smell wafting throughout the room.
As they moved further into the kitchen, Dunk set the bags on the counter and turned to Raymun. "You're being too harsh."
"Too harsh?" Raymun whispered back, incredulous. "That's not just some random lush on our couch, Dunk. He's a Targaryen."
Dunk just pursed his lips in response.
"Aye, I get it," his roommate said, shrugging, "you have your own affiliations because of the boy, but what happened to the simple paradigm of life: eat the rich."
"Your family owns a franchise business." Dunk skeptically nodded at the crates with Cider Hall logo scattered all around the room.
"You aren't seriously comparing selling cider with one of the largest conglomerates on the planet?"
Dunk just shrugged back and set about getting their food out. After a moment, he quietly offered:
"He just looked so... miserable, I guess. I couldn't just leave him be."
"Dunk, I know it might look and smell like a stray mutt, but that's a grown ass man over there."
"I know, it's just that," Dunk sourly spoke into his serving of kebab, "Raymun, you should've seen the state he was in when he practically ran off from his cousin's funeral–"
Raymun narrowed his eyes. "He ran away from his cousin's funeral?"
"Aye."
"Ahh, well, that explains it." Raymun nodded knowingly, spearing some meat on his fork.
"Sure," Dunk paused, chewing. "How do you mean?"
"You know what they say about Targaryens," his roommate lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Close knit family and all."
It took Dunk a solid minute to put two and two together.
"They were first cousins. Surely not."
"Sure is."
Dunk stared at the piece of grilled meat on a plastic fork, suddenly not so hungry anymore. "You really reckon they were–?"
"It's a possibility."
Raymun was right, for something to have disturbed the man so greatly – why not the death of his love?
They ate in silence, save for a hum of traffic heard through the open window. Mulling over the new information, Dunk looked into the darkness of the living room where Daeron lay now blissfully quiet, for he wasn't snoring anymore. Raymun spoke again:
"Compassion is an honorable thing. But, Dunk? Mark my words – this one's nothing but a burden."
"Don't say that."
"Listen, I know what I'm talking about. My uncle was a raging alcoholic. Steffon's mom used to tell us stories about how, for example, he once got his hands on her good perfume and drank the thing–"
"Bollocks. That didn't happen... did it?"
"Sure did. All I'm saying is hide the good stuff or–"
"I don't have any."
"What?"
"The good stuff."
Raymun sighed. "My point is, it's an ungrateful job and you'd be better off being rid of the good-for-nothing sot. Anyways, I gotta go, Rowan's going to be here soon."
At that Raymun trotted out of the kitchen towards his bedroom, masterfully dodging the clutter on the floor of the living room, leaving Dunk alone with his kebab.
He cleaned up as quietly as possible and was going to retreat to his own room, when he felt a slight chill blowing from the balcony. Gingerly closing the window, he looked back at the man on the couch – Daeron was now laying in a somewhat fetal position, mouth slightly open, not a care in the world.
Dunk picked up the blanket which lay untouched where he left it earlier, unfurled it and carefully placed it on top of the sleeping form – Daeron didn't stir at that either.