Daryl's awake before the door creaks open. It's the mere sensation of the presence on the other side of the door that awakens him.

Candlelight flickers in the entry way, illuminating the small figure of the little boy. "Uncle Daryl? I had a bad dream."

If Daryl had ever come into his father's room to complain of a bad dream, two things would have happened: first Daryl would have been called a pussy, and second, he would have felt the backside of his father's hand.

"C'mere."

Hershey pads barefoot across the floor and sets the candle on the rustic two-drawer nightstand by Daryl's small bed in the servant's quarters of the Hilltop's historic mansion. Daryl flings back the comforter so Hershey can crawl under it, and then he drapes it over the boy again like the wing of a bird. The boy curls like a kitten on his side, and Daryl doesn't dare blow out the candle, not yet. He'll wait until Hershey's asleep.

"Tell me the story of my parents again," the boy asks.

Daryl settles his head back down on his feather-stuffed pillow, looks up at the cracked ceiling, and sighs. "Yer daddy was the best supply runner in all of Georgia, and yer mama was the farmer's daughter…"

Daryl only gets a tenth of the way through the tale before Hershey's little chest is rising and falling. Careful not to disturb the boy, Daryl puts a hand on the mattress on the other side of him, leans forward, and blows in one cool breath.

The flame flickers out.

On her death bed, Maggie made Daryl promise to protect the boy, and he has. Usually Hershey sleeps in Enid's room, who has become like a young mother to him, but more and more often these days, he pads his way to Daryl's.

In the darkness, Daryl can't help but think of all the people who once made up his tiny tribe in Georgia. They're all gone now, except Michonne and Judith, who live in Alexandria, and Carol, who has been ruling as sole monarch of the Kingdom ever since Ezekiel died last year.

And him. He still lingers on here at the Hilltop, which Jesus runs with Aaron. If Merle had known Daryl would ever subject himself to the rule of a gay couple…well, Daryl can't even imagine what his brother would say.

But Daryl's not really ruled by anyone. He follows the rules of the Hilltop, in so far as he finds them reasonable and they align with his whims anyway. He hunts to feed the growing population, trains young Hershel to one day do the same, and otherwise comes and goes as he pleases. Mostly it pleases him to stay.

Mostly.

But once a month or so he journeys to Alexandria to check up on Michonne and Judith. He recognizes the baby he once held in his arms less and less with each passing month. There's more of Shane in her than of Rick, and only a faint hint of Carl.

And once a week or so he makes a trip to the Kingdom as an ambassador of the Hilltop, dines at Carol's table, and stays the night on the strange couch that rests beneath her bedroom windowsill. She calls it a chaise lounge, but it's not much for lounging on.

Carol's changed. She's come into her own as the queen of the largest community in their known world. He's probably the only thing left that roots her to the Carol she once was, and he wonders sometimes if she wishes he'd stop visiting, just let those old roots unravel, let her move on from the memories that still haunt her dreams.

But he can't. He can't stop visiting, because she was the first person to ever believe in him. The first person to ever see the man he could become. And sometimes he fears that if she doesn't see him…he'll simply vanish.

Daryl closes his eyes and breaths in Hershey's scent. The boy smells of forest leaves and the baked cinnamon apples he had for dessert, and his soft, safe breaths are like a lullaby that sings Daryl back to sleep.

[*]

Daryl bows deeply at his waist, the way he always does when he comes to visit Carol, just to hear her say, "Stop it! Stop it right now!"

"As you please, your highness," he replies as he rises to his not quite full – but slightly slouched – stature. She's smiling that smile, the one she only gives him. Or at least he likes to think so.

The Kingdom seems brighter and bigger every time he comes to visit it, more full of vegetables and animals and children and life. He doesn't know how she does it.

He eats in her private chambers, a converted classroom, at a two-person table in her kitchenette, a meal she's cooked herself. "Don't have a royal chef yet?" he asks, and she says, "Stop it."

The longbow she started using three years ago hangs on the wall beyond the table, and he thinks he'd like to challenge her to an archery competition tomorrow, but he's not sure he'd win. Besides, he's leaving at daybreak, returning to the Hilltop, and this will be his last visit to the Kingdom. He has to let her go, free her from this shadow of the old world, this specter from a past she's moved so far beyond.

He'll tell her in the morning.

But tonight, he eats her food and soaks in her smiles, and curls like a stray dog on her fancy chaise lounge, where he drifts off to sleep beneath a fleece blanket, his boots strewn haphazardly on the faux marble classroom floor, his dirty socks stuffed inside.

He dreams of Rick, vanishing in flames. He dreams of Carl, breathing hard as he sits back against the storm sewer walls. He dreams of Beth, slumping to the floor of the hospital hallway. He dreams of Merle, flesh dangling from his mouth, his eyes glassy and hollow. He dreams of Sophia, lurching out of Hershel's barn.

He awakes with a loud grunt, a cold sweat lining his brow and trickling into the coarse graying hairs of his beard.

"What's wrong?" Carol asks from her bed several feet away.

"I had a bad dream."

"Come here," she says.

Daryl pads barefoot across the cool floor. Carol flings back the quilt so he can crawl under it, and then she drapes it over him again. She draws him toward her, eases his head down on her breasts, and strokes the thick strands of his unruly hair. She bends to kiss head, her lips soft, familiar, and warm.

"This is my last visit," he murmurs in the darkness, but even as he forces the words from his lips, he knows it's a lie.

So does she. "No, Daryl," she replies softly. "It's not."

Daryl breaths in Carol's scent. She smells of rose water and handmade soap, of her leather archery gloves and the mesquite chips she burned to cook tonight's meal. And when he raises his head and dares to kiss her, she tastes of dandelion wine and smoky pork. He pulls away, apologizing, but she draws him back again, urges his head against her chest, and wraps him up in her slender arms.

"Tell me a story," he says.

"Once there was a little broken boy," she begins, "who grew up to be a man…"

He closes his eyes, lets the words wash over him, and slides into sleep.