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77.27% Daeron the Defiant: A Second Dance of Dragons (Complete) / Chapter 34: Chapter 34: Incur

Chapter 34: Chapter 34: Incur

Arthur:

"He's trying to steal my son's birthright!"

"That will not happen, Princess," Lord Mace Tyrell tried his best to soothe her. "The Reach stands with you." The sitting Lord of Highgarden added.

Arthur didn't speak. That wasn't his purpose here. Even if it was what could I say? He once thought and would deny that Rhaegar's brother wanted the throne, but he had been proven the fool. Before Harrenhal Rhaegar showed me the truth. He was grateful that he did not hold Arthur's mistake against him. That is why he is a good friend and will make a good king.

They were in the council chambers. The King's seat was empty. Rhaegar had informed the court and council upon their arrival that his father remained sick and tired, and needed time to rest and recover. King Aerys wasn't even seen. He was discreetly escorted to his chambers and remained under guard. They are there to protect the king from himself. Those were Rhaegar's instructions.

Harrenhal has undone him, Arthur thought sadly of Aerys' spiraling state.

Rhaegar's changes were not well received by Aerys' small council, but these lords could do little besides protest when he began to dismiss them to put forward his own men. Rhaegar had the backing of the castle garrison, the gold cloaks, the people in the city, and the many, many lords who had followed him from Harrenhal. The tents camped out around King's Landing were so large it seemed to make up its own little city.

There was no Hand of the King, but Rhaegar served its position in all but name. He even sat where the Hand would sit.

Lord Tywin Lannister had been Hand when he arrived at Harrenhal. He left the tournament a traitor. Arthur had come to several of these meetings, but they still made him a mite uncomfortable. I feel like an imposter. He was a single knight amidst a group of powerful lords. They held great wealth, could call great numbers to Rhaegar's banner, and controlled large swaths of land to provide food. All I have is my sword and my vow.

Princess Laela took the seat to Rhaegar's other side, who had sat quietly during his wife's outburst. It had not been her first and Arthur assumed it would not be her last.

Lord Tyrell sat beside her. He was currently serving as Master of Laws, but Arthur knew it was the Hand of the King title that he coveted. The Lord of Highgarden brought the might of the Reach with him and had been amply rewarded with the announcement that his first daughter would marry Rhaegar's son and heir, Aegon. There was no daughter to speak of at the moment, but that didn't concern Lord Tyrell. His wife was pregnant with their third child and he was confident that she would deliver him a daughter after already giving him two sons.

"You were too merciful on Connington." Princess Laela was the only one bold enough to go against her husband. The others at the table were always quick to agree or flatter, but the Princess from Volantis was never shy to voice her displeasure nor at repeating it.

"Lord Connington made a mistake," Rhaegar said firmly, defending his absent friend. "There were many mistakes made at Harrenhal."

The Lord of Griffin's Roost had been sent to the Stormlands to retrieve Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys, who had already left Storm's End to make their return to King's Landing. His departure was a clear sign of the prince's dissatisfaction at how his friend handled Daeron's arrest.

Arthur saw the slightest wince the princess made at this reminder. "They were punished."

The they that the prince and his wife were referring to were the newly revealed Golden Company mercenaries. Rhaegar presented them to the court upon his return to the capital. He had informed them all that the Golden Company had come to repent and serve their rightful ruler. Their sudden appearance and alliance had sent a ripple through court. Not everyone seemed convinced at Rhaegar's announcement, and Arthur knew many had families who had fought and died against the Golden Company. The War of the Ninepenny Kings was still fresh in some minds.

In the end, Rhaegar's endorsement won the day. His goodwill shone brighter than the Golden Company's dark past. The mercenary company was not fully embraced, and some lords even left the capital because of it, but their numbers were few. The hard truth was if the Seven Kingdoms were plunged into war, the Golden Company were the best and most powerful mercenaries to be found. They brought numbers, experience, and talent that would be sorely needed. It was a begrudging admittance to some, but their reputation could not be denied.

They were not alone in their surprise or their hesitance, Arthur too had trouble accepting them. He had known about them since before the tournament at Harrenhal when Rhaegar had revealed Blackfyre to him. His friend hadn't just shown him a sword but had told him of this new alliance with the notorious mercenary company. The sword had been surprising enough to Arthur, but this sudden alliance had him astonished. I swore to be his man, he had reminded himself. Rhaegar forgave and accepted them. His family had the strongest vendetta against them so if Rhaegar can welcome them into the fold then he should too. I did, but it was still strange to see their colors worn so openly throughout the city and the Red Keep.

"They were sloppy." Rhaegar didn't withhold his judgment on what had occurred at Harrenhal. "When plans and orders aren't followed through," He stopped himself, "It is behind us. We must move forward." He sighed, "I wish I didn't even need to plan for an occasion that would call my brother to betray me."

A betrayal felt by many, Arthur wouldn't let his mind settle on the other betrayals that followed the Prince. They were my brothers. And now they're gone.

"But you did, my prince," Lord Marq Grafton had replaced one of Aerys' staunchest supporters, Lord Lucerys Valeryon as the new Master of Ships. The Lord of Gulltown was a stout man with short blond hair and a thick mustache that he had curled at its tips. Arthur had seen him in the sparring yard, and Lord Grafton looked as comfortable in armor and with a sword as he does now, sitting and planning.

" Wisdom and strength !" Lord Mooton quoting his own house words from his seat. The Lord of Maidenpool was a round man with mousy hair and red cheeks. He had been another one of Rhaegar's new appointments, serving as Master of Coin. "You have shown both, my prince."

Mace Tyrell shot an annoyed look that went unseen by the Prince and Princess. He clearly didn't want to be overshadowed. "He forced your hand, my prince. Why else would he send Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys away? He was planning something," the Lord of Highgarden sounded more affronted at Prince Daeron's deeds than Prince Rhaegar, "You only reacted accordingly."

Lord Tyrell should change his standard to a fawn, Arthur kept that suggestion to himself.

"The fault lies solely on your brother, my prince," Lord Tyrell said, "You're trying to serve the Seven Kingdoms while your brother is trying to steal them."

His tone is honeyed, but his words aren't wrong, Arthur had wanted to believe they were. He kept telling himself they had to be. He knew of Daeron's distaste towards his brother, but he never thought this rivalry could spill out onto a battlefield, dragging the Seven Kingdoms with them. I was wrong. I was wrong about him. I was wrong about them.

"Lord Tyrell speaks truly, husband," Princess Laela's words had the Lord of Highgarden beaming.

Rhaegar turned his attention further down the table. "Have we received any raven from the north?"

"No, my prince," Acolyte Addam was currently serving as the acting Grand Maester since Pycelle had died in his sleep less than a fortnight ago. It was old age, Pycelle's acolytes declared after the autopsy. That made the matter settled to them and a raven was sent to the Citadel for a replacement.

Pycelle was old, Arthur would admit, but he didn't seem that feeble when we left. He had no facts so he let it go. He didn't think it was worth their attention especially with such dark tidings on the horizon. I have enough to deal with and little time to do it all.

"Lord Stark will believe you," Princess Laela assured him, "I've been told those, those, cran-," She frowned, struggling to say the word.

"Crannogman," Lord Mooton supplied kindly.

"Yes, them," Princess Laela said, " I've been told that they're not very well regarded within the Seven Kingdoms."

"They are not," Lord Mooton agreed.

"You cannot blame yourself, my prince," Lord Tyrell was not one to be left behind. "He was a traitor. He admitted as much."

"I have only a few birds in the north, my prince," Lord Varys was the only member of Aerys' Small Council who Rhaegar retained. "But I don't believe this death will stir much outrage, perhaps some blustering, but it would carry little bite," he giggled, "The North doesn't seem interested in involving itself in southern matters."

The eunuch is a strange man, but Arthur knew him to be loyal to Rhaegar.

"Better for them to remain in the north then take the chance they could side with your brother," Lord Grafton's observation rankled some.

"They swore vows to the king," Lord Tyrell didn't seem bothered by the fact that the king wasn't present and hadn't been for some time. "Shameful, shameful," He shook his head.

Arthur yearned to be back in the sparring yard where the likes of Lord Tyrell wouldn't be able to flourish. The sword could not be coddled or flattered. You can't bribe to achieve the skill. It must be earned.

"What of your brother, my prince?" Addam's apple in his throat bobbed.

"What of him?" Rhaegar asked coolly.

"Do you believe he'll reconsider?" The acolyte twitched at being under such scrutiny by the powerful lords around him.

"No," Rhaegar drummed his long fingers against the table. "He is too infatuated with his Lannister betrothed."

"Betrayed his own brother for an expensive whore," The Princess' tone was scathing. "The lions have their claws in your brother and are trying to turn their newly made puppet into a king."

He would not have worded it in such a disrespectful manner, but Arthur believed her point was right. If Prince Daeron had just accepted his brother's urging not to marry into the Lannisters then there would be no conflict. But he knew deep down that the prince would never pick his brother over her. How much will be lost because of it? He chose a lion over the dragon and now the Kingdoms will surely bleed.

"The Lannisters are always wanting more," Lord Tyrell shook his head at their greed.

Arthur saw Rhaegar raise his eyebrow while the corners of his mouth tugged upwards ever so slightly. He must have been the only one, but it was enough for a smile to come to his lips at seeing his friend's mood improve even if he had to thank the Lord of Highgarden for it.

"Thank you, Lord Tyrell," The Prince was able to smother his smile before turning to his staunch supporter. "Lord Mooton, Lord Grafton," He inclined his head to them as he spoke their names, "I pray your liege lords share your loyalty towards my family."

Neither Lord Jon Arryn nor Lord Hoster Tully had accompanied Rhaegar to King's Landing after Harrenhal, but neither had they gone to follow Daeron into the west. They returned to their castles. Many of their bannermen didn't follow this example. Some of Lord Tully's most powerful vassals could be found camped out beyond the capital walls including Darry, Whent, and Mooton. While it was Lord Grafton and not the Warden of the East, Lord Arryn who led a contingent of Vale lords to King's Landing.

He didn't know of betrothals or alliances. He didn't have any idea how to bring this lord or that into the fold. Arthur knew how to fight and he knew how to serve. That is what I swore to do and I must see it to the end.

Ser Jonothor Darry was injured in battle by Prince Daeron. He died of his wounds.

Arthur thought it over more times then he could count. He even wrote it out to see how it would look before officially recording it into the White Book. He struggled with what else to say. Was it a battle? A skirmish? Knights didn't name the wars they only fought in them.

Ser Jonothor's injury had been bloody, but the maesters thought he would recover. Then the wound festered and the next thing Arthur knew was him being awoken in the middle of the night by a messenger from the acting Grand Maester informing him that Ser Jonothor was dead.

He looked it over. The words stuck out to him as if they were written in blood instead of ink.

The quill hovered over the page, but hesitance kept him from writing it into the book. This was permanent. He was the Lord Commander now. The guardian of the legacy of his sworn brothers. It was difficult enough to write out Lord Commander Hightower's death. It didn't feel right to see his handwriting on the pages. It was the Lord Commander's role to write down the stories and deeds of the knights that made up their order. And now the task is mine. Arthur would be lying if he did not think of one day taking the title, serving alongside his friend and king, but this was not the manner in which he wanted it. It was not supposed to come to pass like this.

What of Ser Barristan? Arthur had asked when Rhaegar told him he'd be the new Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

Ser Barristan has discarded his white cloak. Rhaegar had informed him, Ser Gwayne has too.

Two of my brothers are dead, and two have deserted. Arthur still hadn't put in new entries for Barristan or Gwayne. He wasn't sure he was quite ready to close their pages.

The Kingsguard is sworn to the king. To defend him, to keep his counsel, to obey him. And here we are. I swore to serve Rhaegar over my king. And they swore to serve Daeron over their king. What sort of kingsguard are we? We who chose the princes over the king. The sons over the father.

"Lord Commander?"

He looked up from the pages of the White Book. "Princess Laela," he dipped her head to hide his frown. "This is unexpected." He was in the round room within the White Sword Tower, and the last thing he was expecting was to host the princess.

"I do not wish to stay long," She seemed to sense her misstep. "I wish to speak with you."

"Of course," He didn't offer her place to sit at the weirwood table that stood between them. This is the table for my brothers not trespassers.

She didn't ask or choose to sit. She kept her attention at the decorations adorning the room which included pale wool hangings. Laela took a few steps to look around. She tried to hide it, but he could tell that she wasn't impressed with the sparse conditions and bland colors.

The room was awash with white, but after everything that had happened at Harrenhal, he felt black was more fitting. Mourning those who had fallen and those who had wandered.

"I heard about Ser Jonothor," She began awkwardly, "He was a good knight. He deserved a better end." She stopped at the hearth. It wasn't the glow of the embers that had her attention, but the large white shield above it with two cross longswords. "To be killed by a man you were once sworn to protect." She turned back to him, "That is a sad fate."

"He was a good knight," Arthur wouldn't say more. He was his brother, but he preferred to mourn in peace.

"He was," she agreed, "I was going to speak with you even before hearing of his passing." Her attire was exotic, but her colors were familiar. She was swathed in crimson with elegant black bows and ribbons in elaborate designs, it looked as if one of the black ribbon outlines formed a dragon. "I wanted to know if you had given my suggestion some thought?"

"I have." He should've known that would be why she would seek him out. She wanted a white cloak for one of her mercenaries. "The Golden Company is filled with accomplished men," He said carefully,

"They are," She replied, happily, and hopeful, "many of them are knights too."

"So I've been told." It was his duty to replenish the ranks of the Kingsguard. It was no easy task especially with such tall shadows looming over the vacancies. There's no Hightower or Barristan to be found in the ranks of the Golden Company. Those are men of high quality and great talent. He had no doubt that these mercenaries were skilled, but they were killers and sellswords and he wanted knights that could become white swords.

It was not just Barristan and Lord Commander Hightower he needed to replace. There were four openings in total, four glaring spots that he was responsible for filling. He had compiled a list and had seen and spoken to some, but he still hadn't made any final decisions. I will need to soon.

"You've given me some names," He reminded her, "And I shall look them over. I need to speak with them. I need to spar with them," he went on, seeing her pleased smile grow the more he went, looking convinced that he'd give one of those precious white cloaks to a golden cloak mercenary. "Do you truly believe these men of wealth will trade their gold for poverty? We fight to serve. We die to protect. It isn't coin we live and die for, but our king and his orders."

"Not all sellswords are terrible men, Ser Arthur," She looked a little put off by his judgment. "The Company is filled with many who just wish to come home. That was why they fought. It is why they crossed the Narrow Sea. They wish to serve."

He was not expecting such a vehement defense of these men's character. "You are right," he admitted, "Many men who took the white cloak were simple hedge knights who others thought were unsuited, but were proven wrong."

"I only ask that you consider them, Ser Arthur."

"I will, princess," He was telling her the truth. "I will give them their chance."

"Thank you," She tipped her head. She took a few steps towards the exit, but she didn't look to be in a hurry.

"Princess?" He didn't wish to be rude, but he still had matters to attend to.

"They say you're the greatest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms, Ser Arthur."

"I do not say that," He brought his hands to rest on the edge of the table. "There are many great swordsmen." He had the honor to fight and train among them including Ser Barristan as well as Prince Daeron. He kept those thoughts to himself believing they wouldn't be well received in present company.

She gave him a tight smile. "You speak of Prince Daeron and his friends."

"The prince travels in good company," Ser Arthur replied honestly. Prince Daeron, Ser Jaime Lannister, Prince Oberyn Martell, Robert Baratheon, the lord who killed his lord commander, Ned Stark too. It was the last name that made him pause, but it wasn't his talent that stilled him, but his relation. He's my good brother, he tried to stop the thought, but it still leaked through. Could I truly make my sister a widow if I faced her husband in battle? He hoped it didn't come to that. It couldn't.

"Including two turncloaks," The Princess' sour tone helped to dismiss his dark thoughts. "Barristan the Bold," she scoffed, "I suppose bold is an apt moniker for a knight who turned his cloak. It is certainly bold to commit treason." Her face darkened, but the storm in her eyes quickly passed and her expression relaxed. "Forgive me," she apologized, "my pregnancy has been challenging," her hand was resting on the swell of her belly.

"Of course," He wasn't a maester or a mother so he knew little of such things.

"My husband trusts you, Ser Arthur. We need you," her fingers were tracing one of the black ribbons along her red dress. "Aegon needs you."

"What do you need?"

"There will be battle. We all know it, and when it comes. We need you to be the one to fight him," Laela revealed, "We need you to kill him."

"Who?" Arthur asked despite the sinking suspicion settling in his gut of who it was she was talking about.

"Who else?" She smirked, "The traitor, Daeron Targaryen."

Rhaella:

Princess or prisoner?

She often wondered what she really was when she was raised in the Red Keep. Her betrothal to her brother was no different to fetters, binding them against both of their wishes. I didn't have a choice. I didn't have a voice. Her parents cared more about the words of some witch then they did their own children. I was both, but was I the prisoner because I was a princess?

Rhaella Targaryen sighed. She was the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, but in the heart of the Red Keep, she found herself more imprisoned than empowered. Since her return to King's Landing, she had seen little and had received few guests. One of the only blessings was that none of them were her husband. At least I'm away from him.

It was a hollow victory because her other fears had been realized. They grew in her heart when she was sent away to the Stormlands. Their roots entangled in her chest. Her boys were moving against each other. My sons, she wanted to wail at the unfairness of it. Rhaegar, Daeron, my little joys in a lifetime of misery. The only solace in my marriage. The only lights Aerys couldn't extinguish from me. She didn't cry when Lord Connington met them on the road to the capital. When he informed her of what happened at Harrenhal. She had made sure Viserys wasn't there or told. She saved her tears so no one could see them, but even then, there were only a few. I'm too wary to weep. She was determined not to mourn one of her sons. She could not let this come to pass. The good in her life cannot be undone.

Every day she asked to see her son, and every day she was told he would come when he could. She learned that Rhaegar was all but ruling the Seven Kingdoms. He appointed his own council, he put forward a new Lord Commander. The news of the splitting kingsguard had sparked a cold dread that spread inside her: The Dance.

She tried to stomp it down. She wanted to push it away, but its foothold was too strong. The Dance, Targayren against Targaryen, kingsguard against kingsguard, the kingdoms against each other. It cannot happen, she wanted to shout. Please, no, she prayed, but the gods were silent. It was servants and guards who helped her, who gave her information, none she relied on more than Ser Alliser Thorne, who was retained as her sworn sword. A good and loyal man, she was grateful to still have him with her especially with the losses the kingsguard took.

Lord Commander Hightower dead, She had known him since she was a girl. His large frame, draped in white, his presence used to be such a comfort to her when she was a princess. With him I felt safe. That innocence was snuffed when she became her brother's wife. Ser Jonothor not only died, but was slain by Daeron. This news was more shocking than the Lord Commander's death. My son, killing a guard who swore to protect our family.

Rhaella found herself in the dark and she hated it. Sers Barristan and Gwayne went with Daeron, their defection brought her relief, but also sorrow. Relieved that her son wasn't alone, but if the kingsguard were splitting she knew what could come next. She looked around her apartments that she had been moved to. She moved to sit on one of the plush sofas by the hearth. A small fire was going, but it was the comfort she wanted not the warmth.

Viserys was moved in rooms closer to her, and again she was thankful for this small gesture. Her youngest boy hadn't stopped playing with the new toys his good sister, Princess Laela had gifted him when they returned. Wooden figures carved in the shape of the exotic elephant. Viserys was in awe of them, and quickly tried them out against his other wooden toys which included dragons and soldiers and knights. A pleased Laela then promised him that if he was good he could see them for real. That had delighted Viserys and she found her youngest son on his best behavior. Though it didn't stop him from asking after them and wondering when he'd get to see them. If it wasn't so dire she'd found herself more amused at her son's antics, but it was hard to feel joy when she knew where those elephants came from and what they meant- The Golden Company.

My sons what are you doing? She closed her eyes, Rhaegar, you'd rather side with our family's enemies then your own blood?

"Mother."

She blinked. Confused, but certain she heard a voice. She looked up to see her eldest was standing in the doorway. "Rhaegar," She rushed to him, wrapping her arms around him as soon as she could. The relief of seeing her son couldn't dam the restlessness or the anger that was fermenting inside her. "What is this madness?" She demanded, uncaring that he was the Crown Prince, the heir to the Seven Kingdoms. He was her son, her boy, and she'd not shy away from such feelings despite the etiquette that was expected.

"Mother," Rhaegar removed himself from her embrace, but he kept one of his hands on her shoulders, "You have missed much," He gently nudged her to follow him back towards the couch. "I'm only doing what I can to protect the Seven Kingdoms."

"Daeron, isn't a threat to your reign," She felt his grip on her shoulder tighten, but it was an instinctive squeeze at the mention of his brother. A flicker of discomfort before his fingers released their hold on her.

"He killed a knight in the kingsguard," Rhaegar didn't sit when she did. He stood in front of her, towering over her, a tall shadow that enveloped her sitting form. "He won't listen to the crown. He's dangerous."

"He's your brother," She wouldn't bend on her boys. "These are misunderstandings that can be mended."

"Mother," There was pity shining in his purple eyes, "He's chosen his betrothed over his blood."

She swallowed the first response she wanted to give. It was curt and brimming with anger. This frustration rattled within her. "It was an unfair question to be asked. It was an unwise demand to be made." She kept her tone calm, smoothing over any unsteady feelings from rising. "The Lannisters are our allies. An agreement was made between your father and Lord Tywin. To renege on a betrothal after a castle has been built," She paused, looking to her son, but the words seemed to miss their mark.

"A single castle doesn't concern me. Look at his friends, they are threats."

He doesn't sound like my Rhaegar, but Aerys.

"You refuse to see what is there, Mother," he turned his back on her. "It was Daeron who made the first move."

"Look at me, Rhaegar," She would not hear such an accusation from her son without looking him straight in the eyes.

He obeyed. He then repeated it. Neither his tone nor his conviction wavered. "I'm sorry," He sounded to have meant it, "The Lannisters have poisoned him. They've planted these treacherous seeds in his resentment for me and they have bore fruit."

Rhaella sagged in her seat. It felt as if she was drowning, desperately kicking to keep her head above the water as it crashed and swelled around her. The current trying to drag her down, but she kept fighting. "No," she said, "NO," She said it louder, the heat of it catching Rhaegar off guard. "No, it will not end like this," She took to her feet. "Let me talk to him. I can give you peace," she took her son's hands in her own, "I can stop this."

"Daeron's betrayal has upset father," Rhaegar began, "He is unwell, but he is still king. He despises the Lannisters and despite his condition he has made his mind clear on this matter. I cannot give you peace when he demands punishment."

"This is your brother," She nearly snapped, "All I've been told since arriving is that you are ruling in father's stead, and now you will not do this?"

"Him being my brother doesn't change his crimes," Rhaegar countered. He was calm and not upset. "I must tread carefully, I am leading, but I lead in my father's name still not my own."

She took his words without replying. Slowly, she thought through them, she wanted to believe him. This was her eldest son, the first of few blessings from her marriage. It was not like she could sit in on Small Council meetings, or petition for her orders to be given and then obeyed. My crown is a gilded chain that keeps me tied to Aerys. At the mention of her brother's name, something small and cold bloomed inside her. Rippling across her mind, growing as it moved. Even as it spread, she did not say the words aloud. It was beginning to consume her, a dangerous spark whose flames burned beyond her control, because this couldn't be taken back. Once the words are spoken they cannot be unspoken.

Rhaella Targaryen steadied herself. She didn't yield to the shiver that went through her. "And what if he wasn't king?" She asked as soft as spider's silk, beginning to weave a dangerous and deadly web.

Silence, she saw little in her son's reaction. No disgust, no outrage, she noted, just a quiet stillness that stretched out between them. "That would be a tragedy," Rhaegar finally said and did so delicately, "and if I was king I would consider it."

Kinslayer, the cold voice whispered inside her, hungry and growing, No one is more accursed than a kinslayer. She swallowed the swell before it could form in her throat. "That isn't good enough." She gripped her hands together to stop them from shaking. Woe to the kinslayer. They're damned. She didn't listen. Deliver me pain if this can deliver peace, she thought to the gods.

"If it were to come to pass," She began, "Allow me to mourn, allow me to travel to see my son, allow me a chance for peace."

Rhaegar didn't answer her right away. His expression offered her no peek into his heart and thoughts. "I'd give you my blessing to speak sense to Daeron."

"Swear it," She grabbed his arm, "Swear it to me."

He didn't flinch. He looked down, meeting her gaze. "I swear it," he said solemnly, "By the old gods and the new."

Our family's history is fire and blood. That night she paced in her chambers. How many times have we killed one another? Targaryen, Blackfyre, blood is blood. It was many, far too many. She stopped when she reached her looking glass. Rhaella inspected her appearance in the mirror, wearing a red gown that was nearly too large for her. I'm withering, frailer and smaller than what she had been in her youth. Her absence from her dear husband had allowed some of her old bruises to fade away. The lingering scars were more pale outlines than the angry red lines that he had unleashed on her in his bloody grip and hurtful squeezing.

She touched some of her pale hair that had slipped away from her braid. It took her just a few seconds to fix. She then went to the top drawer of her desk, opening it and quickly spotting what she wanted. It was a gift from her grandfather, Aegon the Unlikely. She picked up the beautiful brooch. He was against my parents' marriage, and mine, she could still remember him when she tried hard enough. It was difficult to hold since the screams of Summerhall always bled into such memories.

He didn't stop my father, but he still loved me. She looked down at the three headed ruby studded Targaryen dragon. It was hard to hate him like she hated her parents even when he gave them freedom that they denied her. She ran her thumb over one of the red dragon heads, it glinted in the candle light.

You are the blood of the dragon too, he had told her, he wanted me to be brave. She pinned it to her gown. I know what awaits me, and I accept it. With one last look, she turned away from her reflection and went to the door, grabbing a robe and slipping it on as she walked. She tied the cinch just before she reached the entrance.

"Your Grace?" The two Targaryen guards greeted her.

"The King is expecting me."

"Of course," The one on the left said, before stepping aside to let her pass. She did. She heard their footsteps following her. A rhythm to the footfalls, she tried to focus on as her own feet carried her towards him.

It was not a long walk, and standing outside the king's door was her knight, Ser Alliser. "Your Grace," he didn't look surprised to see her. His dark eyes almost seemed to soften before he turned to the other guards. "Thank you," he told them, "I will see to it the Queen's safe return."

The guards didn't argue. They weren't supposed to. They always listened to the orders of the kingsguard. They bowed their heads and left.

Ser Alliser moved to the door, opening it for her and then he stood aside.

She walked in with her head held high. She didn't flinch when the door closed behind her.

A noise almost animal-like greeted her arrival. A voice followed, "Who's there?"

She shuddered. Ignoring the pinpricks that seem to pierce her flesh at hearing his voice again. She didn't stop. Rhaella moved forward. "Your wife." Her eyes were on the four poster bed, its curtains were partly opened, but he was still out of view.

"My wife," It sounded like a purr, "come closer."

She did. She couldn't see him in the darkness. She could only hear him. She stood still, her hands at her sides. She refused to cower. She untied the cinch of her robe, shrugging it off, the cloth pooled at her feet. The cold air tickled her skin. She took a breath, "I heard you were unwell," she spoke to his shadow, "I've come to serve."

"Serve?" She didn't need to see him to know he was sneering. She knew her brother too well. "My little wife," she saw his long nails first, a gnarled hand followed as it gripped one of the bed poles, he pulled himself into the light and it took all of her control not to step back in fright. More monstrous than man.

His hair was stringy, falling around his face. His beard was longer than she remembered, disheveled and bushy. His face was gaunt, his eyes dark and sunken. His lips were chapped, and when he opened them to smile, she saw his yellow, rotting teeth. His tongue flicked out of his mouth like a serpent, wetting his lips. She felt his gaze on her skin. Like the peeling of a fruit with a knife, thin and cutting, pulling back to see more, to get more.

"You're the mother of a traitor," he snarled. "Daeron betrayed me," He jabbed a finger in her direction. The fingernail was yellowish, and cracking, long and curled, "You turned him against me!"

She wanted to shout. She wanted to lash out at him, curse him for what he did to her children, but she couldn't. Her defiance would be met harshly. She could not show him her strength yet. He must see me as he always has, docile and dim.

"I don't serve my sons," she said, "I serve my husband." She posed herself to look more enticing. Her revulsion bubbled within, but she kept it from spilling onto her expression. It threatened to crack when she knew it was working, seeing how he was taking her in. Give me strength.

"You serve me," he said, sounding as if he was tasting the words, mulling their meaning while his eyes continued to look her over with the hungry glint of a starving predator. "Yes," he bobbed his head, hair falling this way and that. "Yes," his voice cracking with glee, "My dear, loyal wife," he raised a clawed hand, beckoning to her, "Come, and I'll reward you."

"My husband is kind," She was demure, dipping her head before curtseying, angling herself to expose more of her flesh to him. "I serve at his pleasure." Can you hear my heartbeat? She wanted to ask him, as she made her way to him, it's the call of battle. It draws near.

He pushed himself off her like a drunken beast, falling onto his back and letting out a satisfied moan. He was spent and sated. He was mumbling happily to himself.

She didn't move. She ached from his touch. He wasn't gentle, but mercifully it was quick. She could feel the warm trickle of blood from where his nails dug too deep into her skin. She waited in the dark, hearing his raspy breath as it slowly calmed into a steady noise which she knew meant he was finally asleep.

Rhaella slipped out from under the blanket, careful in her movement, pausing when she was off the bed. She stopped and she waited, but her husband didn't stir. He only snored. She padded across the room, tentatively she moved not wanting to disrupt him. When she reached the door, she let out a tired breath. She opened the door, nudging just enough so she could speak, not wishing for the light of the corridor to flood her room, "Ser Alliser," she whispered even though she couldn't spot him.

"Yes, Your Grace?" He stepped into view.

"The King has requested I stay with him for the night."

"Very well, Your Grace," Ser Alliser didn't object. He served at the king's behest not hers. He may have been her sworn sword, but she could not turn and point him at her husband. This is my fight not his. "If that is his desire."

"It is," She didn't wait for him to answer before she shut the door. When it closed, she pressed her back to it and looked to see he was still sleeping.

Sometimes you must cut a hand or a foot to save the body. That was what she was doing, Severing a limb to stave off an infection, she was nearing the bed. Was there anything more rotten and dangerous than my own brother? She was closer. I'm saving us. She reached out and cautiously grabbed one of her pillows. If this will save my sons then I'll accept whatever cursed fate and terrible wrath awaits me.

Stitched into the curtains of their bed were patterns of the three headed dragon of their house. She could almost feel their eyes on her as she moved into position. She had a firm grip on the pillow. Even in his madness he couldn't see me as a foe. I couldn't be a threat. It was just over his head, but still, he didn't open his eyes. It was only the red sewn dragons who watched her.

You forgot brother, she pressed the pillow down over his face, I'm a dragon too.

In the course of a week she attended a funeral and a coronation.

Aerys was dead. May he burn in the Seven Hells for all eternity.

You will burn too, a voice was quick to remind her, to condemn her, but she'd gladly sacrifice her life to protect her sons. Aerys' madness threatened to cull their entire family, so she did what needed to be done. I did it for them. I had to. She reasoned with herself, What else was she to do?

She had dreamed of the day Rhaegar would be king when he was just a small babe in her arms. She prayed to the gods to protect him, to give him wisdom, to give him strength to endure his father, to give him a mind unblemished with madness. She wished for it so long because her boy's coronation would mean she was safe from Aerys, that her brother was dead, and she was beyond his torturous grasp.

Rhaella played the mourning widow at her brother's funeral. There was no suspicion of her brother's death. Why would there be? She was the timid wife, who shrieked when she awoke the next morning to discover Aerys cold and unresponsive. Babbling when the guards and knights came in. Frantic when the acolytes inspected his body. An act that was hard to play when she waited with what they would say. Would they cry murder? Kinslayer? Kingslayer? The tension wove painful knots in her stomach, tightening as the minutes passed before they finally announced: He died in his sleep.

Aerys was not a king who inspired loyalty. The people grieve, but it's a lie. They wanted this to happen so when it did, who were they to ask questions? Aerys was dead and that's all that mattered. His reign was over.

The days passed painfully slowly as she waited to depart for the Westerlands. Each day, the worry gnawed more and more onto her happiness, chipping away at it. She had wanted to leave after her son was crowned, Rhaegar Targaryen the first of his name, but he thought it better to wait a day or so. He claimed that some of the roads between here and the Westerlands may not be safe. She listened, knowing he wouldn't lie to her.

He swore to me. That's what she told herself when the worry tried to wrap around her like a serpent. He swore to me. My son wouldn't lie to me. Her faith had been rewarded when he came to her last night to give her permission for the journey. She planned and packed as fast as she could so she could leave just as quickly.

"Your Grace,"

She turned, "Yes?"

"Your trunks are being loaded," the guard informed her.

"Wonderful," she smiled in thanks, "Please alert them that I'll be down shortly."

"At once, Your Grace," The guard bowed and left.

It was finally happening. Soon, I'll see Daeron. She hadn't seen him since he had her and Viserys sent to the Stormlands. His words and his warnings, before the memory could settle over her, she heard heavy footfalls thinking it was the guards ready to escort her, but when she turned to greet them. It wasn't her guards. It was her son, Rhaegar and with him was Ser Arthur Dayne, the new lord commander. "Mother,"

"What?" There was a tightness in her chest.

"You're not going."

"You swore to me," She shook her head, not believing her son could be so deceitful, "You promised I could-"

"Things have changed," Rhaegar took her anger with an impassive stare.

"What?" She asked, "What has changed?"

"It's your son, Your Grace," Varys slipped inside the room. His head bowed with his hands tucked away in the folds of his sleeves, when he raised his head to look at her. There was sympathy in his eyes and in his voice. "We've received word."

"Word of what?"

"Daeron has crowned himself King, Mother," Rhaegar said tightly, "There can be no peace now."

Her legs trembled. She grabbed the back of a chair to keep herself steady. She barely heard the orders he gave to her guards to retrieve her trunks informing them that her trip was canceled. She didn't react when her son and his men left.

Two crowns, but only one throne. Rhaella Targaryen could hear the gods laughing at her.


CREATORS' THOUGHTS
DravenShadefall DravenShadefall

Curious to see what Daeron does next? You can get a head start on Daeron the Defiant: A Second Dance of Dragons by checking out the early chapters on my Website at https://dravenshadefall-shop.fourthwall.com

Chapter 35: Chapter 35: Defiance

Cersei:

Casterly Rock was preparing for war.

The weapons of war were being worked on at all hours of the night. The forges burned like captured stars within the castle. Armor and helmets were crafted and inspected to make sure they met the rigid and high expectations her family put on any work that was to come out of the West. The Lannister name was never to be put together with such words as poor or inferior.

She nearly felt like an intruder while she walked the corridors. Like a spider wandering in the insides of an ant hill, trying not to impede or downright block the ants who moved about her distracted by their own responsibilities to even notice her presence.

Rhaegar thought to stop us, she thought viciously watching her family's armed men march and train in the sparring yard. Now he's about to be crushed by the full might of our family. It was a very satisfying image that flickered across her visage of the fallen prince with Daeron towering over him, looking glorious and regal.

Soon, but the word was difficult to stomach because patience was not something she had nor really wanted. Patience was for a servant waiting for their coin, or a child waiting for their new toy. It was something that was outside her power and she hated not having that control. However, the bitter truth was she'd have to get used to it because what was coming required it.

What is to come, she left the overview of the sparring yard. Cersei knew what she wanted it to be, what she hoped it to be, and the first thing she wanted was to call Daeron her husband. Yes, she felt an exalting thrum spark in her chest and spread through her body like warm honey. It wasn't a crown atop her head or royal power at her fingertips, it was him.

When she turned down the new corridor she looked to be in a different castle entirely. The Lannister lion that guarded the walls on tapestries and banners, etched in stone or marble were gone or covered. I'm walking in the dragon's domain. Daeron had claimed this part of her family's castle as his own. The red headed dragon of her betrothed's house watched her with its many heads as she passed. The guards here were dressed in black not red or gold. The dragon was etched into their steel, on their pauldrons, or painted on their shields. There were no more roaring golden lions but red dragons spewing fire.

Cersei didn't shrink to these changes; she welcomed them. I'm to be the mother of dragons, remembering the words Daeron had told her at her brother's wedding. A dragon has no equal, he had scoffed when she suggested a lion join his dragon banner. And he was right to do so, she realized, they were unapproachable, unassailable. The dragon was pure power.

I'm to be the wife of a dragon. She would respect her family and ensure her children knew where they came from, but the dragon was to be their first quality not the lion. It is a dragon that sits on the Iron Throne and rules the Seven Kingdoms. Not a lion, not even her father as rich and powerful as he is could sit atop the fabled throne and put Westeros under his yoke.

My betrothed can, She thought proudly, my betrothed will.

That was when she saw the first of the new banners that decorated this part of the castle. Draped in rich black cloth was the banner her husband would carry into battle separating himself from his brother. She had never seen one this large, but she knew her mother had been working on them. She had hired countless workers to create these new standards. Their speed and quality of work was another reminder of her family's resources and reach.

She took a step back to truly admire it in all its glory. Cersei had made the first one weeks ago on Daeron's instructions. A small piece of cloth no larger than a handkerchief. She was proud of it and further pleased when she learned that Daeron carried it with him wherever he went, as a favor and reminder of her. The red body of the Targaryen dragon was no different then its form in the family's traditional banner. It was the heads that made it stand out, its colors that drew in then kept the eye.

The first head was still red, she remembered how Daeron unveiled his plans to her. It's for my family, he began, but my family has grown to include Lannisters and Martells, you and Jaime, Elia and Oberyn. The second head was gold, for my cousin and House Baratheon who are one of my family's oldest allies. The last dragon head was white. For Ned, for Sers Gwayne and Barristan. They are men who have served me, but they have taught me so much more.

Her fingers skimmed the smooth black silk. She wasn't tall enough to reach the three heads, but it didn't stop her from appreciating the needlework. She dropped her hand from the banner and continued down the corridor where more of the banners were raised or hanged in different sizes. Some of his guards were patrolling down the halls while others stood at their posts. Their dark helms watched her as she passed. They tipped their heads to her, recognizing their future queen.

The Targaryen guards from his retinue had followed him from Harrenhal. Their loyalty to him pulling them away from his family and the capital. They had trickled in sometimes alone or in pairs or small groups, pledging their swords and lives to him whether they found him on the road or at Riverrun, or Casterly Rock.

Up ahead she saw a lone figure in white in the company of black. Ser Barristan Selmy had left Rhaegar and his king to follow Daeron, a gesture that had humbled her betrothed. She couldn't forget his strong reaction upon realizing the great Ser Barristan chose him, believed in him, wanted to serve him. He was a powerful symbol whose presence to Daeron's cause could not be underappreciated. He was immediately made Lord Commander of Daeron's kingsguard which has since seen three new members join.

Ser Brynden Tully surprised them by offering his service and asking to take the white cloak after they had left Riverrun. He had a wry smile at the mention of the Blackfish in a white cloak. He left his brother and his home to join Daeron. At Casterly Rock two more pledged themselves to Daeron's growing kingsguard. Prince Lewyn Martell, who had been waiting for them at her family's castle wished to take the white cloak with his nephew's blessing. The other had been Cersei's cousin, Ser Lyonel Frey. She had been surprised by his decision since she recalled her Aunt Genna was considering a Crakehall match for her second eldest.

The guards sensed her presence and parted to let her pass, bowing their heads. Ser Barristan was the one to address her. He did so after dipping his head, "Lady Cersei."

"Do you know where I can find my betrothed?"

He pointed in the direction behind him. "He is in the last room. I do not know what your family used it for before he moved into it, but he has changed it to suit his needs."

"Thank you, Ser Barristan." She wasn't entirely certain that had been one of the rooms she had visited in the times she's been to this part of the castle. Her curiosity at inspecting its changes and her growing desire to see him made her walk past the knight without further talk between them.

The room was far larger than she expected. Pillars lined all the way around the room, their markings and ornamental displays had since faded or rusted away by time. In the middle of the room where an old chandelier hung above was a large table that looked to have belonged in a feasting hall not a solar. It had benches on its long sides and two chairs at its ends, all of them looking as worn as the rest of the room and furniture. She heard voices before seeing him. She recognized them both, but instead of revealing herself, she hugged the pillar, curiosity rooting her in the shadows at what they were discussing.

"Does Ned know?" That was Daeron's voice. She could see him in the far corner from where she was. He was sitting at a large cushioned chair, a blazing fire was glowing behind him in a huge hearth. The stone sculptures had crumbled. Their shapes were a mess of rubble that made it impossible to deduce what they had once been in their full glory.

"I informed him of the possibility," Ashara answered, "It was Maester Desmond who confirmed it." The Lady of the Rainwood wasn't sitting, but leaning on the nearest pillar, hugging herself.

Daeron didn't speak for a long second. "They will know their father." It was a solemn vow filled with confidence in a tone that belonged to a king.

Cersei could see how Ashara took to these words. She dropped her arms to her side, standing a bit straighter, belief solidifying her being. It wasn't even directed at her, but Cersei felt it too, stirring in her own breast. It was part of his draw, she had seen it before, how he pulled people to him.

People believed in Rhaegar because they were told to, but Daeron earned it. He showed you why while Rhaegar just expected it.

"Thank you," Ashara's tone was stronger than it had been before.

"Do you know what they'll call this war?" Daeron suddenly asked, but he didn't wait for her to answer, "The War of Ashara's spurned suitors."

Ashara laughed, its musical peal echoing in the large room. "You give me too much fame, Your Grace."

Cersei remembered those years ago when Lord Dayne had desired a Targaryen prince for his beautiful sister, first it had been Rhaegar and then it had been Daeron, but Ashara married neither. She took the second son of Lord Stark as her husband, Cersei had thought her a fool when she had heard.

I was the fool, ashamed of how she acted then. It was Ashara who should be envied, she saw that. I'd marry Daeron if he was the Prince of Summerhall, I'd marry him if he was an exile in Essos. She'd follow him until the end, and she saw that devotion in Ned and Ashara, with Jaime and Elia.

"Have you thought of names?" His question pulled her from her reflections.

"We decided on names some time ago."

"Already?" Daeron sounded impressed by their decisiveness.

"You know how I plan," She volleyed lightly.

"All too well," he agreed, "I believe it's what got you married to Ned."

Ashara's responding smile was smug.

"Tell me the name of my future nephew or niece?"

It wasn't blood that brought them together, she knew, it was belief, belief in him.

"Robb for a boy," She answered, "Elia for a girl."

Cersei thought both names made a lot of sense in their tribute. Since it was Robert who had done so much to secure his friend's match to Ashara including granting him land and a lordship. While Elia was Ashara's closest friend, considering themselves sisters having grown up together.

"Fine names," Daeron voiced his approval, "They shall be honored at such a gesture," He said, "I can already hear Robert bragging."

"Does that mean you're praying for a girl?"

"I pray that the babe and mother will be safe and well." The mirth had drained from his expression. "And that they will know their father," he stood from his seat to approach her. "I'll do all I can, Ashara."

"I know," she replied gratefully, before embracing her friend and king, "and that is why we follow you."

"Cersei?"

She froze in her spot at him calling her by name. She recovered swiftly to reveal herself. "Yes?" walking with an air of confidence as if she hadn't just been caught snooping.

"You're not as subtle as you think, my dear," Daeron smiled, "we could see your shadow." He pointed to the dark culprit that had betrayed her.

She was inwardly annoyed while feeling a tad foolish, but she was careful not to show it. Cersei made a point to go to Ashara first. "Congratulations," She hugged her pregnant friend, whose belly didn't show the slightest sign of swelling.

"Thank you," Ashara returned the embrace with equal vigour. "I shall take my leave," she turned back to Daeron, "Your Grace," She curtseyed and left.

"How does it feel?" Cersei asked him. He hadn't officially been crowned king, but it was only a matter of days and all of his men were already addressing him as such.

"Good," he was holding her to him, "but that's not enough."

She could feel his chin resting on her head. "What do you mean?"

"Your father told me that this wing of the castle was built and belonged to the Casterlys," Daeron said instead of answering her question.

She leaned back so she could look up. Her puzzlement at his shift in topic seemed easy for him to read.

"They built this believing it would serve their family for generations, a lasting legacy to their power in the west," He gestured to the room itself which was a pale imitation to whatever wonder it might have once held. "They thought it was enough. They made themselves comfortable," he went on, "And they lost it all because of it. They thought themselves the masters of this land, but they were swindled out of their own castle. This area of the castle now lies forgotten and overshadowed by what your family has since made." He turned back to her, "Being called Your Grace doesn't mean my work is done. I must build a legacy that doesn't crumble. I can never allow myself to get comfortable. The Conqueror understood that when he built the Iron Throne, but my father forgot it, my brother too."

"You will be better then them all."

Lord Quellon Greyjoy was a hard man with grey eyes so dark they looked black. His face was worn and weathered like the wind itself had shaped it. He sat comfortably in his seat, not looking the least bit overwhelmed or intimidated by the golden finery around him. If anything it seemed to amuse him. He picked up a golden goblet, examining it as he held the base between his fingers before letting it go. He must have sensed their gazes since he chuckled. "Don't worry I haven't pried off its gems."

"That wasn't our worry at all," Mother said smoothly, "I was fearing an empty goblet."

Quellon's smile wasn't as scary as she imagined it would be. He raised the goblet and a servant came forward without instructions and refilled his cup. He wasn't alone at his side of the table, on his left was a large man who had been introduced as Victarion Greyjoy, Lord Quellon's third son. He was as tall as his father, well over six feet with a broad chest and large arms. His hair was black as night and fell loosely around his face. He hadn't spoken more than a few words since he was introduced. On Lord Quellon's other side sat his son and heir, Balon Greyjoy. He didn't try to hide his distaste for being here.

He looks around like this is beneath him, the thought both rankled and amused her. Ironborn ignorance, she decided. He was the shortest of the three Greyjoys and the least intimidating, she thought. They all bore the golden kraken on their black tunics that looked worn and had the smell of salt to them.

They were the guests of her family. And had been given every courtesy since they arrived. She was certain they hadn't experienced such fine treatment or such good food and wine on those dreary desolate islands that they call home. Her parents had feasted them in their hall and after the food and entertainment they had all retired to discuss the potential of an alliance between them.

It was her parents who sat across the Greyjoys. Cersei sat on the table's left with Daeron in the middle and Ser Barristan on his other side. Her brother and good sister sat directly across from them.

"It isn't enough," Lord Greyjoy declared after the first offer had been made.

He wasn't pleased, she was watching her father, and could see the slight change in his expression which spoke plainly to her of his annoyance at Lord Greyjoy's insistences.

"Very well," Mother smiled at the Lord of the Iron Islands, "We will hear your suggestions."

Quellon Greyjoy returned her smile. "Gold is nice," his dirty fingernails tapped against his goblet, "But I can go anywhere for gold." His eyes swept them over. "I want more." He said plainly, "You need us, but we don't need you. They have the Royal Fleet and the Redwyne Fleet," His gaze turned to him. "Your brother rules the waves, Prince Daeron."

"That is why we invited you here," he replied politely.

She didn't share her betrothed's politeness. She felt her own anger swell at Lord Greyjoy's lack of respect.

"An invite we appreciate," He made sure to look at her parents, seemingly understanding who was pulling the strings, "But I assure you my family's fleet will win you the seas. There's no better sailors and warriors then Ironborn."

More like rapers and raiders, Cersei wanted to correct him, but kept the thought to herself as well as her growing annoyance that these ironborn were so ungrateful to all her family had done for them so far.

"I have a granddaughter who's about to turn three. I want a betrothal between her and your son's future heir."

"An ironborn as the Lady of the West," Her father's voice was as hard as iron.

"Yes," Quellon's smile grew, "A promising partnership between our two great houses."

Cersei noticed Balon scowling and practically squirming in his seat at his daughter's fate. She was certain this was just another thing he didn't approve of, but he was at least smart enough to keep quiet in their presence. She turned away from the dour ironborn and across the table where her brother and good-sister were just as quiet. It was their child they were talking about, a son that hadn't yet been born, but with Elia's pregnancy, it could be fairly soon.

Babies and betrothals, she thought. What promises must we make to win this war? She had resented being seen as a broodmare, so what sort of mother would she be if she did the same to her children? It wasn't as simple when she complained of its unfairness as a girl. Seeing it in its full view, Cersei could only begin to understand the complexities and fragility that went into making them.

"Agreed," Jaime's answer broke through her musings. Her brother wasn't looking at his parents or the Lord of the Ironborn, but to Elia who looked to be in agreement with him.

"You have thought this through?" Not the slightest hint of reprimand or irritation was in Mother's voice. It was as calm as the sea on a sunny day.

"We have," Jaime answered after sharing a look with Elia, "But Asha Greyjoy must be fostered at the Rock," He turned to Quellon. "The Lady of the Rock isn't an empty title. It comes with responsibilities."

"I understand," Quellon didn't argue. He didn't look to mind this stipulation. If anything he looked further pleased by its inclusion.

Balon's face scrunched up. He looked to be biting his tongue upon hearing that his daughter was not only marrying a greenlander but had to live with them first too. He should be kissing Jaime's and Elia's boots, Cersei thought, on the great gift her brother and good sister was giving his undeserving daughter.

"It will also allow a friendship to hopefully bloom between our son and your granddaughter," Elia added, her fingers entwined with Jaime's.

"Which is what my people want with the rest of the Kingdoms," Quellon assured them, looking as the only one of the three ironborn to mean it, "Peace and prosperity."

"Then if its all settled-"

"But it isn't," Lord Greyjoy held up a dirty finger to stop her father.

Her father already didn't look too favorably on his grandson's future bride, but this interruption further deteriorated his mood. His clenched jaw was the first clear sign of his growing thoughts.

"We're listening," Mother said smoothly, taking over the conversation.

"My son Victarion has recently lost his wife," Lord Quellon began, gesturing to his large and silent son.

"What are you proposing?" Her mother's politeness was exceptional.

"He has no children. He is my third son, and Balon already has three sons," He said, "His future isn't with the Ironborn, but I still want him to be in a position worthy of his talents. I want you to put him in your kingsguard. What better way to show our commitment to this alliance and my people's future ties to Westeros than by having one of my own sons serving our king in such a public and prestigious role."

Kingsguard! She couldn't believe the audacity of such a suggestion. Cersei wasn't the only one having trouble believing it. She saw the ripple across the table over several faces all of them picturing an ironborn dressed in white, who was sworn to protect others. Did they even understand that concept? She looked to her betrothed, but to her own surprise his face was carefully blank.

It was Ser Barristan who looked the most perturbed by this and was the one to voice his misgivings. "The Kingsguard is for knights," he pointed out, "Is your son a knight?" He asked, but his tone clearly conveyed he already knew the answer.

"No, he isn't a knight," Quellon answered, dismissing the suggestion as if it wasn't something worth the scrutiny. "He's a warrior. He's a killer." His smile turned sharp, "You're wading into a war and you'll want the best fighting for your king on the battlefield."

"And you believe your son is one of them?" Barristan's voice sounded strained.

"I do," Quellon answered proudly, patting his large son on the shoulder.

Victarion hadn't even reacted at being put forth on the kingsguard. He was silent and stony.

"The kingsguard-"

"Will change," Daeron interrupted his Lord Commander. He was looking between the Lord of the Ironborn and his third son, missing the incredulousness that flashed over Barristan's face. "It will not go back to what it was."

Cersei had to hide her smug smile at seeing her betrothed's words surprise her family. She was already privy to Daeron's plans in wanting to change the kingsguard. They had talked about it privately, knowing that his desire to reshape them came from his father's treatment of his mother.

"But is this what your son wants?"

Victarion turned to face him. "I will follow my father's command." He said tonelessly.

"That isn't enough," Daeron wasn't impressed. "Is this what you want?"

"I want to fight for the strongest," His dark gaze never left Daeron's face, "And I don't think that's you."

He dares! Cersei was seething at this display of disrespect. Her outrage was muted by Daeron's chuckling. Her betrothed didn't look the least bit bothered by Victarion's insult.

"If you wish to prove your mettle against me then I gladly accept the challenge."

That made the large ironborn smile. It was a slow and ugly one that relished violence. "If you beat me," he emphasized the first word. "You'd be worthy to fight for and I'd pledge my sword to serve you."

"And if you defeat me then you're free to return to your Islands," Daeron concluded, seeing the ironborn agree to this, he turned to the Lord of the Iron Islands. "Then it's agreed and Lord Quellon I'll make you my Master of Ships, win or lose. Would that conclude these discussions and seal this alliance?"

"It would." He didn't look upset at all by this disruption to his plans which included the possibility of losing his son's prestigious spot in a kingsguard which he just moments ago was fighting hard to include.

"Good," Daeron stood gracefully from his seat, "Shall we?"

Victarion stood and nodded.

It wasn't worry that filled her as they made their way to the sparring yard. She knew Daeron's skills. He was one of the best swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms. Cersei doubted this ironborn would be much of a match for him. He may look strong, but Daeron could beat Robert and she doubted this ironborn was as good as the Lord of Storm's End.

No, it wasn't concern, but annoyance that pricked her. The suddenness of it without thought or counsel. He just did it without considering her opinion or that of their situation. She knew her parents weren't particularly pleased, but could they really decline Daeron in front of their guests especially after promising to swear him fealty? It would make him look weak, so they said nothing.

She didn't walk with him. He was up ahead talking with Barristan and Jaime who walked between him.

Oberyn, Ashara, Benjen, and Lyanna had joined them on the way. Word had spread fast of this fight.

"I almost pity this ironborn," Oberyn's dark eyes glittered with amusement and anticipation for the pending duel.

"I had heard them say he was a dullard," Ashara observed of the ironborn challenger, "But it seems that word was far too kind."

Lyanna snickered, but it was her brother who spoke first.

"I've never seen an ironborn fight before."

"You're about to see one lose too," The Dornish prince added.

When they reached the benches of the sparring yard, Daeron and Victarion were already getting ready. "Real steel or blunted?"

"Real steel," Victarion grunted, looking through the assortment of weapons that were offered to him.

Daeron smiled at his choice. Dark Sister slipped from her sheath smoothly making just the softest hiss when it parted. Jaime and Barristan were still with him while Victarion's father and brother were on his side. The ironborn was agitated by the few axes that they had. It seemed none of them met his approval. In the end, he picked a longsword and paired it with a shield. The Greyjoys then helped him into his chest plate which would be their only protection within this duel besides their helmets. Daeron was already in his while Jaime was holding out the helm.

"You can still escape this," He said to the ironborn, "give me your fealty now and spare yourself this defeat."

Victarion laughed, it was a deep rumbling sound like rocks sliding against each other.

Daeron was still smiling when the helmet was placed over him. They moved forward and waited. Ser Barristan stood between them and when he made sure both were ready he gave the signal for them to begin.

Victarion rushed forward bellowing a warcry as he swung his sword trying to cleave Daeron in two with one charge. He danced out of the blade's reach, spinning away from the ironborn, but keeping his sword up. As soon as his feet pivoted, he struck Dark Sister, lashing out like bolts of steel lightning, up and down, left and right, thrusting and cutting. Victarion had his shield up to block this sudden assault.

Despite all her lessons some of the moves escaped her and she knew she was missing maneuvers and footwork that would be obvious to her brother or Ser Barristan. She watched and tried to follow the best she could.

The ironborn planted his feet and at Daeron's last strike, he deflected it with his sword and then thrust his shield forward aiming for Daeron's head, who was able to sidestep the attack. He used the move to get in close and Dark Sister was once more on the hunt. Victarion grunted and shouted, blocking them the best he could with his weapons while not giving ground. He looked like he was encompassed in a storm of steel trying to endure the barrage from an unrelenting Dark Sister.

She may not have understood everything that she saw, but she didn't need help in recognizing the victor. Daeron disarmed the ironborn's sword and then with his sword's pommel smashed it into Victarion's helmet which brought him to his knees. Dark Sister was at the ironborn's neck.

"I yield," Victarion announced, his voice booming in his helmet. When he removed it his hair was sticky with blood from where Daeron had struck him. "I will fight for you," he admitted, appraising him for the first time with a respectful look. "I will swear my loyalty to you."

"Good, because you're a warrior I want on my side."

He gave a grim smile and then pledged his services to Daeron. Ser Barristan stepped forward to have him swear his vows and on that night Victarion Greyjoy became the first ironborn to enter the kingsguard.

"You don't want me to fight," She expected this, but it didn't lessen the sting.

They were alone. His guards and her chaperones were outside giving them a moment's reprieve.

A moment they were wasting by having this argument, but she couldn't let it go. She was sitting on the edge of her bed while he was standing in front of her.

He sighed. "No, I don't. I need you to stay here."

"To do what?" She scoffed, "To fret and wait."

"I can't worry about you-"

"But I can worry about you," She cut him off angrily. He called me Visenya, but Aegon didn't stop her from fighting. Her fingers digging into the blanket. I fought with him at Harrenhal, but now I must watch him march off to war. She bunched the blankets into a tight grip. Forced to wait, to be a prisoner of my fears. To be helpless, she hated it.

He was agitated. Good, let him feel a whit of my indignation.

"It's not that simple."

"Why can't I fight?" she demanded, "But you can?" she glared up at him, "Tell me!"

Daeron weathered her storm of rage. His earlier frustration was brushed away, but if it was from her demands, her words, or her tone, she couldn't say just that it had changed him. "You know why," he said gently.

She did. She had always known. She buried the truth deep, because she didn't want to face it. Cersei wanted to believe she could avoid it, that it could be different.

"Only you can carry our child," He said softly, "Only you can bear me an heir."

Such a thought trickled into her mind like syrup, slowly dribbling down gaining cohesiveness as it went. The image grew and the feelings followed. Her frustration stymied by that promising future that she wanted to put off. As much as she wanted his children she also wanted to be beside him, but her womanly duties were a cage meant to confide her. A baby binds me and cleaves him from me.

"It falls to you, Cersei," He was standing in front of her, a smile flashed across his handsome face when he added, "I mean I can't carry a child."

It was so absurd a possibility that she couldn't help but giggle when it slipped into view. She forgot to be angry and laughed. "That would be a sight."

His laughter joined hers, she cherished its warmth that washed over her like sunlight. "I do not have that sort of strength or courage." He knelt to her.

She frowned, suspicious of his intentions. "Do you speak truly or are you just trying to flatter me?"

"I would not mislead you," He put one of his hands on her lap. "I've seen the battles my mother has endured," He shook his head, "the blood and the tears. At least on the battlefield I'm given a sword."

She covered his hand with one of hers. She used the other one to cup his cheek. "You will be my husband. You will be my king. I will follow you." She then brought her hands to his collar, pulling him closer to her. "Kiss me," she commanded and he did and in that moment all was well.

Daeron:

"I have a gift for you, Your Grace."

Daeron looked up to see Oberyn striding smoothly through the room, carrying a plain wooden box. He put it on the table in front of him.

"A show of support for my family and of Dorne to your cause."

Daeron ran his fingers along its surface. "This isn't a trick, is it?"

Oberyn smiled, holding up his hands. "When have I ever played tricks on you, Your Grace."

"In the Water Gardens," Daeron answered dryly, "Several times."

"That was in the past," Oberyn shrugged off the accusations like water off a duck's back.

"There was that time in Lannisport too," Daeron reminded him, the memories made him smile. "But I do not need such a gift to prove your loyalty to me, my friend." He assured him before he opened the box. When it caught his eye it only made him think that this was some sort of trick. "What is this?" His eyes remained pinned on it. It couldn't be real, he thought, impossible.

"It is real, Your Grace," Oberyn said as if reading his thoughts, "You know the stories."

Daeron nodded, he reached in to grab it. The metal was cold to the touch. He pulled it out to see it in all its splendor. The rubies shimmered when they caught the light. "It's amazing," He breathed out the words, still struck in dismay at what he was holding. He felt his fingers tremble around the steel in his grip.

"It is for a king, Your Grace," Oberyn bowed his head, "And I can think of no greater king to wear it than you."

"Thank you," Daeron had trouble keeping his eyes off of it. "This is a gift I will always treasure. Give my thanks to your brother, but I shall write to him of my gratitude at his generosity."

"We're simply returning it," He downplayed their part in its delivery. "I shall let you get back to your work, Your Grace, but I'll return soon with wine and food and my good brother."

He mumbled his response. He didn't watch him go. He couldn't. Daeron's eyes couldn't stay off of the gift. In his hands was a circlet of valyrian steel encrusted with large square-cut rubies. It was a crown, his finger rubbed one of the rubies, but not just any crown. He held it at eye level.

This was the Conqueror's crown. He then smiled, my crown.

"You have a visitor, Your Grace."

"Oh?" that surprised him. He hadn't been expecting anyone at this early hour despite how busy his day was about to be.

"It is Tyrion Lannister," Ser Gwayne informed him.

Interesting, Daeron turned in the direction of the doorway. "Send him in," he watched the door open and the young eight year old boy walk in, small and stunted. He was dressed in what looked to be his sleeping clothes. They were rumpled from use.

"Your Grace," he stopped and dipped his head.

"Tyrion," Daeron returned the greeting, "Come forward, you're soon to be my brother."

He looked pleased. "I wanted to help you."

"To help me?"

"Yes," he bobbed his head up and down, "You're to be my king."

"A king couldn't ask for a better subject," He brought his hand down on Tyrion's shoulder, guiding him to where he could sit. "Does anyone know you're here?"

He looked away. "Not exactly," when he finished his answer he made a sheepish smile while he wrung his hands on his lap.

"We'll say you were summoned by your king," Daeron suggested.

"Truly?" Tyrion perked up, the concern melting away by his bright eyes and warm expression.

"Yes, but I need a reason to summon you," Daeron thought of Viserys and he felt a pang in his chest for the brother he missed and loved. "And I think I have it. After all, you do want to help me."

"I do," he said quickly, "What is it?" He straightened up his posture the best he could, earnest in hearing his instructions.

"It is the most important task I can give to someone," He wasn't lying, "I need you to be there for your sister after I'm gone."

"Be there?" He tilted his head, "like protect her?" His eyes widened, "like a kingsguard." The last word brought a clashing mix of apprehension and enthusiasm into his tone and expression.

"Something better, actually."

"Better?" He breathed the word out in dismay.

"Yes, I need you to be there for her. I need you to help her, encourage her," He said, "When I'm gone, I need to know she'll be well tended to."

"I won't disappoint you," Tyrion vowed, the solemnness was a stark contrast to his boyish face.

"I know," He patted him on the shoulder, "That's why I asked you. You're the only one I can trust."

Tyrion squared his shoulders back as if preparing to take on the weight of the Rock itself.

Through no fault of his own, Tyrion's presence only expanded the ache inside him for his younger brother. I will see you again, brother. He had told Viserys that when he watched them leave the Red Keep for the Stormlands, him and Mother. Daeron meant those words. He'd see them both again and when he did, he hoped it would mean they'd be free and never again to live in fear of his father, their king.

"Your Grace?" Tyrion's timid voice called him back to the boy who sat in front of him. He was looking at his boots, shifting in his seat.

"Yes?" Daeron didn't understand the change in his behavior.

"You have to fight your brother?" He asked it so softly that Daeron had barely heard it despite how close they were sitting together. As soon as he asked, surprise flashed across the boy's expression as if he couldn't believe he had just said it aloud.

"I do," Daeron answered. It wasn't a secret. It didn't make him mad. He saw the confusion cloud over Tyrion's face. His eyes glistening at just the thought of having to fight against the brother and sister he loved so much. Rhaegar and I never shared that sort of bond.

"But why?" He croaked, his voice was still thick from his imagination plaguing him at such a terrible thought when thinking of having to be on a different side then his twin siblings.

Daeron sighed. "Rhaegar believes himself right and that makes him dangerous," He was trying to be as simple as he could make it for him to understand. "He is guided by prophecies and visions instead of good counsel and wisdom. If he was told in one of his books to let the Seven Kingdoms consume themselves then he'd stand by and let it happen. That's all that matters to him."

"What about Viserys? Is he safe?" His voice was as thin as thread.

I don't know, was his first answer, but it was one he couldn't say aloud. Not just to shield Tyrion, but himself as well, not wanting to dwell on such uncertainty for his innocent brother. "Yes, he is." The lie boosted Tyrion's lips into a relieved smile.

"Good," He said happily, "he's my friend."

Daeron returned his smile. "He thinks the same of you." He stood up, "I think you should be heading back. We wouldn't want your family to worry if they discover your absence, king's summons or not."

Tyrion nodded, getting to his feet with a bit more effort. "Thank you, Your Grace," he bowed his head. "I won't fail you."

He had walked him to the door. "I know you won't." He watched him leave and when the boy was out of sight, Daeron went back into his room to prepare for the day ahead of him.

It was finally here.

He wished he could claim he was paying attention. That he heard every word the Septon was saying, but the coronation moved around him like water around a rock. His mind kept drifting back to what he was seeing, to what was happening, to what it all meant.

There is no turning back, he looked out at the assembly of nobles and knights who crowded the sept at Casterly Rock. Each and every one of them picking him over his father, over his brother, over the law. Some were not even here, his cousin Robert, his friend Ned who had already left to rally men to his cause because they believed in him. Daunting? Exulting? Both? He wasn't sure there was one word or one proper feeling that he could name to what he felt growing within him.

I cannot fail them. His resolve had never been stronger knowing the fate of so many were being put on his shoulders once this crown was atop his head. The face he sought the most was hers.

The Light of the West, he quietly marveled at her beauty. My soon to be wife. My soon to be queen. It was their wedding not this coronation that drew most of his excitement. Her green eyes sparkled when they met his, a sly smile followed as if knowing his thoughts.

The septon's voice took him away from his future bride so as to finish the ceremony. He knew what was to come. I've already said the words, thinking of the oath he took, he presented himself to the septon.

Daeron was dressed in a simple, but rainbow colored robe that was specifically tailored for this ceremony. It was now carefully parted. The cool air against his exposed skin nearly made him shiver.

The septon anointed him with the seven oils, calling on each of the Seven when he dipped his finger in their respected glasses. He carefully smeared it on Daeron's chest to make The Seven-Pointed Star. He felt the droplets dribble down his abdomen, but he kept still. A second one was then drawn on his forehead, the Septon repeating the process and when he was finished, he led them in a hymn and then in prayer.

A heavy cloak was placed on his shoulders by an attendant while another fixed his robe. In the corner of his eye he saw the crown being brought forward. It was resting on a small red pillow.

"Oh Father Above, we beseech you and the other aspects of the Seven who are One. Bless this man and sanctify his rule. On this day we set a crown upon his head, so enrich his royal heart with your abundant grace, and crown him with all the princely virtues through the Faith of the Seven."

When it was over, the septon grabbed the crown and reverently placed it atop Daeron's head. It's touch was immediate, its weight and power coming down on him like a heavy stone on his shoulders. He didn't flinch or grimace at this burden, because he was ready for it. Everyone in the sept cried out in one voice: " Faith save the King!" Seven times they made this declaration.

In the rainbow of light that filled Casterly Rock's glamorous sept he arose as Daeron Targaryen the Third of His Name, King of all Westeros, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.

She was very distracting.

Her breathtaking smile and dazzling green eyes were ensnaring.

The septon could burst into flames in front of me and I don't think I'd notice.

She was as radiant as the sun. She was dressed in white silk with sleeves lined with gold satin. Her low cut gown showed teasing glimpses of her creamy skin and pale breasts. A swirl of rubies that shimmered like stars were sown into the bodice. Red myrish lace was expertly laced with the white silk and gold satin. There were more splashes of gold that were woven in to make it look as if she had captured sunlight itself. The Lannister lion could be seen embroidered proudly and beautifully.

"You may cloak the bride and bring her under his protection." The septon's words somehow pushed their way through to get his attention.

He unclasped the Lannister's maiden cloak and handed it to Lord Tywin, who took it with a small, proud smile and then dipped his head to him.

His family's cloak was unavailable to him, but in another display of Lannister riches and resources, they had one commissioned for him, and its design was of his personal standard. The cloak was black as night. The dragon's body and its first head shone with rubies, the second head was gold, and the final head was made of pearls. It was Oberyn who handed him his new cloak, his friend agreeing to take the role his father was supposed to fill.

Finally, he thought when he stepped back to admire her draped in his family's cloak and colors. There was not a more perfect sight. The smile she gave him shone brighter than any of the gems she wore.

"We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever."

Daeron took her hand in his. They had eyes only for each other as the septon proceeded to tie the ribbon around their joined hands and spoke the following lines.

"Let it be known that Cersei Lannister and Daeron Targaryen are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who seeks to tear them asunder."

Rhaegar, He felt the hot anger simmering within him. He had tried to stop me, but nothing or no one in the Seven Kingdoms would stop him from marrying Cersei. Rhaegar will rue the day he thought he could break my betrothal. In that one choice, my brother planted the seeds of his ruin.

The rest of the ceremony was a blur that passed between him and her until he found himself saying the closing words. "With this kiss, I pledge my love," Daeron declared, turning to his wife to kiss her.

The husband and wife basked in the celebratory noise that burst forth at the wedding's conclusion for a few moments before he signaled for it to be brought forward. It's time to crown my queen.

It would not be as elaborate or as detailed as his. When the war was won he and her would be crowned again with all the pomp and splendor in the Sept of Baelor in front of all the lords and ladies of Westeros. The crown that was brought to him was one he had created for her. It was a crown of gold set with emeralds and amethysts, rubies, and black onyx. It was a thin band to keep it light.

The septon made a move to take it, but Daeron stopped him. He ignored the man's confusion, and picked up the crown himself. He would let no other do this.

"I, Daeron Targaryen, the King of all Westeros, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men name Cersei Lannister as my queen." He gently placed it atop her golden head.

Daeron and Cersei would leave the Casterly Rock sept as the King and Queen of Westeros.


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Curious to see what Daeron does next? You can get a head start on Daeron the Defiant: A Second Dance of Dragons by checking out the early chapters on my Website at https://dravenshadefall-shop.fourthwall.com

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