Chapter 47: Daeron The Drunken

King's Landing, 223 AC — The Tower of the Hand

It was near midnight when Lord Brynden Rivers returned to his chambers beneath the Tower of the Hand, the winds outside rustling the banners atop Maegor's Holdfast. The court had grown restless these past months, weighed by hunger and unrest brought on by the long, parching summer. Yet no amount of heat or hardship had prepared the Hand of the King for what he found within his own halls.

Laughter—high, lilting, and unmistakably Shiera's—rang from behind the carved weirwood doors of his private solar, mingled with the deep, slurred voice of a young man not long past thirty. When Brynden entered, his red eye swept over the scene with cold precision.

Lady Shiera Seastar reclined languidly upon a cushioned settee, her violet eyes half-lidded, her cheeks flushed with wine. Across from her, seated crookedly in one of Brynden's own armchairs, was Crown Prince Daeron Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, a goblet in hand and his boots discarded on the rug.

Daeron, son of Maekar, bore little of the splendor one might expect of a prince. His sallow skin gleamed with sweat, his beard unkempt, and his sandy hair askew. Wine stains freckled his doublet, and a note of panic flashed through his eyes the moment he caught sight of the Hand.

"Lord Brynden," he said, struggling to his feet, "forgive me—I did not mean… I wasn't…" He wavered, clearly drunk, clearly cornered.

Brynden's voice was a cool river through the heat of the chamber. "Your Grace. May I ask what brings the Prince of Dragonstone to my private quarters at such an hour?"

"I… I was on my way to seek audience with my father," Daeron stammered, blinking rapidly, "but I was told the King had taken leave of the Red Keep tonight. Then I saw Lady Shiera, and… well, she insisted—"

"I did no such thing," Shiera interjected, her voice musical and sly. "You practically begged to share a cup. Gods help us all, you Targaryen men are all such tragic souls. Sit, Brynden, the wine is sweet tonight."

Brynden did not sit. His pale face betrayed little, but the faint tightening around his mouth was enough to sober even the drunken prince.

"My lady," he said calmly, though his tone carried steel, "bringing the Crown Prince here, to drink and jest in private, is no jest at all. This is not the court of the Mad King. A single whispered word could undo much."

Shiera raised a brow, unfazed. "So stern. I remember when you used to laugh, my love."

Brynden turned his gaze to Daeron once more. "Your Grace, the weight of the realm shall rest on your shoulders one day, if the gods do not claim your father first. If that burden does not sober you, perhaps the knowledge that he may hear of this will."

Daeron flushed with shame and lowered his gaze. "Yes… I should go."

"Return to Dragonstone, Your Grace," Brynden said with soft finality. "And when next you come to court, come with purpose."

Daeron gave a shallow nod, collected his boots with trembling hands, and stumbled out of the chamber.

When the prince had gone, Brynden closed the door and turned back to Shiera. She had poured herself another goblet.

"You scold me like a septa," she said, not looking at him. "He needed a friend. They all do, one way or another."

"Let us hope your friendship does not cost the realm its peace," Brynden murmured. He sat beside her at last, taking the cup from her hand. "The day may come when I must serve the boy you jested with tonight. And if that day comes, I pray to the Stranger that he is not the fool he appeared to be."

Shiera only leaned her head against his shoulder, sighing. "And I pray the Stranger takes us both before that day arrives."

The candles guttered in their holders as silence returned to the chamber.