章節 43: Chapter 41 - A Funeral and a Wedding

279 AC

Daemon Pov

The salty air hit my face as my ship cut through the waves toward the port. The Iron Islands—home to the saltiest people in all of Westeros. As Pyke loomed ahead, its jagged towers rising from the sea, my ship docked with a heavy thud against the worn wooden pier.

I was clad in full armor, Darksister securely fastened to my waist. When the gangplank was lowered, I descended, followed by my men in their gleaming golden armor, and Melisandre, who looked as ravishing as ever in her flowing red gown.

Waiting for us were the members of House Greyjoy.

Quellon Greyjoy stood at the forefront, one of the few Ironborn known for his steady head and vision. The old lord of Pyke was an imposing figure, standing six feet six, his once-dark hair now turned white with age, yet his presence was no less formidable. Flanking him were his sons—Balon, Victarion, Aeron, Urrigon—and then there was Euron. Euron Greyjoy, the man who would one day call himself a god, the Crow's Eye. As his gaze met mine, a wicked grin spread across his face.

"Prince Daemon," Quellon greeted me in his gravelly voice. "House Greyjoy welcomes you to Pyke," he said, offering bread and salt, the traditional sign of guest right.

"It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Lord Quellon. I have heard much about your vision for the Ironborn," I replied, noting the way Balon Greyjoy clenched his jaw. Quellon's policies—restricting the Ironborn from their centuries-old traditions of reaving and pillaging—had not earned him the love of his people. Many resented him for it.

"We have much to discuss, my prince," Quellon said, his tone measured. I gave him a curt nod.

I glanced around Quellon Greyjoy's solar—it was as dry and sparse as the Iron Islands themselves.

He poured a glass of wine and handed it to me.

"I asked the maester when the last time a Targaryen visited the Iron Islands was. Do you know what he said?" Quellon asked, looking at me with a hint of curiosity.

I raised an eyebrow, amused.

"He couldn't remember either," Quellon said with a wry smile.

"Tell me, Prince Daemon, why have you come here?" he asked, his voice steady but laced with underlying tension.

"Potential," I replied, my tone firm.

"I see potential in the Iron Islands and in House Greyjoy. While the rest of the realm views you as scum, I see the hard men and women of these isles," I continued, gauging his reaction.

"Iron Islands—named for the iron ores found in your lands. With my connections in the Summer Islands, I can facilitate trade between your isles and theirs," I said, watching as Quellon's eyes widened, understanding dawning on his face.

"You've stopped your people from reaving, and they detest you for it. What I offer is a way for them—and especially you—to earn coin," I explained, leaning in slightly.

"If you wish to replace the old ways, this is something that can help you achieve that," I added, my gaze steady.

Quellon studied me for a moment, then a slow smile spread across his face. He extended his hand, and I took it in a firm grip.

"Very well, Prince Daemon," he said, sealing the agreement with a handshake.

The feast was in full swing as I sat at the high table. Despite their hard, brutal way of life, the Ironborn certainly knew how to revel. Ale flowed freely, and the captains of the various Ironborn ships were dancing, singing bawdy songs, and making merry as if it were a feast for pirates. The hall was a cacophony of laughter, clashing tankards, and raucous voices that echoed off the stone walls.

Quellon Greyjoy sat beside me, his grizzled face split by a rare smile. He looked pleased with the deal we had struck. In the distance, I noticed Aeron Greyjoy, who would one day become the Damphair, staring intently at Melisandre, who looked resplendent amidst the chaos. I caught her eye and gave a slight nod. Without a word, she rose and glided from the hall, with Aeron following behind her like a man bewitched.

Balon Greyjoy, on the other hand, looked like he wanted to gut me right there. The bitter glare in his eyes told me all I needed to know. He hated this deal—hated that it shackled the Ironborn to trade instead of the old ways of reaving and raiding. I raised my cup to him with a smirk, taunting him silently. His grip tightened on his dagger, but he didn't move.

Across the hall, young Euron Greyjoy was staring at me too, but not with anger. No, his gaze was something else entirely—something far more unsettling. He looked at me the way a child might eye a lemon cake, with a hunger that was almost palpable.

I rose from my seat and turned to Quellon, who gave me a nod of approval. His booming voice cut through the din, silencing the hall with a single command.

"Quiet down, the lot of you!" The festivities halted abruptly, the Ironborn turning their attention to the high table. "Prince Daemon Targaryen wishes to say a few words."

I stepped forward, letting my gaze sweep over the sea of hard faces, all eyes on me. "Men of the Iron Islands, it is with great pleasure that I announce an agreement between the Ironborn and the Golden Dragon Trading Company. With this pact, you will bring home more gold than you could ever plunder by reaving. No more risking your lives in stormy seas and bloody battles when you can sail and get rich without shedding a drop of blood."

The hall fell silent for a moment, as the Ironborn processed my words. Then, greed lit up their faces. Who among them wouldn't prefer easy wealth over hard-fought victories? They were warriors, yes, but even warriors had a price.

"So, let's drink to the success of our future voyages!" I raised my cup high, and the hall erupted into cheers once more. The revelry resumed with even greater vigor, the Ironborn toasting to their new fortune.

I turned to Quellon, who clasped my hand in a firm handshake. "Lord Quellon, it seems I am weary and will retire to my quarters."

"Rest well, Prince Daemon," he replied, his voice gruff but respectful.

As I left the hall, the Ironborn's roars of celebration echoed behind me, growing fainter with each step.

As I was being led to my quarters by a maid, I suddenly found my path blocked. Euron Greyjoy stood before me, his presence filling the dimly lit corridor with an unsettling energy.

"I'll take the prince to his room," he said, his voice smooth but carrying a dangerous undertone. The maid, her eyes wide with fear, fled without a word, leaving me alone with the man who was rumored to have drowned a cat for fun when he was a child.

I regarded him coolly, sizing up the man who stood before me. His grin was twisted, a mockery of politeness. "Prince Daemon," he began, his voice oozing with a sick sort of charm, "we have a lot to discuss."

"Oh, is that so?" I replied, my tone laced with sarcasm. I was wary of Euron, fully aware of the depths of his depravity. His reputation was as black as the seas his people sailed.

"I've seen you in my dreams," he whispered, his eyes gleaming with something far too dangerous to be mere curiosity. "The Golden Dragon." His grin widened, revealing teeth that seemed to have never known kindness. "But we both know you're not just a dragon."

I met his gaze, unflinching. "What do you want, Greyjoy?" My voice was cold, my stare intense. I wasn't about to be intimidated by a madman.

His eyes bored into mine, dark and calculating. "The world," he said simply, without a hint of jest. His voice was deathly serious.

I chuckled, amused by his ambition. "Quite the aspiration," I said, mocking him with a smile that didn't reach my eyes.

"With you by my side, we can take it all," he said, his voice rising with manic glee. He was utterly convinced of his own vision.

I couldn't help but laugh—a deep, genuine laugh that echoed through the corridor. "What makes you think I want the world, Euron? And, more importantly, why would I need you to get it?"

At my words, his face twisted with rage. The grin vanished, replaced by a mask of fury. "Don't mock me, Targaryen," he hissed, his voice trembling with anger. "I could gut you where you stand."

I waved off his threat as if it were nothing more than a mild inconvenience. "Oh, don't get so worked up, Euron. It's not that I doubt your… abilities. It's just that…" I leaned in closer, my voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "How can a dead man be of any use to me?"

Euron's eyes widened in shock, confusion flashing across his features. The lamps in the corridor began to flicker, the light dimming as if the very air was being sucked out of the space. The temperature dropped, a biting cold seeping into the stone walls. Then, from the darkness, a figure emerged—a shadowy form cloaked in black, its presence malevolent and overwhelming.

Euron's bravado crumbled in an instant. His eyes filled with terror as he whispered, "Aeron…" His voice trembled, barely audible. But it wasn't Aeron that stood before him—it was something far worse.

With blinding speed, the shadow moved, and in the next heartbeat, Euron Greyjoy gasped, clutching his chest. Blood spilled from between his fingers as a blade of pure darkness pierced his heart. He staggered, eyes wide with disbelief.

"What… what did you do?" he choked out, his voice a dying gasp.

I stepped closer, my smile cold and merciless. "I just put down a rabid dog, Greyjoy. Made the world a tiny bit better in the process."

Euron's eyes blazed with defiance, but the life in them began to fade. "I'll kill you… you fucker," he spat, his words weak, his body failing.

I laughed again, the sound echoing eerily in the cold corridor as the shadowy figure melted back into the darkness. "Oh, Euron. You're already dead. You just don't know it yet."

As the last flicker of life drained from his eyes, I watched with detached amusement. The infamous Euron Greyjoy, the future scourge of the seas, reduced to nothing more than a lifeless husk. And with that, I turned and continued down the corridor, leaving the darkness behind me as I headed toward my quarters.

A job well done, if I do say so myself.

The atmosphere was somber, heavy with grief as the Ironborn gathered on the shores of Pyke. The past few days had been a whirlwind of tragedy for House Greyjoy. Quellon had lost two of his sons in mysterious circumstances, and no one knew who was responsible. The old lord masked his grief with a stoic facade, but his surviving sons did not. Balon and Victarion were consumed by wrath, while young Urrigon had locked himself away, perhaps mourning in his own, quieter way.

The Ironborn did not bury their dead. They returned them to the sea, from which they believed all life sprang. I watched as Aeron Greyjoy, the Damphair, led the funeral rites. His voice carried over the wind as he uttered the final prayers, and then, with somber reverence, the caskets were pushed into the dark, cold waters. The sea was calm, as if honoring the dead in its own silent way.

As the ships began their slow journey back to Pyke, Balon Greyjoy approached me. His face was a mask of barely contained fury, his eyes burning with a hatred that had no outlet.

"I am sorry for your loss," I offered, my tone even, though I knew my words would bring him no comfort.

Balon's jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides. "You killed them, didn't you?" he growled, his voice low but dripping with accusation.

I met his glare with a calm, measured look. "Why would I ever have the need to kill two members of House Greyjoy? Pray tell, what enmity do our houses have that would drive me to such a deed?"

His eyes narrowed, his rage barely held in check. "I will remember this, Targaryen," he spat, the words more a threat than a promise.

I simply grinned, unbothered by his hostility. "Do that, Balon. But remember it well there will come a day where you will regret it."

He stormed off, his rage following him like a storm cloud. As we reached the castle, I noticed the maester approaching Quellon. The old lord glanced at me briefly before nodding to the maester, who then made his way over and handed me a sealed letter.

I opened it, my eyes widening as I scanned the contents. Then, unexpectedly, I burst into laughter, clutching my stomach as the realization hit me.

"That fucker will never change," I muttered to myself, thinking of my brother. Even in the midst of all this, his antics still managed to amuse me.

Olenna Pov

The tourney grounds stretched out beneath the walls of the Arbor, the land ruled by the Redwynes for thousands of years. From my vantage point in the castle, I watched the sea of banners—hundreds of them—fluttering in the breeze. It had been far too long since I last set foot on these shores. The Arbor was home, and despite the passage of years, it still had that familiar sweetness in the air, mingled with the scent of grapes and salt. The wine, of course, tasted as refreshing as ever, far superior to the swill those Dornish peddlers tried to pass off as vintage.

The Reach knew how to throw a gathering, I'd give them that. But this? A marriage between House Rowan and House Redwyne? It was more about showing off than forging alliances. Still, my niece would make a suitable enough bride for Mathis Rowan, and the match would serve to bind two of the Reach's great houses. Politics, as ever, was a dance of appearances. Bonds? They only lasted as long as they were convenient.

I took another sip of wine, letting the crispness linger on my tongue. The Reach had always been a place where families and alliances twisted together like vines, each tendril seeking the best way to flourish.

My musings were interrupted by the unmistakable sound of sobbing. I didn't even need to look. I knew who it was.

"Oh, Mother!" Mace's oafish form stumbled into the room, tears streaming down his round, pudgy face. The gods truly had cursed me with this one.

I turned slowly, setting the goblet down with deliberate care. "Why are you crying, Mace? Did someone take away your lemon cake?" My voice was sharp, my patience thin. He was behaving like a child who'd been refused his supper, not a grown man, let alone the Lord of Highgarden. Seven save us.

"I spoke to Prince Daemon, Mother," Mace whimpered, rubbing his eyes like a babe. "He's heartbroken. Betrayed by his own brother! It's a tragedy!"

A tragedy? For whom? I could hardly contain my scoff. "Daemon Targaryen heartbroken? I think not. The only thing Daemon Targaryen mourns is the fact that he wasn't born with a dragon-like his ancestors.

Mace sniffed. "You don't understand, Mother. His own brother ran off with that Lannister girl! It's a scandal of the highest order."

The king, as we all knew, was an arrogant and prideful man. Anyone with even a sliver of intelligence could have predicted the consequences of the crown prince's foolishness. Rhaegar, running off with that Lannister girl—betrothed to his own brother, no less. What did he expect? That the realm would simply shrug and move on? No, the king's fury was inevitable, but it wasn't just personal. It was political, as all things are in Westeros.

The king favored his second son—Daemon—and that was common knowledge. It was no secret that his disdain for Tywin Lannister ran deep as the sea. Tywin may have been the Hand, but the king never truly trusted him. A marriage between his beloved second son and a Lannister girl? The thought alone was enough to make him froth at the mouth. Yet the last thing anyone expected was for the crown prince to run off with the girl, and worse, return after impregnating her.

When Rhaegar slithered back, he was promptly thrown into the black cells, as if that would somehow undo the scandal. As for Tyrion Lannister, he had been kicked out of his position as Hand of the King—disgraced and discarded. And who rose to take his place? Why, Prince Daemon, of course. Ever the opportunist, he slid into the Handship with a smile, no doubt congratulating himself on his newfound power.

I barely registered Mace's voice as he blubbered on about Prince Daemon's supposed heartbreak. "Mother, he's devastated," Mace said, as tears welled in his eyes once more. "His own brother—betraying him like that! It's unthinkable. Prince Daemon is beside himself."

I looked at Mace, suppressing the urge to roll my eyes for the hundredth time today. Never had I wanted to slap my son more than at this moment. I loved him—of course, I did—but gods, he was a fool.

"He's playing you all for fools," I said, my tone laced with irritation.

Mace blinked, confusion knitting his brows. "What do you mean, Mother? Daemon's heart is shattered. He's lost his brother, his honor—"

"Daemon doesn't give two wits about the Lannister girl or his brother," I interrupted, my voice sharp as a dagger. "He's far more pleased with the fact that he's been made Hand of the King. Mark my words, Mace, that's the only thing he's ever truly wanted—power. All this weeping and wailing? It's a performance, and clearly, you and the foolish lords and ladies are the audience."

"Mother!" Mace gasped, as if I had uttered some great blasphemy. His cheeks flushed, and he looked at me like I'd slapped him. "How can you say such things? Prince Daemon has faced hardships and now a broken heart as well!"

I let out a long, tired sigh. "Hardships?" I echoed. "Mace, you sweet summer fool. Do you honestly believe Daemon Targaryen is heartbroken over his brother's betrayal? He's more concerned about the Handship than anything else. All men are fools, and the Targaryens are no exception. If Rhaegar had been thinking with his head instead of his cock, he might have avoided this mess. But no, like all men, he believed his passions would go unpunished. And Daemon? Daemon is smart enough to use his brother's stupidity to his advantage."

Mace's lips trembled, his eyes brimming with hurt and frustration. "You've always been too cynical, Mother," he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not everything is a game."

I raised an eyebrow at that. Not a game? How could my son be so blind? The entire realm was a game, and the only rule was survival. You either played the game well, or you found yourself trampled beneath it. I had learned that lesson early, and it had served me well over the years. Perhaps it was time Mace learned it too.

"Mace," I said, my voice softening ever so slightly. "You may think me harsh, but I speak from experience. You cannot survive in this world if you don't understand the game being played around you. Daemon Targaryen is not some lovesick boy. He is a man with ambition, and ambition will always trump sentiment. The sooner you realize that, the better off you'll be."

He stood there for a moment, his face a mix of emotions—confusion, hurt, anger. Then, with a huff, he turned and stormed out of the room, no doubt seeking solace in someone who would coddle him.

I sighed and turned back to the window, the cool breeze kissing my face. For a moment, I allowed myself to reflect. Had I been too harsh? Perhaps. But kindness had never served me as well as cold, hard truth. In the end, what was more important—soothing Mace's feelings or ensuring he survived the cutthroat world of Westeros?

My conscience tugged at me, but it was a dull ache, one I had long since learned to ignore. Mace needed to understand the realities of power. I'd seen too many well-meaning fools led to ruin because they believed the world ran on honor and love. It didn't. The sooner my son realized that, the safer he would be.

The world was full of men like Mace—well-intentioned but blind. And then there were men like Daemon—men who played the game ruthlessly, unburdened by such notions. It was the Daemons of the world who won, while the Maces were swept aside.

As much as it pained me to admit it, I'd rather my son be my pawn than anyone else's after all a mother knows what is best for her son.

-----

I sat in the stands on the final day of the joust, a sea of thousands cheering below, as two armored men prepared to poke each other with sticks like children at play. I sighed, finding little amusement in the sport. The Reach loved its traditions, though I often found them tedious. My son, Mace, however, was caught up in the frenzy, hollering with the crowd like a boy seeing his first tilt. He was, of course, cheering for Daemon Targaryen, who had defeated every knight who dared face him. Now, only one opponent stood in his way—Randyll Tarly, heir to Horn Hill.

As the two combatants took their places at opposite ends of the field, the herald announced their names. Randyll Tarly was met with polite applause, but the roar that erupted for Daemon was deafening. The people adored him, their golden prince. Even I, with my well-seasoned cynicism, couldn't help but marvel at the boy's ability to command the love of the masses with just a glance and a flash of that infamous Targaryen charm.

Randyll Tarly was clad in armor emblazoned with the sigil of his house— striding huntsman on green. His armor was solid, functional, but lacked the flare one might expect from a nobleman's son at such a grand event.

Then there was Daemon. He rode onto the field in pitch-black armor, his helmet adorned with a golden dragon, the unmistakable symbol of House Targaryen. Even from where I sat, I could see the intricate etchings of flames swirling across the dark steel, as if they moved when the sun hit them just right. It was difficult to believe Daemon had just fifteen namedays, his build larger and stronger than men twice his age. He looked every bit the warrior prince the legends spoke of, and the people's cheers only fueled his aura of invincibility.

As the two knights readied their lances, a silence fell over the crowd, anticipation thick in the air. Even I felt the tension. The signal was given, and they charged.

Lance after lance splintered as Daemon and Randyll exchanged blows, each shattering their weapons on the other's shields and armor. It was an evenly matched duel. Daemon's skill was undeniable, but Randyll's raw strength and aggression kept the fight balanced. The ground shook beneath their horses' hooves, dust rising as they sped toward each other time and again. But neither knight could unseat the other.

Then came the moment that electrified the crowd. Both knights struck at the same time, and in a flurry of hooves and metal, they crashed to the ground, their horses stumbling beneath them. There was a collective gasp from the audience. Knights falling from their steeds was nothing new, but these were no ordinary jousters. Both men were on their feet almost immediately, shaking off the dust as their squires rushed to bring them their swords.

Randyll Tarly's squire offered him the famous Valyrian steel greatsword, Heartsbane, a weapon with a long and storied history. The blade glinted wickedly in the afternoon sun, a reminder of its deadly edge. Meanwhile, Daemon Targaryen was handed Dark Sister, the ancient Valyrian blade of his house, its hilt gleaming in his black-gauntleted hand. Along with the sword, he was given a shield made of ironwood, a stark contrast to the polished metals of most others.

The crowd was utterly silent now, breathless with anticipation. This was no longer a mere joust; this was a clash between future legends, each wielding weapons forged in the fires of Old Valyria.

They squared off, swords raised, circling each other like lions ready to pounce. Randyll moved first, his enormous frame charging forward like a bull, swinging Heartsbane with all the force he could muster. His style was brutish, relentless, and Daemon's defense was immediately put to the test. The younger knight's movements were cautious at first, retreating a step with every slash, his shield absorbing blow after blow.

I could feel the tension in the stands—every eye fixed on the duel, every breath held. It seemed Randyll had the upper hand, forcing Daemon back with each strike. But just when it appeared that Daemon might falter, something shifted. A glint of resolve flashed in the prince's violet eyes, and whatever restraint had been holding him back seemed to melt away.

Daemon's footwork became quicker, his strikes sharper. He went from defensive to offensive in an instant, his sword flashing in a blur of silver. Valyrian steel clashed against Valyrian steel as the two titans traded blows. The sound of their blades meeting was like thunder, each impact sending shockwaves through the crowd. Even I, who had long tired of such spectacles, found myself unable to look away. It was as though the rest of the world had ceased to exist, and only Daemon and Randyll remained.

Daemon's strikes were swift, calculated—each one designed to test Randyll's defenses. Randyll, for all his size and strength, was finding it harder and harder to keep pace. Then, in a bold move, Daemon hurled his shield at Randyll, the ironwood crashing against the Tarly's armor with a resounding thud. Randyll blocked it, but before he could recover, Daemon was upon him, closing the distance in a flash.

With a savage cry, Daemon rammed his helmeted head into Randyll's, the sound of the impact like steel on steel. Randyll staggered, dazed, and Daemon seized the moment. He swung Dark Sister with blinding speed, disarming Randyll with a single, powerful strike that sent Heartsbane spinning to the ground.

The heir to Horn Hill stumbled, falling to his knees as Daemon loomed over him, his silver-gold hair fluttering in the wind, framing his face like a painting of the gods. There was a flush to my cheeks I hadn't expected, and I quickly reprimanded myself. He's just a child, I reminded myself. And you're an old woman.

Still, there was no denying it—Daemon Targaryen was no ordinary boy. His beauty was undeniable, as was the strength that radiated from him. He stood over his fallen opponent, the crowd holding its breath.

"You've lost," Daemon said, his voice firm but not cruel. "Yield, good ser."

Randyll Tarly, humbled and bested, nodded. "I yield," he said hoarsely.

Daemon extended his hand, pulling the defeated knight to his feet. The crowd erupted into applause, a thunderous roar that shook the stands. Even I couldn't help but clap, though I did so more out of obligation than enthusiasm. Mace, of course, was on his feet, cheering louder than anyone.

As Daemon helped Randyll to his feet, the herald proclaimed him the victor. The ladies in the stands swooned at the sight of the golden prince, their fans fluttering as they whispered among themselves. Daemon Targaryen had just bested one of the greatest warriors in the Reach, and he had done it with ease.

Then came the moment everyone had been waiting for. The Queen of Love and Beauty was to be crowned. A wreath of red roses, meant for the victor's chosen lady, was handed to Daemon. He took it in his hands, and for a moment, he paused, as if unsure what to do with it.

The lords and ladies in the stands waited with bated breath, all of them expecting the obvious. They expected him to name some highborn lady of impeccable station—perhaps one of the Reach's most eligible daughters.

But Daemon surprised them all.

"Although she betrayed me and left me broken," he said, his voice carrying across the field, "the only one deserving of this honor is Cersei Lannister. I crown her the Queen of Love and Beauty."

A murmur of shock rippled through the crowd. I raised an eyebrow at the spectacle. Such a good mummer, I thought to myself as I watched Daemon play his part to perfection. He knew exactly what he was doing, and the whole realm was watching him do it.

Daemon Targaryen was no ordinary boy, and this was no ordinary game.

Daemon Pov

I wrapped my arms around Leyla Hightower, her body pressed tight against mine as I thrust harder, feeling the heat of her skin under my fingertips. Her legs locked around my waist, pulling me deeper as her breath came in ragged gasps, her fingers gripping my shoulders like a lifeline. She moaned my name, and I couldn't help but smirk. Fucking a Hightower, I thought, wasn't exactly on my list of conquests, but when life presents you with a married woman whose husband can't satisfy her, well, you do your good deed and oblige her.

"You're a beast, my prince," Leyla purred, her cheeks flushed a deep pink as she gazed up at me, her lips swollen from our kisses. Her breath hitched with every word. "A most wicked, lustful beast."

"And you, my lady, are too lovely for me to have fucked just once," I replied, leaning down to capture her lips in another searing kiss. Her moans reverberated through me, igniting a fire deep in my belly. I rolled my hips, drawing out another gasp from her as she arched her back, her body trembling beneath me.

In moments like this, it was easy to forget everything—the weight of politics, the whispers of betrayal. Here, with Leyla panting beneath me, I wasn't the prince struggling with courtly games and family tensions. I was simply a man, indulging in the pleasures life had to offer.

After what felt like an eternity of heated passion, I finally released myself, collapsing beside her on the bed as she lay breathless, her chest rising and falling in time with her heavy breathing.

"Gods bless the man who invented moon tea," I said, reaching for the pitcher on the nearby table and pouring her a glass. The best contraceptive in this miserable medieval world.

Leyla took the cup with a lazy smile, her eyes half-lidded as she sipped it slowly. "Your charm is as dangerous as your sword, my prince. But you needn't worry about consequences with me."

Just as I settled back into the bed, a sharp knock came at the door, breaking the comfortable silence. I groaned, rolling my eyes. Just my luck, I thought. I pulled a robe around myself, already annoyed at whoever dared to interrupt my evening.

"My prince," came a voice from beyond the door, muffled but clear enough to hear. "Lady Olenna wishes to meet you."

I laughed under my breath. Of course, Olenna Tyrell. "Well, it's the night of the wolf. Tell her to meet me tomorrow morning or some other inconvenient time," I called out.

There was a pause before my manservant answered, sounding apologetic. "She has entered the apartments already, my prince."

I sighed, shaking my head with a wry smile. The Queen of Thorns always knows how to make an entrance. "By the Seven, I do love that woman," I muttered under my breath.

Leyla's eyes widened in panic, her hands clutching the sheets to her chest. "What if she knows I'm here?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

I leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips, letting my fingers brush through her tousled hair. "Don't worry. Olenna knows many things, but she's no fool. She won't stir up trouble tonight. Just rest, my lady. I'll join you soon." I gave her a devilish grin as she hesitantly lay back down, her fear slowly dissipating.

I threw on my dark robe and stepped into the sitting room, where Olenna Tyrell sat poised, regal as ever. The room felt colder with her presence, though she was hardly an unwelcome guest. She had that rare talent of commanding respect simply by being in a room, and despite my usual disregard for such things, even I couldn't help but admire her sharp mind.

"Lady Olenna," I said with a smirk, taking a seat opposite her. "Quite the late visit. Rumors will spread like wildfire if it gets out that the Queen of Thorns visited the heartbroken prince at such an hour."

Olenna's lips twisted into a wry smile, her eyes gleaming with amusement. "Heartbroken, what a joke. The only thing you've broken tonight is Leyla Hightower's back, no doubt."

I choked on the wine I had just sipped, sputtering as laughter bubbled up in my throat. "You're far too good, Lady Olenna. Your words cut sharper than swords."

She gave me a knowing look, her smile widening ever so slightly. "Your talents may lie elsewhere, Prince Daemon, but your reputation for entertaining... well, precedes you."

I chuckled, still amused by her biting wit. "So, my lady, I doubt you've come here out of concern for Lady Leyla's back."

"The Arbor is my home, Prince Daemon, and I know well what happens beneath my own walls," she replied coolly, studying me with a gaze that seemed to pierce through my defenses.

I leaned back in my chair, swirling the wine in my cup as I met her stare. "What are you getting at, Lady Olenna?"

She leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing as she asked, "What are your plans for the future?"

I feigned a dramatic sigh, clutching my chest in mock pain. "Ah, my heart is too broken to think straight, my lady. You wound me with your suspicion."

She didn't so much as blink, her expression unamused. "Do not take me for a fool, Daemon. Your actions may entertain me, but I am not easily swayed by charm alone."

I straightened, my smirk fading as I met Olenna's sharp gaze with equal seriousness. "My brother's… lapse in judgment has thrown the realm into chaos. The whole of Westeros is waiting to see whether my father will banish him to the Wall or slit the throat of my unborn niece or nephew in my dear good-sister's belly."

But I knew in my heart that event would never come to pass. I'd do anything to protect Cersei—after all.

Olenna's eyes narrowed slightly, her lips curling into a knowing smirk. "You care for her, don't you?"

I leaned back in my chair, attempting a laid-back smile, though I could feel the slightest falter in my expression. "No, I don't," I replied, my voice a touch too casual, betraying the flicker of emotion beneath.

"Ah," Olenna said, her smile growing wider, more cat-like. "You care for the girl who left you for your brother. It's written all over your face, Daemon. I expected better."

I felt a flash of irritation, but quickly masked it with a chuckle, trying to regain control of the moment. "Think whatever you wish, Lady Olenna," I said with a shrug, though I could feel my heart hammering slightly faster.

Olenna's eyes never left mine, as if weighing the truth in my words. After a long pause, she spoke. "You want the Iron Throne."

Hearing her say it so plainly made me laugh. A deep, genuine laugh that echoed through the chamber. Olenna didn't flinch, though I could tell she wasn't impressed by my theatrics.

"Want?" I grinned. "My lady, I am the Iron Throne."

She raised an eyebrow, and I continued. "The only thing stopping the lords of Westeros from rebelling against House Targaryen is me. The fear of what the Prince of Duskendale might do is the only thing keeping their blades sheathed."

I leaned in closer, lowering my voice to a near whisper. "When children refuse to sleep at night, their mothers tell them tales of me to scare them into obedience."

Olenna's lips twitched, though she quickly masked her amusement. "One should only spread their legs as far as their bed is," she quipped.

I couldn't help but grin at that. "Well, I do love spreading legs."

She shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "You walk a fine line, Daemon. One wrong step, and your enemies will pounce on you faster than you realize."

"You're right, as always, my lady. I need allies. No man rules the Seven Kingdoms alone." I paused, studying her face.

"Even if my oaf of a son would be a suitable person to sit at the Small Council, with your guidance, of course… Lord Hand", she said.

I shook my head, surprising her. "No. I don't want him."

Olenna blinked, a rare look of shock crossing her face. "Then what do you want?"

I smiled slowly, savoring the moment before speaking. "I want you."

She raised an eyebrow. "Me?"

I nodded. "I want you to be my Mistress of Whisperers."

For the first time in a long while, Olenna Tyrell was speechless.

"Don't look so surprised, my lady," I said, my voice soft but firm. "This is just the first of many changes I intend to bring to Westeros."

Olenna studied me intently, the wheels in her mind clearly turning as she considered my offer. She wasn't a woman to be easily impressed, but I knew she recognized the opportunity I was presenting.

"It's getting quite late," I said after a moment, standing and offering a polite nod. "I bid you goodnight, Lady Olenna. We'll speak more in the morning."

She rose to leave, but as she reached the door, she turned back to look at me. Her expression was inscrutable, but there was a glint of something in her eyes—respect, perhaps, or maybe curiosity.

"I will see you tomorrow, Prince Daemon," she said, and with that, she was gone.

I returned to my chamber, where Leyla lay sprawled across the bed, her naked body bathed in the moonlight streaming through the window. She looked up at me, a lazy smile spreading across her lips.

"You promised not to let me sleep tonight," she teased, her voice sultry as she stretched languidly on the sheets.

I grinned as I discarded my robe and climbed back into bed, pulling her beneath me once more. "And I always keep my promises."

Her laughter echoed in the room as I kissed her, losing myself once more in the pleasures of the flesh.