𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕯𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖔𝖓 [𝗥𝗼𝗯𝗯.𝗦]

30

SHADOWS AND MONSTERS

DAERON was already missing the warm presence of one of his sons, but he knew with a sense of surety that Rhaegal had fled. His green child held the oddest fondness for his niece, of the likes that he despised. Visenya already had four dragons, what need did she have to take one of his own?

Viserion and Drogon were company enough, and he did love them dearly. Drogon, perhaps, being his favourite. Not that he would admit that to them, but they knew. His children were, at the very heart, intelligent creatures.

Daeron watched them with a raised brow, gazing in fond amusement as his children fought over the carcass. Their leathery wings flapping, screeching at one another as the raw flesh came free.

"They're dragons, my King. They can never be tamed. Even Rhaegal. Not by their father. They will always be creatures..."

Daeron scowled, his youthful features marred with fury. The wrath of his own child leaving him for another. He stormed ahead, glancing back at his dragons with furrowed brows. The few Dothraki that he held in his party nodded, Missandei couldn't help but glance at him cautiously. She knew very well that her King held a temper of the likes she didn't wish to arouse from its slumber.

Daeron paused, his cloak billowing in the wind as he turned to his Knight with a bitter smile, eyeing his men with a cautious stare.

"Where's Naharis and Grey Worm?"

Ser Jorah flinched, shifting awkwardly at such words as these. He cleared his throat.

"Gambling, My King."

"Gambling?"

Daeron clenched his fists, nails digging into pale flesh as he shifted forward, a huff slipping past his pursed lips. He hardly seemed all that impressed with the thought or mere idea. But he had never held to the practices his brother once had preached, Viserys had lost far too much of their coins through gambling. In his mind, the detestable affair of gambling was unjust.

The drunken crowd laughed boisterously as another man lost something. He couldn't help but scowl at them as he stormed past, true to his name, for once. Stormborn, his mother had called him on the night of his birth.

Daeron nodded to the crowd that bowed, kneeled, and murmured in delight. To them, much to their relief, he was their liberator.

"How long have they been at it?" He sneered as the money was exchanged between some men, and a woman he most certainly didn't recognise. He blinked. Wondering where exactly she had come from?

"Since midnight, Your Grace."

Daeron found them with a frown tugging at his lips, they sat cross-legged with a fierce stare, their glinting swords resting heavily on their arms. He could only raise a brow at the sight, it was, after all, rather odd. Neither moved, they only stared. He could see the same stubborn determination in their gaze that thrived in his niece.