It was in the library that he found her.
Daenerys had taken to sitting there in the afternoons, where the light from the high windows filtered like amber through the dust and vellum. She would run her fingers across the spines of books she never opened, and stare through them as if they might offer some hidden counsel.
Daeron had always loved books. She remembered him as a boy, quiet in the corner of a feast, nose buried in some old tome while their father roared with laughter and tossed roast fowl at his guests.
Now he was a man grown, though not yet thirty, his face long and thoughtful, with silver-blond hair tied neatly back and a trimmed beard that could not quite hide how tired he looked.
"You read the same line for the third time," he said softly as he approached.
Daenerys blinked and turned. "Perhaps it was a good line."
He offered her a small smile and sat beside her without asking.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The sounds of the Keep filtered faintly through the walls: the call of a guardsman changing post, the scrape of boots on stone, a raven's cry from the rookery above.
"You are troubled," Daeron said gently.
She did not answer right away. Then: "You should not be."
"Because I am the heir?" he said, not unkindly. "Because I am meant to be untroubled, like a stone?"
"Because you have enough to carry," she said. "Without my doubts added to it."
He regarded her for a moment, then turned to the high shelves. "The realm is full of doubts, sister. I'd rather hear yours."
She looked down at her hands. "Daemon."
He said nothing, but the word hung between them like a bell toll.
"You saw what Father did. You heard the cheers."
"I heard some," Daeron said. "I heard others fall silent."
"Does it not frighten you?"
"Not frighten," he said. "But I know what it means."
Daenerys looked at him, eyebrows raised. "You are calm."
"Because rage will not change it. Nor fear. I know who I am. I know what I must be. The realm needs peace. And I will not give the realm a war between brothers."
"But what if the realm chooses Daemon?" she asked quietly.
He looked at her for a long time. "Then the realm chooses blood."
They sat in silence again. The light shifted on the table between them, turning gold into grey.
"I worry for him," Daenerys said. "For what this is doing to him. He says he doesn't want the throne, but... I see the way he stands straighter now. The way men bow lower."
"You love him."
"Yes."
"And yet you fear him."
She nodded. "And myself, too. I fear what I become when I am with him. I do not think clearly. I want to believe him, always. Even when I should not."
Daeron's expression softened. "You have a kind heart. That is no sin, sister. But do not blind yourself with it. Daemon is not evil. But he is a flame—and flames consume."
She looked up at him. "What would you have me do?"
"Love him, if you must," Daeron said. "But do not trust him more than yourself. Or me. Or the realm."
He reached over and took her hand, just as their mother once had.
"I will not raise arms against my brother," he said, voice low. "But if he raises arms against me—if he brings blood into this house—I will not yield."
Daenerys felt her throat tighten. "He would not."
"I hope not," Daeron said. "For your sake as much as mine."
The bell of the Sept rang in the distance. Another prayer. Another day.
Daeron rose. "I must return to Dragonstone soon. There is much to prepare. Much to weigh."
Daenerys stood too, her face unreadable.
"Daeron," she said softly. "Do you hate him?"
"No," he said, without hesitation. "But I fear I may have to."
And then he was gone.