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81.81% Daeron the Defiant: A Second Dance of Dragons (Complete) / Chapter 36: Chapter 36: 282 AC: Heart

Chapter 36: Chapter 36: 282 AC: Heart

Jaime:

War was boring.

That's what Jaime had learned all these months away from his family. Sure, there were seconds scattered with death and horror, violence and blood, but with war there seemed to be hardly any fighting. It was not as if he wished to throw himself into the peril of battle, risking his life since the possibility of never seeing his wife again or his newborn son were chilling thoughts he didn't wish to dwell on.

He felt like he was just stating a simple fact. War wasn't at all what he was told it would be. It was a revelation to him, the unmasking of a lie that had held sway over him all his life. War wasn't some glorious song with heroic battles and romantic duels it was digging and sitting, marching and planning, waiting and nothing.

War seemed less about fighting and more about just surviving. Enduring the sickness that would sweep through your camp without detection until it was too late, to endure dwindling food supplies, to endure the low spirits among the soldiers who wanted to go home. War was about enduring the hardships while still having the strength and discipline to be able strike your enemy. I'm not yearning for battle; He wasn't a fool. I'm yearning for my wife.

He looked up from where he had made the guest chambers of Goldengrove his, which included his own solar. I'm yearning for a reunion; I'm yearning to meet my son. He looked down at the reports he still needed to read and tried not to sigh.

Lord Rowan had lost his castle more than a fortnight ago, escaping with a few soldiers. His cowardly retreat in the night didn't go unnoticed by those who remained in his castle or in the small town that lay parallel to the castle along the river. Lord Rowan's chambers went to Jaime's friend and king, Daeron. The taking of this castle was the last excitement Jaime had experienced in some time. It was hardly a battle or a siege, a brief skirmish and then a surrender. Not even the most talented bard could spin a compelling tale from it.

He thought about all those stories he tried to absorb growing up in the Rock, wanting to know about his father's victories and family triumphs. Oh, the questions I should've asked:

Please Uncle tell me the story of when you dug the trenches. Or explain to me how you built that wall. How much dirt and wood did you use again? Or how long did you sit and wait and do nothing before leaving? Two weeks? Three?

He smiled at the absurdity, but that's what war seemed to be. It was long stretches of nothing filled with sudden violence, death, and destruction before returning back to the nothing. When there wasn't fighting there was marching. When there weren't battles there were latrines to be dug. It was preparations of supplies, questions of how to feed the men and horses not how to use them in battle. That's what threatened their cause the most. Losing the army not in battle but to starvation and desertion if they couldn't be fed. If supply lines couldn't be secured.

And it falls on me.

"How are you settling in?"

"Your Grace," He was already rising out of his seat to greet his king before Daeron stopped him.

"Lord Hand," His friend returned the greeting.

One of Daeron's inspired ideas had been to name Jaime his Hand. He had not thought it wise and tried to dissuade him, but Daeron wouldn't hear of it.

"What about my father?" Jaime had protested, believing that was someone capable of being Daeron's Hand. "He is the better choice," he had argued, he isn't bound to fail, but Jaime hadn't voiced those last doubts to his friend and king, those stayed with him.

"Your father declined," Daeron had answered after a beat of silence, "Besides, naming you Lord Hand, means I can include Elia," He had winked at him, smiling.

Jaime had laughed, feeling the tension and doubt drain from him. "A very wise choice, Your Grace."

The memory slipped away to return him to Goldengrove where his friend, and king waited for his answer. "I still haven't finished decorating, Your Grace," He gestured to where one of Lord Rowan's tapestries still hung.

"We can't have that, Lord Hand." He didn't sit, he merely walked, eyes never settling on any one thing in the room. Aegon's crown rested on his head. He wore black silks that were encrusted with rubies, with Darksister sheathed on his hip. It presented a kingly image, but Jaime wouldn't follow his friend to the end because of how he looked. It was what was in his heart that had made Jaime so readily join him.

"I hate to tear you away from these reports," The King said in a voice that seemed to say he didn't really hate it at all, "But we've received news."

Jaime perked. War was often walking a dagger's edge with any bit of news having the potential to push them over the edge.

"Lord Tyrell's army is on the way."

"I suppose he isn't coming to congratulate you on your victory."

Daeron laughed. "No, I don't believe so."

"Pity," Jaime drawled, "What of my father? Has there been any news?"

"He's still besieging Old Oak," He answered, "But the last message made it clear your father hoped to take it shortly."

We're on our own, he realized. He didn't know Lord Tyrell's full strength but he imagined it was likely larger than theirs. Father had taken men to Old Oak and to raid along the coast as they marched south. They did have the addition of Oberyn and his men. Their friend had been busy after he left the Rock to return to Dorne. The Dornish Prince had been leading riders throughout the Reach, burning and attacking in lightning strike raids and retreating before defenses could be formed.

"We'll hold Goldengrove." There was absolute certainty in the king's voice. "The defenses are being prepared to accommodate their arrival. Lord Tyrell doesn't worry me."

"What of his lords?" Jaime admired the king's confidence and believed in him and their chances. Lord Tyrell was also not the sort of lord to inspire worry, but he did have competent men in his retinue.

"Lords Rowan and Tarly seem to be accompanying him," Daeron's expression didn't reveal his thoughts on those details.

Lord Rowan made sense. He's likely still a little peeved we took his castle . Lord Tarly too. He was a man who knew war and how to fight and had already proven both since the war started.

"The defenses will hold, and this castle will remain mine," A gleam came to his eyes when he turned to Jaime. "Or should I say yours." His smile was small and sincere, "When this war is over, I mean to diminish the influence of the Reach. Goldengrove and Old Oak and all lands north of them will be given to House Lannister and be made part of the Westerlands."

Daeron was to divide the Reach like a pie, handing out slices to himself and his allies.

That was how their king had bluntly put it as they sat around eating their supper that evening.

"You do not disappoint," Oberyn leaned back in his seat, perfectly relaxed.

When Daeron had earlier told Jaime that the lands north of Goldengrove and Old Oak were to be given to his family, he nearly gaped, caught off guard by such a gesture. They were generous gifts, but they appeared one of many changes that his friend was planning on making with the Reach when they won the war.

"The Crownlands is too small," a detailed map of the Reach had been found by the castle's maester and brought to them. "But if I take these lands and put them under my direct rule, the Crownlands will become more formidable." The these lands he was casually referring to were all the castles and land east of Cider Hall that would now fall under his dominion those included Longtable, Bitterbridge, and Grassy Vale.

In one stroke, the Crownlands income, land, and men would be doubled and likely more. "What will become of the Tyrells?"

The King's smile appeared sharper than Dark Sister. "They will be punished." His finger tapped Highgarden's spot on the map, "They may keep the castle, but there will be very little that will remain of their power."

They rose against him, Jaime thought, and Daeron would shatter them for it.

He wasn't sure if it was their loyalty to his brother or their power and influence that had made them such a target for Daeron's ire and attention. They made a choice, to some Rhaegar was the lawful choice, to those who didn't know the Crown Prince like they did, they believed he was the right choice. Jaime couldn't fault them that, but Daeron planned to make sure the Reach could never again rise against him. It made him think of his father and how he had handled the Reynes and the Tarbecks, the examples he had made of them to the rest of his bannermen. Was that what his friend was doing? Making an example out of the Tyrells?

"The castles in the south such as Ashford will be given to Robert, as a reward for his loyalty, and will be included in the Stormlands while Uplands, Sunflower Hall, and others will be taken from the Reach and given to Dorne."

"You're redrawing the map," Jaime couldn't believe it. "What of the rivalries?" These kingdoms' histories were filled with stories of the battles and wars between Dorne and the Reach, between the Reach and Stormlands. Now, his friend was expecting these same Reach lords to swear fealty to old enemies who were now to become new overlords.

"I'm simply making a correction."

He was going to break Rhaegar's base; Jaime saw that his friend wanted to make sure the Reach could never marshal such an army again. When Daeron was through, the Reach would be a shell of itself. He was looking ahead to the battles that had yet to be fought, of the threat the Tyrells could be to his reign or that of his children if they remained so rich and strong. He was cutting and dividing them to try to insure that could never happen. The question was: Would it work? Or could it lead to new troubles down the road?

"The war isn't over, Your Grace," Oberyn warned, sipping his wine.

"It isn't, but Lord Tyrell's army will break here." He said it with the utmost confidence, as if it was already a fact written in the history books. "Old Oak will soon fall." His hands mirroring his words along the map. "The Ironborn's raids along the coast have the Reach reeling."

"Your brother still has allies," Oberyn adjusted himself in his seat, but still didn't feel inclined to sit up. "The Golden Company are not farmers with rusted swords and wooden clubs. They are soldiers, and some of the best I've seen."

They had yet to cross paths with the famous sellswords. Jaime had thought it a bad jape when they learned that Rhaegar brought the Golden Company over. The same army that was repelled by his father and other lords who still presided over their castles and lands. What were they to think of their sacrifice? They fought them off only to have to watch them be invited by their king. Jaime could only wonder what support Rhaegar lost by welcoming the army of the Usurper to their shores.

The last they heard; the Golden Company was somewhere in the Crownlands. The Vale and the Stormlands had both spiraled into bloody civil wars over which Targaryen king to follow. Most of the enemy Riverlords had had gone south to join the crownlands, mercenaries, and stormlords against Robert's armies that included stormlords and Dornishlords, and hopefully, soon the Vale Lords under Lord Arryn.

There had been some skirmishing and a lot of marching, Jaime thought, remembering all the different reports he had received over the months, but very few actual battles had been fought. The sort of battles that you would read in the history books. The ones he pretended to be in when he was a child, with a wooden sword.

He imagined they'd go east themselves if they were successful in beating Lord Tyrell, but he did begin to wonder with what his friend had planned for the Reach, would he march their forces south to sack Highgarden if their path was unimpeded?

"Do not mistake my confidence for arrogance," Daeron said softly after a beat of silence as if measuring Oberyn's words and weighing his response. "You have all put your lives and homes and families at risk to support me, that is not something I take lightly." He paused, something flashed over his expression, but Jaime couldn't put his finger on what it was. "I will not fail, and I will make sure we do not fall."

"The thought never crossed my mind," Oberyn's hands were behind his back.

The King looked relieved, but then he raised his wineglass which partially blocked his face. And when he finished drinking, the expression was gone. "We will be ready for the Golden Company when the time comes just as we will be ready for my brother, but for now our attention must stay on Lord Tyrell and his armies." he poured himself more wine. "And I believe we are ready to bring the Reach to their knees."

Goldengrove was ready for battle.

The sun was shining and there was a nice breeze in the air that was cool against his skin. The ground was still muddy from the earlier rain. A small mercy, he thought, hoping the muddy terrain would remain since it could help them against the Reach's heavy cavalry.

Lord Tyrell's army had been sighted which meant the battle would surely begin in the next couple days.

Jaime looked for his king. You just need to follow the sound of swords, which he did, Daeron's personal banners waved above Jaime as he passed, but in this part of the camp, they were joined by a different banner. It was of a dragon's head displaying its bloody maw, while flashing its sharp teeth, resting on a black field. It was one of his friend's newest ideas- The Dragon's Teeth.

He was trying to recognize and recruit the best for it: warriors, riders, scouts, archers. Their backgrounds were mostly through the minor nobility and knights, but there were plenty of eager and talented commoners too, drawn in by the chance of gold and the possibility to advance through merit instead of blood. It was a temptation that drew many to seek acceptance into the Dragon's Teeth, but the forces did not accept just anyone. Those who were eventually accepted were now expected to serve with absolute loyalty to King Daeron regardless of where they hailed from and to which lord they were previously pledged to. Only the king or a member of his kingsguard could lead these forces into battle. Or possibly the Hand, he should ask, it could prove to be important.

Jaime remembered one of the Great Bastards had a similar idea, The Raven's teeth, he thought they were called, before frowning. Do ravens even have teeth? He put that aside to watch the men train.

Victarion was putting them through their paces. The Ironborn towered over most of the men, an intimidating force and a talented warrior. Jaime had often seen Victarion training them which often led to thrashing them. A tribute to his incredible talent that even the best men that Daeron had recruited had trouble fighting the Ironborn. It made him better understand why his friend had decided to include him into his kingsguard.

"Lord Hand," Daeron had spotted and then approached him while Jaime had been distracted by his thoughts.

He immediately bowed his head. "Your Grace," He looked up to see Daeron was flanked by Sers Gwayne Gaunt and Kyle Royce. The first member of his friend's kingsguard and his newest, Jaime observed. The young Valeman had arrived after Daeron's coronation to inform them of his family as well as Lord Arryn's intentions to raise their banner for King Daeron. Ser Royce arrived at the Rock as a messenger, but he left it as the seventh and last member of Daeron's kingsguard.

"They're ready," Daeron turned to watch his Dragon's Teeth prepare for battle. "Lewyn and Victarion have molded their already remarkable talent and potential into something greater."

"They are impressive."

Daeron nodded, his eyes on his personal standard swaying in the breeze. His mouth a thin line when he turned to face him. "The town?"

"I do not think they will join him," Jaime felt confident in his assessment. He had instructed his men to pay for any food or other supplies, and to not bother the townsfolk. Failure to do would be swiftly and publicly punished. He had wanted to ease the townsfolk's burden at having an army at their gates. If they were to be his people, then he would treat them as such.

"I trust your judgment. It's theirs I don't trust." Daeron's eyes had turned to said town. "What about precautions?"

"I've already seen to it, Your Grace," Jaime hoped they wouldn't be needed.

That pleased his king. "Excellent," He gestured for him to follow. "Come, we're off to ride to meet Lord Tyrell."

Jaime didn't argue. He simply followed his king.

It was a short ride to where the Reach lords were waiting for them. Their horses in gilded armor and silk trappings. Their banners flapping behind them. The Lord Tyrell rose was grouped with Lord Tarly's huntsmen and Lord Rowan's golden tree on the right. The Targaryen three headed dragon was present but was looking ridiculously out of place. A vicious looking dragon to inspire fear, he thought, and a tree and rose to inspire… growing? Jaime could only guess.

Daeron met them in his armor atop his war horse. The black plate gleamed in the sun. His chestplate was bare, not taking after his brother, who had placed a three headed dragon made of rubies on his. His pauldrons were made to look like fearsome dragons with rubies for eyes, but it was his helmet which was the most impressive and intimidating feature of his armor.

It was elaborately designed to be made in the shape of a snarling dragon's head. When the helm was closed it completed the look to make it absolutely menacing. It was hard to describe why it was so chilling, it just was. On the battlefield, it made him look like some sort of demon stalking for his next prey. He had seen men pale at its sight before being cut down by Dark Sister. Not counting Lords Tyrell and Rowan, who looked unsettled by it. To his surprise, he had learned the helm had been a gift from Cersei, he didn't think his sister could've picked anything better.

The helm was replaced by Aegon's crown. A deliberate act to allow the Reach Lords to see its debut and then watch as it was placed on his head. Ser Barristan had come forward to give Daeron his crown and stayed close, poised to defend his king at the slightest sign of trouble. The legendary knight's presence didn't go unnoticed. Jaime thought that it was another deliberate display. Behind Ser Barristan were Sers Gwayne and Brynden.

"What crown is that?" Lord Tarly's gaze was scrutinizing.

"Mine," Daeron answered simply, with a small smile when he saw Lord Tarly glower, "but before me it was known as the Conqueror's crown." That revelation drew wide eye looks from the Reach Lords as their gazes flickered between the crown and Daeron's face as if wondering if this was some sort of trick.

"That crown belongs to your brother," Lord Tyrell finally found his voice, which was indignant on behalf of the absent Rhaegar.

"Dorne did not give it to Rhaegar," Oberyn spoke up, earning scowls from Lords Tarly and Tyrell, "And Dorne never will," Atop his horse he gestured to where Daeron was, "We recognize King Daeron the Third as the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms and no other."

"As do the Westerlands," Jaime spoke up to let them know that they faced the might of such powerful families and kingdoms.

"Treason," Mace sniffed disdainfully at their declarations, "And proud of it?" He shook his head in disgust.

"Surrender, Prince Daeron," Lord Tarly said bluntly, "and we can guarantee you safe passage to King Rhaegar. He will be lenient," he said the word as if it pained him.

"Is my brother still behind the walls of King's Landing?" Daeron didn't wait for them to answer, "It does not matter because I will see him soon enough."

"This isn't a game, Prince," Lord Tarly warned. "This is not some silly childish duel to first blood. This is war." His hand moved to the hilt of his family's ancestral sword, Heartsbane.

The action immediately stirred a response from Ser Barristan who drew his steel while Gwayne and Brynden came into circle Daeron.

Tarly was either very foolish or very sure of himself to make such a provoking gesture. To reach for steel in the presence of any member of the royal family was madness. The Lord of Horn Hill didn't look intimidated by what he invoked, only satisfied.

Daeron hadn't even flinched. "Your concern for my wellbeing is noted, Lord Tarly."

"You are trespassing, Prince Daeron," Lord Rowan couldn't take being quiet any longer. "You've unlawfully seized my castle and I demand you give it back to me."

"The only thing I'll give you is six feet of soil," With that King Daeron turned his horse and left.

It would be battle.

Are we losing?

That was the terrible realization that was washing over Jaime Lannister.

Arrows!

The Reach army was raining volley after volley of arrows onto them.

They hadn't prepared for such an attack. The Reach was their heavy knights, their cavalry charges, that was what their defenses had been set up to stop. That was why they had positioned Dornish spearmen and Westermen pikes where they did in an arc formation which allowed their flanks to be defended by the river and the moat that ringed around the town and castle.

Jaime's back was pressed close to a tall earth mound. His shield raised to protect his head. He winced every time he heard the thud of an arrow hit his shield or wound or slay one of his men. He couldn't see his friend in this mess of fighting, but a recent runner had told him the Reach infantry was pressing along their lines after receiving such stellar support from their archers. He imagined that's where his king was, in the thick of the battle with his knights to try to stop the tide from shifting under their feet.

In his position, he saw very little infantry, they were likely poking the defenses and then pressuring where they found or forced gaps. He turned to his direct commanders, his cousin Ser Lyonel Frey and Ser Kyle Royce. They had been assigned to stay with him by Daeron. A small act that easily conveyed the sort of man his friend was. A king willing to lend his own kingsguard knights to protect his friends and allies. Was that not a king worth following?

A cry went up and Jaime knew the signal. The infantry was marching towards them. His suspicion confirmed when he saw the banners flapping in the breeze of the lords and knights, below the banners, men-at-arms began rushing them, screaming and shouting curses and threats.

"HOLD!" Jaime would not fail. They would not break.

The impact of the infantry against them was a wave slamming against a rock. Many of his men were killed from the shock and swift swords and spears that slashed their way. Jaime went where a gap threatened to appear, sword raised, from the corner of his vision, he saw the two kingsguard knights follow him into the fray.

His first opponent never got over his initial shock at Jaime's sudden appearance and his sword carved through him with ease. The man fell, his surprise permanently pressed into his expression. The second fell just as quickly. Up and down in his dim awareness of his surroundings, he saw his line buckle, but never break. Jaime made sure to lead by example. He pushed off one Reachmen with his shield causing the man to stumble and Jaime's sword was there to cut him down.

That was when he heard the trumpeting sound, and Jaime knew at once what it was. It was a cavalry charge. In the maddening haze of battle, it was the sweetest noise he could've heard. The Reach lords wouldn't realize their mistake until it was too late…

As soon as Jaime saw him in the bloody chaos of the battlefield, he knew what he had to do. His opponent had been unseated from his horse, but the Reach Lord valiantly fought off every attack from their forces, but Jaime wasn't worried because those men weren't him. It wasn't until he cut down another westerland soldier did the lord notice his approach. For a split second, Jaime nearly charged, afraid that by seeing him, the lord would flee, but to his surprise he didn't.

Lord Randyl Tarly shifted himself and his valyrian steel sword, Heartsbane in Jaime's direction and smiled. "Ser Jaime," he nearly inclined his head towards him.

"Lord Tarly," Jaime returned the greeting while taking in his opponent's stance. The battle suddenly had shrunk to Lord Tarly and the space between them. And then in what seemed like a blink, the space was gone, and their swords clashed against each other.

Steel greeted steel in attack and thrust, parry and block. They moved and mirrored each other, striking and dodging, moving and planning. Jaime's thoughts could barely be heard over the metal clang of their swords.

Lord Tarly grunted from his greatsword swing, sensing victory only to be met with air. His plate armor was covered in blood and mud, with very few scratches or dents to be found. Heartsbane's reach gave the Reach lord an advantage as well as its superior craftsmanship. Jaime's castle forged steel was the best to be found in the Westerlands, but even it paled to valyrian steel.

There, his thoughts stopped in an instant as a new thought swarmed his mind, ATTACK! Lord Tarly had overextended himself with his last strike and Jaime moved in. His aim was true, giving a quick jab that allowed his sword to poke and puncture Lord Tarly's elbow. Hitting the gap to avoid the armor.

Lord Tarly's reaction was immediate. He winced and cursed, flailing the greatsword in a desperate arc to push Jaime back, but the action made him flinch. He was certain he nicked muscle or bone given how the Reach Lord was now moving. He spared the wound the barest of glances, seeing the first bloom of blood, before Jaime was pressing him.

The latest attack had Tarly reeling and one arm dipping, but the Reach Lord tried to push him back, in wide, angry lashes like a wounded bear trying to stave off the hungry wolves. Jaime spun away from the sword, turning to find himself behind Tarly and with cat-like quickness, his sword slashed at his knees, cutting both with one arc of steel. That brought the Lord of Horn Hill to his knees where Jaime's sword was waiting, severing Lord Tarly's head from his shoulders.

There had been no surrender. There had been no ransom. In the heat of battle, Jaime had just seen red. His blood pumping in his ears and his chest pounding. His senses were beginning to drift around him now that his duel was over. Allowing him to notice that the battle was turning into a slaughter of their forces over the Reach's.

The Battle of Goldengrove was over and Heartsbane was his.

"My family will pay whatever you ask for, Your Grace."

Jaime nearly snorted at that, watching Lord Tyrell on bended knee in front of King Daeron. The Lord of Highgarden who disparaged Daeron before the battle now came before him like a meek supplicant. Defeat and chains, he thought, could change a man.

Daeron regarded his prized prisoner from where he sat at the dais in the great hall of the castle. "There was a time, Lord Tyrell, when you did not believe I was even worthy to be betrothed to one of your sisters."

Mace cringed on his knees. "A mistake," He quickly supplied.

"Obviously," Prince Oberyn sat on one side of King Daeron while Jaime was sitting on the other.

He couldn't see his friend's expression, but Jaime could imagine the fangless smile that the Dornish Prince would show to the Reach Lord. Pleased, and amused at seeing such a fall in fortunes of their rivals. Jaime had been relieved and grateful to see his friends had survived and came away unscathed from serious injury. In talking to them and hearing from others, he was able to piece together the rest of the battle.

His friend had proved a man of his word. Daeron had struck down Lord Rowan on the battlefield. It had been Lord Rowan who ordered the charge, sensing victory and wanting to make the decisive blow in getting his castle back, Lord Tarly had been forced to follow. Their lines had held all along the formation which sent the Reach knights and lords in total disarray at their charge being repelled. They were expecting to pluck this victory like ripe fruit before discovering to their horror that the fruit wouldn't budge. The riders were then swarmed and picked apart by Dornish spears and Westerland pikes. The earlier ditches that had been dug hindered and harmed the Reach's charge throughout their lines.

Jaime was only half listening to the prisoner's pleas. There were only so many ways one could beg and only so many promises one could make. His smile looked more pathetic than pleasant, plastered over his hopeful look, oblivious that his kingdom's fate had already been decided

To Lord Tyrell's credit he acquitted himself well in the battle despite either allowing or ordering Lord Rowan's charge. The Lord of Highgarden did try to ride in to save his army sensing the catastrophe they were tumbling towards. He led his forces right into the center, striking hard but he had unknowingly chosen where Daeron had put his elite warriors. The Dragon's Teeth proved their mettle by not breaking to the lord's charge, and the combination of their position with waiting fresh reinforcements, they quickly surrounded and tore the cavalry apart with swords and spears.

The Lord of Highgarden had then tried to flee, but Victarion Greyjoy went through several soldiers and knights with his axe. It was said the iron born had seized Mace Tyrell while the lord was still on his horse and dragged him off it. Considering the Ironborn's size and strength, Jaime found it one of the more believable stories. He had even heard Victarion's impressive display of his strength and in the way he seized Tyrell had earned him a new name among some of the men, Iron Fist. Jaime wasn't sure if the name would stick or how the Ironborn felt about it. He likely grunted, Jaime thought that was the only safe prediction he could make.

"Take Lord Tyrell to his new quarters," The King instructed. It seemed Jaime hadn't been the only one growing tired of the Lord of Highgarden's endless pleas. "Clear the hall."

The guards obeyed while Mace was taken away with the dignity of a noble hostage. Those who had been milling left without protest besides a few glances and furrowed brows. Most of whom were lords and knights and soldiers, but some of the townsfolk were also there.

Jaime had learned that some in the town did try to take up arms and fight for Lord Rowan while seemingly sensing the Reach's victory, but they were swiftly subdued by the men Jaime had put in place. He had hoped he had gotten through to them with his warnings, but their loyalty and the fever of battle and promise of glory had led them astray.

He respected that loyalty and was hoping for the same. That was why he had instructed his guards to subdue and not slaughter if the townsfolk strayed. After the initial attempt was thwarted, there was no more protest or attempts. Seemingly realizing their former liege lord had no chance for victory.

"Could I be the one to tell him your plans for the Reach and Highgarden?" Oberyn's dark eyes glittered. The Dornish prince waited until after Mace Tyrell was escorted and the hall emptied before asking his question.

Daeron chuckled. "I will consider it." The crown gave off a reddish glow when the firelight hit the gems. He sighed, scratching at his brow. "The ravens will be busy tonight."

Jaime agreed, after a battle such as theirs with an outcome so decisive there would be many letters and reports that needed to be written and sent to their allies. Others would be written to spread news of their victory, but it would not just be sent to their families and allies but to potential ones, those who either hadn't picked a side or were still with Rhaegar. The Battle of Goldengrove would let all of them know the newfound danger their position was suddenly in after the Reach had been so soundly beaten and powerful lords either slain or captured.

He had thankfully already sent his letter off with one of the castle's ravens. He wrote of the battle briefly, barely mentioning the new sword he acquired before spending the rest of it, asking after his wife and son. He felt a pang in his chest in thinking what he was missing with his child, he had yet to hold. Elia's words were vivid, and Jaime's mind's eye tried to conjure their baby, but it was not the same as seeing him with his own eyes and holding him with his own hands.

What was worse was he did not know when he'd receive their next letter with all the marching and traveling and his wife not knowing where to send it. He imagined a rider would eventually track him down, but by then, the stories would've been old, and many new and exciting ones would have come and gone while he was away. He tried not to sigh, but the slight pang in his chest was too hard to ignore. It took the king's voice to pull him from his reflections.

"Heartsbane," his friend and king didn't try to hide how impressed he was with Jaime's new sword and the manner in which he got it. "Your father will be pleased at your recovery of a new valyrian steel sword.

"Yes, he would," Jaime had done in one battle what his father couldn't do in countless years with his dozens of offers and piles and promises of gold. He had worried on Lord Tarly's fate in its aftermath when he was no longer under the spell of battle. When in the heat of the fighting his instincts and training were seemingly moving faster than his rational thoughts. At how he struck him down without chance for mercy and ransom. It haunted him in imagining what if it was, he, who was in Lord Tarly's place, him being cut down remorselessly without thought without ever meeting his son or seeing his wife again. The cold fear curled itself around his heart.

"It needs a new hilt," Jaime said suddenly, not wanting to dwell on that potential future for him. He was even considering having the greatsword melted down if possible, thinking that there could be enough valyrian steel for two swords.

"Something with lions?" Oberyn suggested dryly.

Jaime smiled, "there's an inspired thought."

"This is pleasant," Their king observed, savoring the smiles and silence of a hall filled only with friends. "Let us enjoy this moment, brief as it is, appreciate our victory, and our survival and hope that our absent friends are faring just as well as us." he gestured for them to pick up his glasses with him.

He approved of the sentiment. He could almost let himself believe that they weren't in the middle of a war inside a stranger's castle and that they were back in King's Landing or Casterly Rock, all of them, happy and together. Like they had done so many times before,

"To King Daeron," Oberyn toasted, "Long may he reign."

"To King Daeron," in the pause of a heartbeat he thought all about what his friend had done and will do. The confidence and hope of what was to come helped to soothe the lonely ache that swelled in his chest at the family he was missing. "Who will prove to be the best of them."

"To my friends, I could ask for none better," he told them, "The Red Viper," the two's glasses clanged together before Daeron turned to him, "and to Jaime the Lionheart."

Lysa:

It just wasn't fair.

I'm to be the Lady of the Vale, she thought proudly, but they still treated her like the little girl who followed Cat around or who wanted to play those silly kissing games with Petyr in the godswood. My son will be the Warden of the East. That should mean something, but here she was lying in her room, ignored or forgotten as her father made his plans and had his meetings.

I wish Uncle Brynden was here. His absence made her confinement to Riverrun all the more unbearable. Father had been very upset when Uncle Brynden decided to follow Prince Daeron, to swear an oath to the Targaryen prince without ever asking or telling Father. She had been upset too, but not like father. She was hurt, feeling abandoned by him.

Who am I supposed to talk to now? Who would help me when I'm mad or sad? No one, it was a harsh, but honest answer.

Lysa Tully sighed. She had been laying on her bed above the blankets, staring absently onto the blue canvas ceiling. The Tully trouts sewn into the cloth swimming above her head. She didn't like looking at her family's standard anymore. It reminded her of father who ignored her. It reminded her of her uncle who abandoned her.

Falcons, she conjured them in her mind, it made her think of her betrothed. She dreamed of him. Her heart was in the clouds, soaring the skies where they couldn't reach her, touch her, grab her. I'm free from all of them! She exalted happily. She would look down at them. Father would have to come to me, she could already picture herself sitting above the rest on her dais with her husband and new family. It was a pretty picture in her head, and it made her smile.

She turned over face down on the blanket. I should be Lysa Arryn, the denial rankled her. This stupid war happened, and it dashed her dreams of being with her Denys. This war was ruining everything! She was now stuck in this castle instead of being with her beloved, helping him, and growing large with their child and heir. I could be running the Vale as its Lady! She knew she'd do a good job.

In her mind's eye, she impressed all the servants and guards. In her heart, she could hear their whispering of how nice it was to have a lady's touch in the Vale, a warm presence in the halls, who had a pretty smile and sweet laugh. Then her heart ached when her thoughts rippled away like a stone being tossed into a still pool.

Lysa didn't even know where her Denys was. She couldn't help him here. The Vale was depending on her. His family was depending on her. I'm going to save the Arryn line. She would give Denys so many sons and daughters! The Vale Lords would be so grateful. They had grown so worried that the Arryn nest was so close to empty, but she would change that, and they'd love her for it. They'd thank her for it. Their words wouldn't be as sweet to Lysa's ears as that of her baby's, but it was still better than anything she'd ever heard here.

She groaned, turning on her side, but making sure her eyes didn't fall on any of the trout decorations that adorned her room sewn in the cloth, carved in the stone, etched in the wood. It was a hard task to accomplish, but it was a challenge that kept her busy. How long can I go without spotting a trout? It was a fun little game, but it couldn't hold back all of her thoughts and doubts that tried to grab her, especially those about her sister. In Riverrun, she was Catelyn's younger sister not as pretty or bright. She didn't draw the eye like her sister, she didn't receive the same respect.

Cat was the river and I'm the riverbank, she thought gloomily. Everyone wants to play and swim in the crystal-clear water and not its muddy shores.

It does not matter, she tried to force the thought through, because she was betrothed to a great lord not her sister. Cat wasn't even betrothed! She thumped the mattress with a closed fist. She felt guilty at the slight happiness that wormed in her heart at having something her perfect and precious sister didn't have. She tried to rise from her bed, before stopping herself with a simple question: why?

She wasn't needed. Father didn't summon her. Lysa had tried to seek him, to speak with him, to attend his discrete meetings in the solar, wanting to help, but he'd always stop her. He smiled down at her like she was a helpless kitten, pat her head or kiss her brow and send her off, saying she wasn't needed. Lysa would leave, but it hurt when she saw Father speaking with Cat, especially the look that shimmered in his eyes. It made something mean and sour grow and writhe in her stomach. That feeling and pain only hurt more when she feared that her sister would take her betrothed. It had been months ago, but its scars lingered.

Back when that stupid Stark insulted her sister and their family by taking some savage as a wife. Lysa feared more for herself than worried over the slight itself. She knew Father wanted the best match for his preferred daughter, and now she was free he could give it to her with the betrothal with the Vale.

The thought made Lysa sick for several days. Fear eating at her insides like hungry spiders. What made it worse was Cat persisted with visiting and tending to Lysa without complaint. I should've been helping her. The guilt had pressed painfully tight onto her belly. Cat never cried or complained about her broken betrothal, about the grave insult it had been. Instead, she helped me and Edmure and Father and rose above the whispers and the glances with the perfect poise that Lysa could never quite accomplish.

In the end, it had been her beloved who had saved her. He had come to her like the dashing knight he was. He had come to call on her. The sparks of war were beginning to ignite throughout the Kingdoms. Father, who had just hosted Prince Daeron, received powerful nobles and enticing messages from both sides, but Denys hadn't come for her father, he had come to see her.

Me, she thought happily, it was me he wanted to see. It was me he wanted to speak to. She had been afraid to receive him despite her giddy relief at his presence. The fear that was still thick in her throat, sticky and clumpy like those mud pies she and Cat use to trick Petyr into eating. One look at me, she thought miserably, and he'll speak to Father about Cat. Her face had been pale and streaked with tears. Her hair was a bush of wild, ugly auburn curls that lashed this way and that like angry tree branches.

I will marry you; he had told her at once, taking her hands in his. His grip was so tender, which always surprised her, having so often seen him in the sparring yard with her uncle and how fearsome he looked when he fought. It will be us, my lady, he had promised her, kissing her fingers, that made her face grow hot and cause something different to stir in her belly. It was a new feeling, what his mouth was able to coax from her, but she found it pleasant despite its initial strangeness, and one she couldn't quite replicate without him.

The memory fluttered away leaving her cold and alone. She sat up from her bed, her feet dangling off it. There was no Denys here to hold or comfort her. To give her those delightful kisses that would've scandalized Father, which had only made her happier at sharing them with Denys. It is no sin to enjoy your love, she wasn't worried, because she was right. She felt it in her heart, in her blood. She had even tried to make them one flesh before he rode off to the Vale, but he had stopped her.

I will make you my wife not my whore, he had told her in the dim candlelight of his room. She had snuck in, cuddling and kissing him, offering all of her to him. His rejection had initially stung, but she felt the small relief swell at knowing he still wanted her, and that he respected her. His blue eyes told her that and so much more. He had sealed his promise by kissing her with such passion, her toes curled at its memory.

"Lysa?"

"Yes?" She tried not to grumble as her precious memory of Denys' kissing wafted away like smoke.

The door creaked open to show her sister.

"What's wrong?" Lysa found herself asking. Her wistful longing snuff by cold fear.

"Nothing," Cat's warmth was always so reassuring. She then showed the reason for her arrival, a sealed letter, and even from across the room Lysa could clearly see the sky blue and white seal of House Arryn.

Lysa scurried from off her bed, nearly tripping over her gown to reach her sister, and more importantly the letter she was holding. She took it with a sharp snatch, nearly ripping it open before restraint finally settled on her mind to make her careful with her cut. The letter unfurled, revealing its contents to Lysa's greedy eyes. She devoured the black ink, her mouth moving while she read.

She was aware but unconcerned of her sister's watchful eyes since Denys' words pulled her away, out of her room in Riverrun to a place where it was only her and him. It was so lovely. When it was over, she let out a happy sigh, collapsing onto the nearest chair, still holding the letter.

"I take it he is well?" Cat's question slowly cut through the haze in Lysa's mind, "and still very much in love?" There was a teasing lilt in her voice.

"He is," Lysa felt her cheeks grow warm. The words sinking into her mind, his affection, his desire, his longing for her, settling themselves onto her heart.

"I'm glad," Cat sounded to have meant it, taking the seat across from her. She didn't press or pester, sitting quietly as if content by Lysa's own happiness and warm reflections.

"Cat?" Lysa eventually said, a part of Denys' letter sticking out like a lone thorn, pricking at her.

"Yes?"

She nearly bit her lip in thought and hesitation not wanting to be seen as a fool or a child. "Is someone still family even if they're fighting against us?"

"They are," Cat answered without judgment, and after a second of quiet contemplation, "You're speaking of the Whents?"

Lysa nodded, relieved that her older sister didn't tease or chide her for her question. She knew it was silly, but it was still so confusing for her, this war and it didn't help that they didn't tell her anything.

Mother was a Whent, she knew her uncles and cousins, having visited their monstrous castle many times and them visiting theirs. They had joined Rhaegar's side in the war. Some had died in the fighting. That was what Denys had written to her. That her uncle and two of her cousins had perished in battle against his forces. My uncle and cousins fighting my betrothed. It just didn't make sense to her.

"Father spoke of them," her sister revealed.

"What did he say?" She didn't know why she asked since she doubted, she'd be told anything.

"He told me of their deaths," Cat said solemnly, sounding and looking so mature and wise. "The Riverlands are fighting under both Targaryen banners, but you know father has yet to declare his loyalties."

"Will he?" Lysa feared how Father's choices could impact them, especially her betrothal with Denys, since he was part of the Vale lords fighting under King Daeron's banner.

Cat's fingers were laced and in her lap. "He will," she answered, "The last few days he received two ravens, one was from the Reach and one from the West."

Lysa straightened up in her seat. These few sentences spoken about the war had been the most said to her about it in weeks. "From both sides?" She knew both Targaryens were trying to get Father to join them, offering alliances and speaking of betrothals. She knew little and only that from overhearing, which made her rely all the more on guessing, not facts.

"No," her sister's answer surprised her, "One was from Queen Cersei, the other from her husband, King Daeron."

She recalled them both from their visit to her father's castle after the tournament. Lysa had spied Cersei in the yard on more than one occasion, fighting with her sword. An exercise she had heard Father scoff at and dismiss. She had wanted to say something to him then, to rebuke him but she hesitated, and the moment passed. I would've said, she tried to think, but the right words never did come as clearly and strongly to her like they did to her father or sister. At how Cersei saved us with that sword, recalling how ferocious she had been that day in the carriage, at how she killed that man in front of them. She pushed the memory away before it could settle, the blood she saw and terror she felt from that incident had a way of threatening her stomach.

"Do you know what they said?"

"No," Again her sister's answer surprised her, but for a very different reason.

"No?" Lysa repeated, how could Cat not know? She knew everything.

Catelyn gave a small smile, amused at her incredulous reaction. "I do not know everything," she said while correctly reading Lysa's thoughts. "All I know was it was enough for him," She looked down at her hands resting on her lap. "He's made his decision."

"Who will he be supporting?" Lysa wanted to hear it plainly. She didn't want to have to think it through because what if she got it wrong?

"King Daeron Targaryen."


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 37: Chapter 37: Endure

Rhaella:

"Your Grace?"

"Yes?"

"Should we be heading in?"

"Not yet," Rhaella Targaryen wasn't ready to return to the Red Keep. She wasn't ready to hear about what was happening outside the walls of the city. She wanted to be foolish for a little longer. She knew how childish it was, but she didn't care. She needed this. This lie is my shield, while the truth stabs at me like daggers.

She held her breath every time news would come to the capital trying to brace herself for a truth that no mother should have to hear. Your son is dead. What was a mother to do knowing only one of her sons were to return to her? No matter who wins I still lose. Fear tightened her chest. I'll reunite with one and mourn the other. The fear coiled so tightly around her heart she winced.

"Your Grace," Ser Alliser was immediate in seeing her discomfort.

He should be used to it by now, she thought numbly. "I am well."

"But Your Grace," Ser Alliser Thorne was respectful in his attempt to reproach her, "Your condition-"

"I'm with child, Ser Alliser," She gently reprimanded him, looking over her shoulder to see his awkward stiffness, "I'm not dying."

"Of course, Your Grace."

Her fingers skimmed the front of her dress, feeling the swell of her stomach before resting her palm atop her belly button. It was still strange to her. Rhaella had thought motherhood was behind her after Viserys, but the gods set her on a different path. My husband's parting gift.

Not wishing to dwell on that evening, she distracted herself with the scenery that the godswood provided her. She chose a cobblestone path that would provide her plenty of shade as well as wonderful views of Blackwater Bay. The mixture of the sweet smells of the garden and the salty tang of the air brought a soothing comfort to her. It stirred memories of herself as a young girl chasing butterflies while pretending they were dragons. There were others too of her as a young mother tending to her boys, Rhaegar and Daeron. Their names were two sudden and sharp thrusts that punctured the idyllic memory she was trying to hold onto.

The Queen Mother sighed. Trying to redirect her thoughts to the babe inside her. I've always wanted a girl, she said the words softly, so only mother and child could hear.

She thought of little Rhaenys, her first granddaughter. Rhaella remembered holding the little girl, and thinking of the daughters she never had. Not yet knowing of her own pregnancy. It had been unexpected, but welcomed, remembering those first few nights after learning the news. The only joyful light in a growing sea of darkness.

While my boys prepared for war, I prepared for another babe, her fingers clenched atop her belly. Will this be a boy to replace the one I'm destined to lose?

The sound of voices and footsteps served as an unexpected source of distraction.

"It is a defeat, no more and no less," The first voice was calm, but there was an exotic lilt to it that betrayed his birth in the Free Cities.

"A simple defeat?" The second voice repeated. This one was familiar, but his name eluded her in the moment. "This is a disaster!" His voice became more nasally the more he talked. "Lord Tyrell is captured. The Golden Grove is lost. The-"

"Yes, yes," The first voice had clearly heard enough, cutting his companion off. "Thousands fled the battlefield. More slipped away then were caught or killed by the enemy. The king has left to rally them."

Rhaella looked to see they were coming from further up the path, but it hadn't turned to make her visible to them. She was blocked from their view, but neither could she see them. This is my sanctuary. She turned and left before they could spot her, but their words chased after her like hungry wolves.

"There's something else," The first voice was saying. "The pale mare is here." His words were almost drowned out by the gasp of his companion. "And it changes everything."

Then all she could hear was the sound of her knight calling out to her. "Your Grace." She met him and then passed him. It was then that she saw someone was approaching them. They were the ones who were now calling out to her as Ser Alliser had been following her without remark despite her abrupt change in demeanor.

Please, she prayed, please, let this not be the day I'm told one of my sons is dead. She tried her best to steel herself for whatever blow the gods would deliver on her.

"Your Grace," Jeyne Whent barely dipped her head when she was close enough.

Another lady in black, she observed, far too many wore black these days. Mothers, wives, sisters, daughters all in mourning for those they had lost in this war. Look my sons, she wanted to scold them like when they were boys and they'd make a mess of their toys. Except these weren't scattered wooden soldiers, but flesh and blood men and boys who were dying for them.

"The Queen wishes to see you."

"I am honored," Rhaella did not miss being the Queen. She was relieved and happy to give it to another. The title had been a chain that had bound her to her brother. To be the Queen was to be Aerys' wife, and that was an honor she could live without. She saw that Jeyne had not traveled alone. She had been accompanied by one of the new knights of the kingsguard. His inclusion for this invitation was a surprise to her. Did they think I'd refuse? She hid her frown. Her fears had no such restraint, spiraling beyond her control at trying to figure out their presence. Do they fear how I'll react?

The conversation she had just overheard was fresh in her mind. It had not been the first time she had heard talks of war. It was not even the first time she heard of those planning her son's demise. It was talked about, prayed for, and was toasted to every day and every night in this city. She thought she had been safe in the godswood, but now even her sanctuary had been corrupted. Their mention of this pale mare confused her, it sounded familiar, but she could not put a finger on its meaning, but neither could she forget the reaction, the name alone had elicited.

"Your Grace," Ser Alliser was the anchor she needed for this unrelenting storm.

"Thank you," Rhaella made sure her voice did not waver. She took his offered arm, holding it tightly, but he did not protest her grip or her nails.

The other kingsguard knight with them was Ser Brendel Byrne. Once an exiled knight and a sellsword now Ser Brendel wore the famous white cloak of the kingsguard. His past was not completely concealed, the pin of his cloak was of a small golden elephant. He also wore a pair of golden armbands. She doubted he wore those armbands in the company of Ser Arthur, but with the Lord Commander away, he was much more brazen with them.

She felt her calm fraying and her fears growing as they walked in silent procession to the Queen's chambers. She was not sure she could tolerate this silent torment. She flicked her gaze towards where Ser Brendel was walking. "Is there a reason I'm receiving such a prestigious escort?"

"I volunteered," He flashed her a quick smile, revealing that three of his front teeth were gold capped.

"Yes, he did," Jeyne sounded amused, "I believe our good knight is tired of being the nurse maid."

"It's an honor to guard the prince and princess." He sounded to have meant it.

"But not when they are loud and fussy?" She had seen men quake at the sound of hungry and sleepy babies.

He looked sheepish at her questioning look. "I mean no offense, Your Grace."

With her mood improving now that she knew the reason for his presence, she took pity on him. "None was given."

His slumped shoulders showed his relief. His golden arm bands caught the torchlight in the movement making them gleam.

"Ser Brendel?" She preferred conversation to distract her instead of reflective silences that would only devour her heart with unchecked worry. "Why do you wear those?"

He did not need to see her pointed finger to know what she meant. "In our company, a man carries his wealth on his person," He looked down at one of his two arm bands. "I gave up that wealth when offered a white cloak." He said solemnly, "But I keep these two as a reminder of that life."

She nodded, "I'm sure it's been quite the journey."

"It has, Your Grace," He agreed with a chuckle, "exiled sellsword to kingsguard knight." His posture appeared to straighten in pride at his accomplishment, "I serve."

They arrived at chambers that had once been hers. This was another loss she did not mourn. Rhaella had few happy memories of these rooms. How many nights did I lie awake dreading a knock on my door? How many times did I cry out when he hurt me? She tried to smother the memories as they bubbled up. He's gone. The look on his face when she removed the pillow was seared in her mind.

Kinslayer, the voice was a cold caress across her heart. Accursed. It whispered, Look at what you've wrought.

The loud creaking of the doors as they opened saved her from further troublesome thoughts. Rhaella had not visited her old chambers since she left them all those months ago. There were new tapestries and statues that looked exotic and expensive. The old stone dragons remained at their posts, but they too felt different to her.

The Queen was waiting for them by one of the chairs.

New chairs, Rhaella noticed. They were impressively carved and overly furnished with bright purple cushions. The armrests were carved to resemble resting dragons. Their eyes were onyx.

"Do you like them?" Laela seemed to notice her staring. "They were a gift," she sounded pleased and proud of them, gesturing for Rhaella to sit down. "Please sit, sit," she insisted, "I know too well the discomfort of walking for two."

"Thank you," Rhaella sat down, the relief in her legs and back were immediate. It was only in sitting down did she realize, she may have overextended herself in the amount of walking and standing she had put herself through.

The servants who had been hovering quietly in the background now came forward, fluttering between the two queens, carrying trays of drinks and food. Before Rhaella could ask a question or make a request, they were retreating out of the room. She looked down and felt a twinge in her stomach that made her turn to the drinks. The water was sweet and cold. It had a hint of lemons in it that made Rhaella take a second, longer sip.

"How are you?"

Broken, Rhaella kept her grief to herself. She could not share her burden with her good daughter. We may be united in our love for Rhaegar, but Laela would not shed a single tear for my Daeron.

"I am well," She lied. I cannot birth a baby as a crumbling ruin. I must be strong. "And thankful," the smile that she felt her mouth make did not feel as forced when she put a hand to her belly.

Laela's eyes lingered on Rhaella's stomach before turning to her face where they stayed. Her expression shifted to sympathy, but her stare remained different. "I am glad," She finally said, "I can only imagine how difficult this must be for you."

She didn't answer. She felt those eyes searching her face, trying to peel back Rhaella's polite expression to expose what she truly felt. A futile gesture, She was raised in the capital, and was familiar with this game. "How are my grandchildren?" She did not wish to speak about sons not here.

"Happy," Laela hardly faltered at the unexpected question, "And loud."

"I'm not surprised."

"Can you hear them?"

"No, but I remember my boys." The happy warmth of thinking of her grandchildren went cold in an instant at the mention of her warring sons.

"Good," Laela sounded relieved that her children were not hindering her sleep. "I wanted to speak with you because your visits have been so infrequent these last few weeks."

"Have they?" Rhaella asked, knowing the truth, but hiding it behind a confused look. To be around you was to be around the war. She shied away from the feasts and the other gatherings, sticking to the sept and her solitude. It was an old and easy habit to fall back into. Aerys' controlling nature had made certain that she was often alone, but t his was a different sort of solitude, a more desperate one. They're hoping for my son's demise. She recalled how they cheered at any news that brought pain to my Daeron. Rhaella imagined it was no less painful if she was in the presence of Daeron's retinue. No matter where I stand, it will follow me. I am trapped. she lamented, th ere is no victory for me.

"May I ask you something?" Laela's lilt was more pronounced when she spoke, "Are you writing to them?"

Them? Rhaella nearly repeated before realizing what her good daughter meant. "No." It was an honest answer, but she would be lying if she had not thought about it. She had heard the whispers of Daeron's marriage to Cersei. News that should've been celebrated with a tournament and feasts was instead met with bloodshed and battle. She then wondered if her other good daughter was pregnant. Rhaella would welcome another grandchild, but that was a dream she could not say aloud in King's Landing.

"I do not mean to put you in such a position, but," she paused, pursing her lips, "Do you love your grandchildren?"

"Yes," Rhaella answered fiercely and quickly. The question felt like a sudden slap.

"Good," Laela did not attempt to clarify why she would ask such a question. The answer Rhaella gave had clearly satisfied her good daughter. Her face softened and her posture now seemed more relaxed.

Why would she ask such a thing? Rhaella sipped her water. The answer that surfaced sent an icy pang through her blood. The conjured images of dead babes that followed nearly made her choke on her drink. He wouldn't. She nearly said it aloud. She felt the sour pressure in her throat.

Kinslayer, the word haunted her. Woe to the kinslayer for they are forever cursed.

Laela was speaking, but her voice seemed so far away. Rhaella was only picking up some of the words: Rhaegar, Hightower, Yronwood, hope, Golden Company, chance. It was only at the sound of hand claps did she pull herself out of her reverie. Her good daughter's clap sounded as resounding as a thunder clap piercing through a calm sky, the one that heralded the coming storm.

"Such news!" Laela's shining eyes and grin was a jarring shift in demeanor after what had just been spoken between them.

Rhaella saw the plump and smiling Varys, standing at Laela's elbow. His hands folded inside his robes. He dipped his head when he felt her eyes on him. "Your Grace," he demurred.

She acknowledged him with a nod. Seeing his presence and her good daughter's new improved mood, made her aware that news had come to them. She didn't want to ask the question. She wanted to leave. She wanted to hide, but the dread had already wormed its way inside her.

"We must have a feast," Laela was too focused on the servants who had been beckoned after Varys' arrival. "Inform the kitchens and the court, this is news that must be celebrated."

The cold dread stretched inside Rhaella. "I won't keep you." She rose from her seat. Her stomach lurched and her sore back protested.

Laela looked surprised while Varys was quiet, but his eyes watched her with a sharpness he tried to hide behind an indifferent gaze and bland smile. "So soon?" She nearly pouted.

"Yes," Rhaella didn't wish to stay. "I must go to the Sept." It's the company of the gods I need now. I need their strength.

Ser Alliser had made his way to her side, her stalwart shadow.

"To pray in thanks, Your Grace?" Varys' feigned innocence was as convincing as a back alley whore's virtue.

"To pray," She prayed to gods not men. My words were for their ears and their ears alone.

"Of course," Varys' pleasant smile returned as if he was delighted by the curt answer she gave him.

"You'll hear it soon enough," Laela's words were like a hand grasping her shoulder, stopping her from leaving, but it was the Eunuch's words that pinned Rhaella where she stood.

"The Golden Company has won a great victory." He informed her, "The rebel stormlords are reeling and Lord Jon Arryn is dead."

Cersei:

The sunlight was warm against her face, the touch of morning to gently remind her of this new day. She groaned, trying to savor the pleasant haze of sleep even as she felt it slipping away from her. When she stirred under her blankets, her hand moved expecting to find him except there was nothing, but an empty spot. Her eyes fluttered open, before grimacing from the early light. She rubbed at them while shifting into a sitting position. The blankets fell off her, leaving her bare against the cool breeze.

"Daeron?" She murmured sleepily.

"I'm here."

Her relief didn't stay, it slipped away when she remembered what today was. It was finally here. She hated this day. Because today's the day he's leaving.

She remained on their bed, her eyes adjusting to their room to see that he was getting dressed. The sunlight splintered into their chambers like fingers brushing through the darkness. She did not attempt to get up or to get dressed. Instead, she lay atop the blankets, aware of the distraction she had become for her husband. Cersei couldn't help but laugh when he had gotten so distracted, he had blundered with the buttons of his shirt.

He took her mirth in stride, smiling as he unfastened them so that he could try it again. "I thought wives were supposed to be helpful towards their husbands."

"We are," Her head was propped against the pillows. "I was very helpful with you last night when you needed me."

"You were," turning to her when he was finished. "Shouldn't you be dressing or are you prepared to send me off in your current attire?"

"What?" She feigned surprise, "You do not like it?"

"I like it too much," he replied, "How am I to leave my wife when she looks like this?" He looked her over with eyes that gleamed with lust. "It would be hard," he admitted, "very hard."

Then do not leave, the words swirled in her mind, but she would not give them a voice. It was a foolish plea. She leaned down to grab her discarded gown, slipping the silk over her before tying the cinch to keep it in place. When he returns will I have a child waiting for him? In her mind's eye, she conjured the enticing image of her holding a babe that had her husband's silvery hair or lovely eyes. Then just as suddenly, the babe slipped out of her hands so that her fingers were grasping at air. She stood alone, no child in her arms or babe in her stomach when he returned to her. And then just as cruelly, he faded right before her eyes when she reached out to grab him.

"Daeron!" she shouted into the silence.

"He's gone," Jaime's voice hit her with the force of a hammer, rippling across her body to spread its cold misery. "He's dead."

"Cersei?" The image of Jaime slipped away like the morning mist that would hang over the Sunset Sea. It took her eyes a heartbeat to adjust as everything came swimming back into focus. Daeron was crouched before her. "Cersei?" His hand was stroking her hair. His face etched in worry. His lovely eyes that had her bewitched long before she saw him for the man he was, the man whom she loved. Their gaze now shone with concern for her.

"I'm well," She pushed the words past, forcing herself to smile as if to make it a wall to insure she couldn't take the lie back or say something worse.

"I know this is difficult."

She nearly scoffed. Knowing something was difficult and actually feeling it were two different torments , but she kept that harsh thought sheathed. She did not wish to lash out at him before he left. Our last memory together cannot be an argument. "We have not decided on names."

He nodded, but it had come after a beat of silence while he watched her closely. His eyes showed doubt, and the way his brows furrowed made her know that he saw through her deception, but instead of pulling hers away like a mask, he put on his own. "Baelon, Aemon, Daemon," He listed only some of the ones they had discussed.

She preferred some over others and had said as much to him in the few conversations they had had on the matter. "But I need a name if I'm-" she trailed off, the thought was a distracting one and the smile on her lips only grew when it crystallized in front of her. Our son, she thought proudly and fiercely of the conjured babe in her arms. This one didn't fade away like the one before.

"I trust you," he was smiling too. Sharing her excitement at the possible child she could be carrying.

"To name him?" She was taken aback by it.

"Or her," He corrected, his fingers were soothing as he brushed some of her hair, "I do." He leaned in to kiss her brow. "You have my trust in all things." He leant back so he could see her reaction, her immediate dismay only amused him as he brushed his lips against hers. It was a fleeting kiss, but one that stirred her from her stupor. She cupped his cheeks so as to kiss him further before he could pull away.

The knock on their door broke their embrace. "Your Grace?"

"Yes?" Daeron replied after dispelling a quiet breath. He turned to her, she nodded at his unasked question. "Enter."

The door opened to show an apologetic Ser Barristan, who quickly dipped his head in their presence. "I am sorry for the intrusion," There was an awkwardness in the undercurrent of his tone, "You are requested in the Main Hall," the Lord Commander didn't raise his head when he finished.

"I shall be there shortly."

"Very good, Your Grace," Ser Barristan smoothly backed away and out into the corridor, closing the door behind him.

"I pray there are no ladies on the battlefield," Cersei had found it all too amusing, but she made sure not to laugh until they were alone again. "I'm afraid Ser Barristan would meet his match in the company of a barely dressed maiden." She was in a modest gown, but the intimacy between her and Daeron and what the knight could infer on his intrusion had sent him into a flustered retreat.

He chuckled, but the mirth did not stay. "I wonder who summons me."

She had a suspicion, but she did not voice it, because he already knew the answer. "Whoever, it is," she said instead, "must be patient." Cersei tried to sooth away his annoyance with a series of light kisses across his jaw before her lips were on his. "A Queen's needs are just as important."

Daeron didn't object.

She mumbled unhappily as the light of the early morning touched her face like insistent fingers trying to pry her awake. It was a hopeless struggle to resist, reluctantly she opened her eyes to see the same thing she saw every morning. Cersei Lannister was staring at the empty spot in their bed.

This is where my husband should be. His absence felt sharper within her chest after the sweet dream she had been having. The memory of their last morning together.

We are one flesh, remembering their vows, but we've been split apart.

The faces of Jeyne Whent and Princess Laela swam into view. Their schemes and their snickering as they voiced their enthusiasm at stopping Cersei and Daeron's marriage. At how pleased they sounded, as they bragged triumphantly of a deed they thought was all but done. They thought themselves so clever, Cersei wished to see their reactions, to relish their disbelief to see how those plans had gone awry. To punish them for their audacity at trying to split her from Daeron. Cursed be the ones who seek to tear us asunder, she remembered the vows and was determined to make sure her enemies would never forget them.

Not yet, she tried to temper her rage, The war is not won yet, but soon.

Soon . She had come to loathe that word. It was so unreliable, too fickle for her to pin her hopes on. She rose from her bed, moving across the room to inspect the dress that had been laid out for her the night before. It was red silk with black gemstones. It was woven and embroidered by deft fingers. The opals sewn in made them shimmer like black suns. The dragon was prominent and fierce in the stitching.

It was her husband's colors that were now hers to wear as his wife and queen. How long had she chased this sigil? How long had she dreamed of these colors? Now that she had them she did not want this royal finery in front of her but her husband. She wanted to feel his fingers against her skin, not damask and silk. To feel his arms embrace her instead of the embroidered bodice of this dress…

There will be no need to alter the dresses, Her mother's voice played in her mind. It was a discrete instruction and one she wasn't supposed to hear, but Cersei had stumbled onto it when she had come early to her mother for a luncheon. The Queen's wardrobe will not be needing new commissions and adjustments.

Her hands instinctively covered her flat stomach while the bitter memory played before her. There was no babe growing inside her. There was no heir for her king. There was no child for her husband. You have failed. Cersei's fingers went to the parting gift he gave her to stave off the despondency that would come over her like a thick fog. This new memory rose to take over, washing her in its warmth.

"I have something for you," He had told her. These would be some of their last moments together. The morning sun was steadily rising and he and the others were set to depart.

"Oh?" she saw the uncertainty in how he moved. It was not the steady grace she had come to expect from him.

"Yes," He presented it to her, holding out his hands. The gift had not been boxed or wrapped, but lay bare in his hands.

It was exquisite. The gold made it shimmer in the light. This was not the gold of Casterly Rock. It was of a different make, unknown to her.

"It's beautiful," her fingers tentatively touched the gold three headed dragon pendant. It was finely wrought, but it was not freshly made. It was worn, but the gold had not been diminished by it. "Would you?"

"Of course," he took the pendant so that he could put it on her. "It's a family heirloom," His mouth brushed against her ear. The low hush made her quiver. "It belongs to our family now." He breathed the words against her ear, kissing her neck, her throat.

"I'll treasure it," she promised, gripping it loosely between her fingers, "and I won't take it off until you return." That was when she decided, "You will have to."

He had been amused. Those precious light purple eyes of his never failed to excite her. "I would like that," they had sealed their agreement with a kiss.

"Your Grace?" Those would be the servants ready to help prepare her for the day ahead.

She regarded herself in the looking glass before she answered. Her eyes didn't linger on her flat stomach. She may not have been carrying the heir to the Iron Throne, but she was still the Queen and her husband needed her.

Cersei broke her fast like she did every morning in the company of her good sister. They took it in the solar she had shared with Daeron after they had become husband and wife. This was part of the Rock that she was the least familiar with, but she did not wish to move back to her old quarters or another part of the castle.

She noticed the slight discomfort in Elia's expression when she took her seat across from Cersei. There was a weariness in her gaze that made Cersei nervous. Her good sister had birthed a healthy son and heir, but the birth had drained her. She recovered smoothly in the following weeks under Joanna's watchful eye and a group of maesters and healers, but there were still moments where the pain or discomfort would flare up.

"If you are unwell then you should go back to your quarters."

Elia arched an eyebrow. "I am fine." She met Cersei's inquisitive stare as if waiting for the next volley. Cersei didn't give it.

"Good," she smiled, relieved. There had been a time where the mere idea of Elia becoming her good sister would have enraged her. Now, not only was she her good sister, but Cersei counted Elia as one of her closest friends and a confidant, something she sorely needed these last few months.

The food was brought to them over a smattering of discussion that she and Elia would fall into where they spoke of everything except their absent husbands.

"How's my nephew?" Cersei took a piece of crispy bacon, making a loud crunch despite the small bite she took.

Elia chuckled, while smearing jam onto her bread. "Spoiled." Her dark eyes sparkled at the mere thought of her son. "Tyrion and your mother are with him."

Cersei tried to see her nephew every day, but some days were more difficult than others. It was not the fault of the babe, but the absence of hers that would cast a looming shadow over her mood. An invisible weight that would press down hard against her chest.

"How often?" Elia asked abruptly, "How often have you thought about leaving? About escaping in the night and joining him?" The teasing lilt softened the blunt and unexpected question.

She knew it was fruitless to try to lie to Elia. Her good sister had a keen sense at being able to snuff out lies or half truths. "Many times." Cersei had even gone as far as packing a bag, and picking a horse to ride, but she had never reached the stables despite the planning or temptation. There was always something that held her back. It had been at its worst when she had learned that she was not with child. The tossing and turning, unable to decide on if she should leave or stay.

She wouldn't forget that fresh fear that seemed to cut through her like a knife. At how it would then spread through her like poison. That she would have nothing of Daeron's if he was to perish. There would be no child who needed her, who she could watch grow, and love. A piece of her husband whom she could nurture and cherish even after his death. That fear alone had nearly been enough for her to leave.

It had been her mother that made her stay. This had not been done out of some confrontation of Cersei being caught by her, or an order mother had given to tighten the patrols around the stables or gates. It hadn't been one action, but several. It had been the countless examples and lessons she had shown and taught Cersei about the worth of a wife and how it extended beyond the birthing bed.

"We are fortunate you never did," Elia's words pulled Cersei from her thoughts and back to the table and breakfast she was sharing with her good sister. "It was you who brought the Tullys to our cause."

She could not deny the pride that welled within her at not just her good sister's praise, but the accomplishment itself.

"Careful, Your Grace," Elia's warning was coated in mirth, "A swelled head will topple your crown."

Cersei chose the more civil response in replying to her good sister's teasing. She stuck her tongue out.

Elia chuckled, wiping at her mouth with her napkin before she changed the topic. "Will you be sparring with Lyanna this afternoon?"

Lyanna and Benjen Stark had been caught up in the chaos at Harrenhal, and like a ship in a storm they became wayward. They had found themselves going west instead of north, ending up at Casterly Rock as their guests instead of a family reunion at Winterfell. They quickly sent ravens to the north, Lyanna was insistent on informing her father what had truly happened to Howland and how they had ended up in the Westerlands.

It wasn't until their father's response did they see that another story had been spun to Lord Rickard. It was a clever tale that could even have seeds of truth to it, with Rhaegar claiming he only wanted his men to protect them in the chaos at Harrenhal, the chaos which he had started by his unlawful attempt to seize Daeron and herself. Regardless of how they had gotten to the Rock, the truth was they were here to stay with the fighting breaking out in the riverlands and the storms in the north. Cersei, who ended up with the responsibility of continuing the correspondence with Lord Stark since Daeron at that point had already left the Rock. She had assured the Warden of the North that his children were not prisoners or hostages, but honored guests.

Cersei had considered leaning on them to try to get the north to rally to their side, but thought better of it. She'd rather have northern indifference than accidentally pushing them onto Rhaegar's lap by mishandling the situation. The north was content to sit and wait, to keep their swords and spears above the Neck. It seemed Rickard's failed Tully bride for his heir had revealed discontent with some of his bannermen, who preferred apathy to the south instead of alliances.

They'll march south when Daeron summons them, she thought of the aftermath of their future victory over Rhaegar. They'll march and bend the knee, she did not think they were capable of being stubborn or foolish enough to ignore that sort of summons. But if they refused, Cersei didn't have to think long or hard about what would happen to the north if they refused the call from their rightful king.

"I will try," Her time in the sparring yard had become one of her favorite parts of the day, especially when it followed a frustrating meeting or letter. Then, she got to really enjoy it.

"You cannot disappoint the poor girl," Elia replied, "I think she actually believes she's close to beating you."

She smiled, showing what she thought of that possibility. The mention of one Stark made her think of another. "Will Ashara be joining us this afternoon?"

Elia shook her head. "No, she's been given instructions to remain in bed. Maester Desmond believes the babe will come any day."

"Then we'll just have to visit her instead."

"Your Grace?"

The voice of the guardsman surprised them. Cersei was not expecting visitors. "Yes?"

"Your mother and Maester Desmond," The guard announced, and without waiting for her response, the doors opened to show the uninvited guests.

It wasn't the break in decorum that alarmed her, but her mother's appearance. It was a rare sight to see Joanna Lannister look unwell. "What is it?" Cersei felt a sliver of fear in her belly.

"We have received troubling news, Your Grace," Maester Desmond hadn't forgotten expected protocol. He gave a hasty bow, when he lifted his head, she saw the uneasiness in his eyes. "The Bloody Flux is here," His words tumbling over each other, "Not here," he made a frantic gesture with his hand, "I-I mean in Westeros, we've heard rumors that its in the Reach and Riverlands."

"The what?"

Maester Desmond blinked, looking unexpectedly confused. He seemed to expect every response except her question. "It's the bloody flux." He repeated more slowly as if that would be a helpful insight.

"Which is?" Cersei's teeth were on edge, her patience straining at his dismay. As if it was her fault that her lessons did not touch on illnesses while plainly ignoring his role in the issue. I'm sure this was another lesson that Jaime was made to learn, but not me.

"It is a sickness of the bowels," he answered, "it often sprouts up during times of war and can spread quickly through and between armies."

The realization settled in her stomach like a heavy stone. "Are they…" Her question trailed off as the potential horrible answer flickered across her mind.

"We do not believe King Daeron or his forces have been infected," Desmond answered quickly, plainly aware of the instant relief it would bring them.

She felt the fear leach away as quickly as it had been forming. From the corner of her eye, her good sister's taut posture immediately sagged in relief. The good feeling did not stay with her when she caught her mother looming in the background. Which made Cersei realize that it was something else that was troubling her. It was someone else.

"It's been reported in the Reach," He was saying, "in your father's camp."

Father, despair rolled through her. It was her good daughter, not her daughter that comforted Joanna Lannister. Cersei watched it play out before her, with a detached numbness. While the horrible news had stirred Elia to action, rising from her seat, it had done the opposite to her. Cersei wanted to slink away, to sink into the earth. Not father, she wouldn't believe it. He was too strong. He couldn't be undone by something like this. The more she thought about it, the easier it became for her to refuse it.

So it wasn't her who asked the question, but Elia. "What of Lord Tywin?"

Mother's answer came after a beat of silence that felt like it stretched out for eternity right before Cersei's eyes. "His letter makes no mention of him being affected."

That made Cersei sit up in her seat, confirming her belief that this worry was for nothing. That father was healthy and would be waiting for them when this was over. That he would be amused at their concern before chiding them at thinking, he could fall to such a nasty thing like this bloody flux.

It was her mother's next words that stopped Cersei's trail of thought and sunk her confidence. "But Kevan's addendum said differently."


CREATORS' THOUGHTS
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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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