Cersei:
Casterly Rock was preparing for war.
The weapons of war were being worked on at all hours of the night. The forges burned like captured stars within the castle. Armor and helmets were crafted and inspected to make sure they met the rigid and high expectations her family put on any work that was to come out of the West. The Lannister name was never to be put together with such words as poor or inferior.
She nearly felt like an intruder while she walked the corridors. Like a spider wandering in the insides of an ant hill, trying not to impede or downright block the ants who moved about her distracted by their own responsibilities to even notice her presence.
Rhaegar thought to stop us, she thought viciously watching her family's armed men march and train in the sparring yard. Now he's about to be crushed by the full might of our family. It was a very satisfying image that flickered across her visage of the fallen prince with Daeron towering over him, looking glorious and regal.
Soon, but the word was difficult to stomach because patience was not something she had nor really wanted. Patience was for a servant waiting for their coin, or a child waiting for their new toy. It was something that was outside her power and she hated not having that control. However, the bitter truth was she'd have to get used to it because what was coming required it.
What is to come, she left the overview of the sparring yard. Cersei knew what she wanted it to be, what she hoped it to be, and the first thing she wanted was to call Daeron her husband. Yes, she felt an exalting thrum spark in her chest and spread through her body like warm honey. It wasn't a crown atop her head or royal power at her fingertips, it was him.
When she turned down the new corridor she looked to be in a different castle entirely. The Lannister lion that guarded the walls on tapestries and banners, etched in stone or marble were gone or covered. I'm walking in the dragon's domain. Daeron had claimed this part of her family's castle as his own. The red headed dragon of her betrothed's house watched her with its many heads as she passed. The guards here were dressed in black not red or gold. The dragon was etched into their steel, on their pauldrons, or painted on their shields. There were no more roaring golden lions but red dragons spewing fire.
Cersei didn't shrink to these changes; she welcomed them. I'm to be the mother of dragons, remembering the words Daeron had told her at her brother's wedding. A dragon has no equal, he had scoffed when she suggested a lion join his dragon banner. And he was right to do so, she realized, they were unapproachable, unassailable. The dragon was pure power.
I'm to be the wife of a dragon. She would respect her family and ensure her children knew where they came from, but the dragon was to be their first quality not the lion. It is a dragon that sits on the Iron Throne and rules the Seven Kingdoms. Not a lion, not even her father as rich and powerful as he is could sit atop the fabled throne and put Westeros under his yoke.
My betrothed can, She thought proudly, my betrothed will.
That was when she saw the first of the new banners that decorated this part of the castle. Draped in rich black cloth was the banner her husband would carry into battle separating himself from his brother. She had never seen one this large, but she knew her mother had been working on them. She had hired countless workers to create these new standards. Their speed and quality of work was another reminder of her family's resources and reach.
She took a step back to truly admire it in all its glory. Cersei had made the first one weeks ago on Daeron's instructions. A small piece of cloth no larger than a handkerchief. She was proud of it and further pleased when she learned that Daeron carried it with him wherever he went, as a favor and reminder of her. The red body of the Targaryen dragon was no different then its form in the family's traditional banner. It was the heads that made it stand out, its colors that drew in then kept the eye.
The first head was still red, she remembered how Daeron unveiled his plans to her. It's for my family, he began, but my family has grown to include Lannisters and Martells, you and Jaime, Elia and Oberyn. The second head was gold, for my cousin and House Baratheon who are one of my family's oldest allies. The last dragon head was white. For Ned, for Sers Gwayne and Barristan. They are men who have served me, but they have taught me so much more.
Her fingers skimmed the smooth black silk. She wasn't tall enough to reach the three heads, but it didn't stop her from appreciating the needlework. She dropped her hand from the banner and continued down the corridor where more of the banners were raised or hanged in different sizes. Some of his guards were patrolling down the halls while others stood at their posts. Their dark helms watched her as she passed. They tipped their heads to her, recognizing their future queen.
The Targaryen guards from his retinue had followed him from Harrenhal. Their loyalty to him pulling them away from his family and the capital. They had trickled in sometimes alone or in pairs or small groups, pledging their swords and lives to him whether they found him on the road or at Riverrun, or Casterly Rock.
Up ahead she saw a lone figure in white in the company of black. Ser Barristan Selmy had left Rhaegar and his king to follow Daeron, a gesture that had humbled her betrothed. She couldn't forget his strong reaction upon realizing the great Ser Barristan chose him, believed in him, wanted to serve him. He was a powerful symbol whose presence to Daeron's cause could not be underappreciated. He was immediately made Lord Commander of Daeron's kingsguard which has since seen three new members join.
Ser Brynden Tully surprised them by offering his service and asking to take the white cloak after they had left Riverrun. He had a wry smile at the mention of the Blackfish in a white cloak. He left his brother and his home to join Daeron. At Casterly Rock two more pledged themselves to Daeron's growing kingsguard. Prince Lewyn Martell, who had been waiting for them at her family's castle wished to take the white cloak with his nephew's blessing. The other had been Cersei's cousin, Ser Lyonel Frey. She had been surprised by his decision since she recalled her Aunt Genna was considering a Crakehall match for her second eldest.
The guards sensed her presence and parted to let her pass, bowing their heads. Ser Barristan was the one to address her. He did so after dipping his head, "Lady Cersei."
"Do you know where I can find my betrothed?"
He pointed in the direction behind him. "He is in the last room. I do not know what your family used it for before he moved into it, but he has changed it to suit his needs."
"Thank you, Ser Barristan." She wasn't entirely certain that had been one of the rooms she had visited in the times she's been to this part of the castle. Her curiosity at inspecting its changes and her growing desire to see him made her walk past the knight without further talk between them.
The room was far larger than she expected. Pillars lined all the way around the room, their markings and ornamental displays had since faded or rusted away by time. In the middle of the room where an old chandelier hung above was a large table that looked to have belonged in a feasting hall not a solar. It had benches on its long sides and two chairs at its ends, all of them looking as worn as the rest of the room and furniture. She heard voices before seeing him. She recognized them both, but instead of revealing herself, she hugged the pillar, curiosity rooting her in the shadows at what they were discussing.
"Does Ned know?" That was Daeron's voice. She could see him in the far corner from where she was. He was sitting at a large cushioned chair, a blazing fire was glowing behind him in a huge hearth. The stone sculptures had crumbled. Their shapes were a mess of rubble that made it impossible to deduce what they had once been in their full glory.
"I informed him of the possibility," Ashara answered, "It was Maester Desmond who confirmed it." The Lady of the Rainwood wasn't sitting, but leaning on the nearest pillar, hugging herself.
Daeron didn't speak for a long second. "They will know their father." It was a solemn vow filled with confidence in a tone that belonged to a king.
Cersei could see how Ashara took to these words. She dropped her arms to her side, standing a bit straighter, belief solidifying her being. It wasn't even directed at her, but Cersei felt it too, stirring in her own breast. It was part of his draw, she had seen it before, how he pulled people to him.
People believed in Rhaegar because they were told to, but Daeron earned it. He showed you why while Rhaegar just expected it.
"Thank you," Ashara's tone was stronger than it had been before.
"Do you know what they'll call this war?" Daeron suddenly asked, but he didn't wait for her to answer, "The War of Ashara's spurned suitors."
Ashara laughed, its musical peal echoing in the large room. "You give me too much fame, Your Grace."
Cersei remembered those years ago when Lord Dayne had desired a Targaryen prince for his beautiful sister, first it had been Rhaegar and then it had been Daeron, but Ashara married neither. She took the second son of Lord Stark as her husband, Cersei had thought her a fool when she had heard.
I was the fool, ashamed of how she acted then. It was Ashara who should be envied, she saw that. I'd marry Daeron if he was the Prince of Summerhall, I'd marry him if he was an exile in Essos. She'd follow him until the end, and she saw that devotion in Ned and Ashara, with Jaime and Elia.
"Have you thought of names?" His question pulled her from her reflections.
"We decided on names some time ago."
"Already?" Daeron sounded impressed by their decisiveness.
"You know how I plan," She volleyed lightly.
"All too well," he agreed, "I believe it's what got you married to Ned."
Ashara's responding smile was smug.
"Tell me the name of my future nephew or niece?"
It wasn't blood that brought them together, she knew, it was belief, belief in him.
"Robb for a boy," She answered, "Elia for a girl."
Cersei thought both names made a lot of sense in their tribute. Since it was Robert who had done so much to secure his friend's match to Ashara including granting him land and a lordship. While Elia was Ashara's closest friend, considering themselves sisters having grown up together.
"Fine names," Daeron voiced his approval, "They shall be honored at such a gesture," He said, "I can already hear Robert bragging."
"Does that mean you're praying for a girl?"
"I pray that the babe and mother will be safe and well." The mirth had drained from his expression. "And that they will know their father," he stood from his seat to approach her. "I'll do all I can, Ashara."
"I know," she replied gratefully, before embracing her friend and king, "and that is why we follow you."
"Cersei?"
She froze in her spot at him calling her by name. She recovered swiftly to reveal herself. "Yes?" walking with an air of confidence as if she hadn't just been caught snooping.
"You're not as subtle as you think, my dear," Daeron smiled, "we could see your shadow." He pointed to the dark culprit that had betrayed her.
She was inwardly annoyed while feeling a tad foolish, but she was careful not to show it. Cersei made a point to go to Ashara first. "Congratulations," She hugged her pregnant friend, whose belly didn't show the slightest sign of swelling.
"Thank you," Ashara returned the embrace with equal vigour. "I shall take my leave," she turned back to Daeron, "Your Grace," She curtseyed and left.
"How does it feel?" Cersei asked him. He hadn't officially been crowned king, but it was only a matter of days and all of his men were already addressing him as such.
"Good," he was holding her to him, "but that's not enough."
She could feel his chin resting on her head. "What do you mean?"
"Your father told me that this wing of the castle was built and belonged to the Casterlys," Daeron said instead of answering her question.
She leaned back so she could look up. Her puzzlement at his shift in topic seemed easy for him to read.
"They built this believing it would serve their family for generations, a lasting legacy to their power in the west," He gestured to the room itself which was a pale imitation to whatever wonder it might have once held. "They thought it was enough. They made themselves comfortable," he went on, "And they lost it all because of it. They thought themselves the masters of this land, but they were swindled out of their own castle. This area of the castle now lies forgotten and overshadowed by what your family has since made." He turned back to her, "Being called Your Grace doesn't mean my work is done. I must build a legacy that doesn't crumble. I can never allow myself to get comfortable. The Conqueror understood that when he built the Iron Throne, but my father forgot it, my brother too."
"You will be better then them all."
Lord Quellon Greyjoy was a hard man with grey eyes so dark they looked black. His face was worn and weathered like the wind itself had shaped it. He sat comfortably in his seat, not looking the least bit overwhelmed or intimidated by the golden finery around him. If anything it seemed to amuse him. He picked up a golden goblet, examining it as he held the base between his fingers before letting it go. He must have sensed their gazes since he chuckled. "Don't worry I haven't pried off its gems."
"That wasn't our worry at all," Mother said smoothly, "I was fearing an empty goblet."
Quellon's smile wasn't as scary as she imagined it would be. He raised the goblet and a servant came forward without instructions and refilled his cup. He wasn't alone at his side of the table, on his left was a large man who had been introduced as Victarion Greyjoy, Lord Quellon's third son. He was as tall as his father, well over six feet with a broad chest and large arms. His hair was black as night and fell loosely around his face. He hadn't spoken more than a few words since he was introduced. On Lord Quellon's other side sat his son and heir, Balon Greyjoy. He didn't try to hide his distaste for being here.
He looks around like this is beneath him, the thought both rankled and amused her. Ironborn ignorance, she decided. He was the shortest of the three Greyjoys and the least intimidating, she thought. They all bore the golden kraken on their black tunics that looked worn and had the smell of salt to them.
They were the guests of her family. And had been given every courtesy since they arrived. She was certain they hadn't experienced such fine treatment or such good food and wine on those dreary desolate islands that they call home. Her parents had feasted them in their hall and after the food and entertainment they had all retired to discuss the potential of an alliance between them.
It was her parents who sat across the Greyjoys. Cersei sat on the table's left with Daeron in the middle and Ser Barristan on his other side. Her brother and good sister sat directly across from them.
"It isn't enough," Lord Greyjoy declared after the first offer had been made.
He wasn't pleased, she was watching her father, and could see the slight change in his expression which spoke plainly to her of his annoyance at Lord Greyjoy's insistences.
"Very well," Mother smiled at the Lord of the Iron Islands, "We will hear your suggestions."
Quellon Greyjoy returned her smile. "Gold is nice," his dirty fingernails tapped against his goblet, "But I can go anywhere for gold." His eyes swept them over. "I want more." He said plainly, "You need us, but we don't need you. They have the Royal Fleet and the Redwyne Fleet," His gaze turned to him. "Your brother rules the waves, Prince Daeron."
"That is why we invited you here," he replied politely.
She didn't share her betrothed's politeness. She felt her own anger swell at Lord Greyjoy's lack of respect.
"An invite we appreciate," He made sure to look at her parents, seemingly understanding who was pulling the strings, "But I assure you my family's fleet will win you the seas. There's no better sailors and warriors then Ironborn."
More like rapers and raiders, Cersei wanted to correct him, but kept the thought to herself as well as her growing annoyance that these ironborn were so ungrateful to all her family had done for them so far.
"I have a granddaughter who's about to turn three. I want a betrothal between her and your son's future heir."
"An ironborn as the Lady of the West," Her father's voice was as hard as iron.
"Yes," Quellon's smile grew, "A promising partnership between our two great houses."
Cersei noticed Balon scowling and practically squirming in his seat at his daughter's fate. She was certain this was just another thing he didn't approve of, but he was at least smart enough to keep quiet in their presence. She turned away from the dour ironborn and across the table where her brother and good-sister were just as quiet. It was their child they were talking about, a son that hadn't yet been born, but with Elia's pregnancy, it could be fairly soon.
Babies and betrothals, she thought. What promises must we make to win this war? She had resented being seen as a broodmare, so what sort of mother would she be if she did the same to her children? It wasn't as simple when she complained of its unfairness as a girl. Seeing it in its full view, Cersei could only begin to understand the complexities and fragility that went into making them.
"Agreed," Jaime's answer broke through her musings. Her brother wasn't looking at his parents or the Lord of the Ironborn, but to Elia who looked to be in agreement with him.
"You have thought this through?" Not the slightest hint of reprimand or irritation was in Mother's voice. It was as calm as the sea on a sunny day.
"We have," Jaime answered after sharing a look with Elia, "But Asha Greyjoy must be fostered at the Rock," He turned to Quellon. "The Lady of the Rock isn't an empty title. It comes with responsibilities."
"I understand," Quellon didn't argue. He didn't look to mind this stipulation. If anything he looked further pleased by its inclusion.
Balon's face scrunched up. He looked to be biting his tongue upon hearing that his daughter was not only marrying a greenlander but had to live with them first too. He should be kissing Jaime's and Elia's boots, Cersei thought, on the great gift her brother and good sister was giving his undeserving daughter.
"It will also allow a friendship to hopefully bloom between our son and your granddaughter," Elia added, her fingers entwined with Jaime's.
"Which is what my people want with the rest of the Kingdoms," Quellon assured them, looking as the only one of the three ironborn to mean it, "Peace and prosperity."
"Then if its all settled-"
"But it isn't," Lord Greyjoy held up a dirty finger to stop her father.
Her father already didn't look too favorably on his grandson's future bride, but this interruption further deteriorated his mood. His clenched jaw was the first clear sign of his growing thoughts.
"We're listening," Mother said smoothly, taking over the conversation.
"My son Victarion has recently lost his wife," Lord Quellon began, gesturing to his large and silent son.
"What are you proposing?" Her mother's politeness was exceptional.
"He has no children. He is my third son, and Balon already has three sons," He said, "His future isn't with the Ironborn, but I still want him to be in a position worthy of his talents. I want you to put him in your kingsguard. What better way to show our commitment to this alliance and my people's future ties to Westeros than by having one of my own sons serving our king in such a public and prestigious role."
Kingsguard! She couldn't believe the audacity of such a suggestion. Cersei wasn't the only one having trouble believing it. She saw the ripple across the table over several faces all of them picturing an ironborn dressed in white, who was sworn to protect others. Did they even understand that concept? She looked to her betrothed, but to her own surprise his face was carefully blank.
It was Ser Barristan who looked the most perturbed by this and was the one to voice his misgivings. "The Kingsguard is for knights," he pointed out, "Is your son a knight?" He asked, but his tone clearly conveyed he already knew the answer.
"No, he isn't a knight," Quellon answered, dismissing the suggestion as if it wasn't something worth the scrutiny. "He's a warrior. He's a killer." His smile turned sharp, "You're wading into a war and you'll want the best fighting for your king on the battlefield."
"And you believe your son is one of them?" Barristan's voice sounded strained.
"I do," Quellon answered proudly, patting his large son on the shoulder.
Victarion hadn't even reacted at being put forth on the kingsguard. He was silent and stony.
"The kingsguard-"
"Will change," Daeron interrupted his Lord Commander. He was looking between the Lord of the Ironborn and his third son, missing the incredulousness that flashed over Barristan's face. "It will not go back to what it was."
Cersei had to hide her smug smile at seeing her betrothed's words surprise her family. She was already privy to Daeron's plans in wanting to change the kingsguard. They had talked about it privately, knowing that his desire to reshape them came from his father's treatment of his mother.
"But is this what your son wants?"
Victarion turned to face him. "I will follow my father's command." He said tonelessly.
"That isn't enough," Daeron wasn't impressed. "Is this what you want?"
"I want to fight for the strongest," His dark gaze never left Daeron's face, "And I don't think that's you."
He dares! Cersei was seething at this display of disrespect. Her outrage was muted by Daeron's chuckling. Her betrothed didn't look the least bit bothered by Victarion's insult.
"If you wish to prove your mettle against me then I gladly accept the challenge."
That made the large ironborn smile. It was a slow and ugly one that relished violence. "If you beat me," he emphasized the first word. "You'd be worthy to fight for and I'd pledge my sword to serve you."
"And if you defeat me then you're free to return to your Islands," Daeron concluded, seeing the ironborn agree to this, he turned to the Lord of the Iron Islands. "Then it's agreed and Lord Quellon I'll make you my Master of Ships, win or lose. Would that conclude these discussions and seal this alliance?"
"It would." He didn't look upset at all by this disruption to his plans which included the possibility of losing his son's prestigious spot in a kingsguard which he just moments ago was fighting hard to include.
"Good," Daeron stood gracefully from his seat, "Shall we?"
Victarion stood and nodded.
It wasn't worry that filled her as they made their way to the sparring yard. She knew Daeron's skills. He was one of the best swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms. Cersei doubted this ironborn would be much of a match for him. He may look strong, but Daeron could beat Robert and she doubted this ironborn was as good as the Lord of Storm's End.
No, it wasn't concern, but annoyance that pricked her. The suddenness of it without thought or counsel. He just did it without considering her opinion or that of their situation. She knew her parents weren't particularly pleased, but could they really decline Daeron in front of their guests especially after promising to swear him fealty? It would make him look weak, so they said nothing.
She didn't walk with him. He was up ahead talking with Barristan and Jaime who walked between him.
Oberyn, Ashara, Benjen, and Lyanna had joined them on the way. Word had spread fast of this fight.
"I almost pity this ironborn," Oberyn's dark eyes glittered with amusement and anticipation for the pending duel.
"I had heard them say he was a dullard," Ashara observed of the ironborn challenger, "But it seems that word was far too kind."
Lyanna snickered, but it was her brother who spoke first.
"I've never seen an ironborn fight before."
"You're about to see one lose too," The Dornish prince added.
When they reached the benches of the sparring yard, Daeron and Victarion were already getting ready. "Real steel or blunted?"
"Real steel," Victarion grunted, looking through the assortment of weapons that were offered to him.
Daeron smiled at his choice. Dark Sister slipped from her sheath smoothly making just the softest hiss when it parted. Jaime and Barristan were still with him while Victarion's father and brother were on his side. The ironborn was agitated by the few axes that they had. It seemed none of them met his approval. In the end, he picked a longsword and paired it with a shield. The Greyjoys then helped him into his chest plate which would be their only protection within this duel besides their helmets. Daeron was already in his while Jaime was holding out the helm.
"You can still escape this," He said to the ironborn, "give me your fealty now and spare yourself this defeat."
Victarion laughed, it was a deep rumbling sound like rocks sliding against each other.
Daeron was still smiling when the helmet was placed over him. They moved forward and waited. Ser Barristan stood between them and when he made sure both were ready he gave the signal for them to begin.
Victarion rushed forward bellowing a warcry as he swung his sword trying to cleave Daeron in two with one charge. He danced out of the blade's reach, spinning away from the ironborn, but keeping his sword up. As soon as his feet pivoted, he struck Dark Sister, lashing out like bolts of steel lightning, up and down, left and right, thrusting and cutting. Victarion had his shield up to block this sudden assault.
Despite all her lessons some of the moves escaped her and she knew she was missing maneuvers and footwork that would be obvious to her brother or Ser Barristan. She watched and tried to follow the best she could.
The ironborn planted his feet and at Daeron's last strike, he deflected it with his sword and then thrust his shield forward aiming for Daeron's head, who was able to sidestep the attack. He used the move to get in close and Dark Sister was once more on the hunt. Victarion grunted and shouted, blocking them the best he could with his weapons while not giving ground. He looked like he was encompassed in a storm of steel trying to endure the barrage from an unrelenting Dark Sister.
She may not have understood everything that she saw, but she didn't need help in recognizing the victor. Daeron disarmed the ironborn's sword and then with his sword's pommel smashed it into Victarion's helmet which brought him to his knees. Dark Sister was at the ironborn's neck.
"I yield," Victarion announced, his voice booming in his helmet. When he removed it his hair was sticky with blood from where Daeron had struck him. "I will fight for you," he admitted, appraising him for the first time with a respectful look. "I will swear my loyalty to you."
"Good, because you're a warrior I want on my side."
He gave a grim smile and then pledged his services to Daeron. Ser Barristan stepped forward to have him swear his vows and on that night Victarion Greyjoy became the first ironborn to enter the kingsguard.
"You don't want me to fight," She expected this, but it didn't lessen the sting.
They were alone. His guards and her chaperones were outside giving them a moment's reprieve.
A moment they were wasting by having this argument, but she couldn't let it go. She was sitting on the edge of her bed while he was standing in front of her.
He sighed. "No, I don't. I need you to stay here."
"To do what?" She scoffed, "To fret and wait."
"I can't worry about you-"
"But I can worry about you," She cut him off angrily. He called me Visenya, but Aegon didn't stop her from fighting. Her fingers digging into the blanket. I fought with him at Harrenhal, but now I must watch him march off to war. She bunched the blankets into a tight grip. Forced to wait, to be a prisoner of my fears. To be helpless, she hated it.
He was agitated. Good, let him feel a whit of my indignation.
"It's not that simple."
"Why can't I fight?" she demanded, "But you can?" she glared up at him, "Tell me!"
Daeron weathered her storm of rage. His earlier frustration was brushed away, but if it was from her demands, her words, or her tone, she couldn't say just that it had changed him. "You know why," he said gently.
She did. She had always known. She buried the truth deep, because she didn't want to face it. Cersei wanted to believe she could avoid it, that it could be different.
"Only you can carry our child," He said softly, "Only you can bear me an heir."
Such a thought trickled into her mind like syrup, slowly dribbling down gaining cohesiveness as it went. The image grew and the feelings followed. Her frustration stymied by that promising future that she wanted to put off. As much as she wanted his children she also wanted to be beside him, but her womanly duties were a cage meant to confide her. A baby binds me and cleaves him from me.
"It falls to you, Cersei," He was standing in front of her, a smile flashed across his handsome face when he added, "I mean I can't carry a child."
It was so absurd a possibility that she couldn't help but giggle when it slipped into view. She forgot to be angry and laughed. "That would be a sight."
His laughter joined hers, she cherished its warmth that washed over her like sunlight. "I do not have that sort of strength or courage." He knelt to her.
She frowned, suspicious of his intentions. "Do you speak truly or are you just trying to flatter me?"
"I would not mislead you," He put one of his hands on her lap. "I've seen the battles my mother has endured," He shook his head, "the blood and the tears. At least on the battlefield I'm given a sword."
She covered his hand with one of hers. She used the other one to cup his cheek. "You will be my husband. You will be my king. I will follow you." She then brought her hands to his collar, pulling him closer to her. "Kiss me," she commanded and he did and in that moment all was well.
Daeron:
"I have a gift for you, Your Grace."
Daeron looked up to see Oberyn striding smoothly through the room, carrying a plain wooden box. He put it on the table in front of him.
"A show of support for my family and of Dorne to your cause."
Daeron ran his fingers along its surface. "This isn't a trick, is it?"
Oberyn smiled, holding up his hands. "When have I ever played tricks on you, Your Grace."
"In the Water Gardens," Daeron answered dryly, "Several times."
"That was in the past," Oberyn shrugged off the accusations like water off a duck's back.
"There was that time in Lannisport too," Daeron reminded him, the memories made him smile. "But I do not need such a gift to prove your loyalty to me, my friend." He assured him before he opened the box. When it caught his eye it only made him think that this was some sort of trick. "What is this?" His eyes remained pinned on it. It couldn't be real, he thought, impossible.
"It is real, Your Grace," Oberyn said as if reading his thoughts, "You know the stories."
Daeron nodded, he reached in to grab it. The metal was cold to the touch. He pulled it out to see it in all its splendor. The rubies shimmered when they caught the light. "It's amazing," He breathed out the words, still struck in dismay at what he was holding. He felt his fingers tremble around the steel in his grip.
"It is for a king, Your Grace," Oberyn bowed his head, "And I can think of no greater king to wear it than you."
"Thank you," Daeron had trouble keeping his eyes off of it. "This is a gift I will always treasure. Give my thanks to your brother, but I shall write to him of my gratitude at his generosity."
"We're simply returning it," He downplayed their part in its delivery. "I shall let you get back to your work, Your Grace, but I'll return soon with wine and food and my good brother."
He mumbled his response. He didn't watch him go. He couldn't. Daeron's eyes couldn't stay off of the gift. In his hands was a circlet of valyrian steel encrusted with large square-cut rubies. It was a crown, his finger rubbed one of the rubies, but not just any crown. He held it at eye level.
This was the Conqueror's crown. He then smiled, my crown.
"You have a visitor, Your Grace."
"Oh?" that surprised him. He hadn't been expecting anyone at this early hour despite how busy his day was about to be.
"It is Tyrion Lannister," Ser Gwayne informed him.
Interesting, Daeron turned in the direction of the doorway. "Send him in," he watched the door open and the young eight year old boy walk in, small and stunted. He was dressed in what looked to be his sleeping clothes. They were rumpled from use.
"Your Grace," he stopped and dipped his head.
"Tyrion," Daeron returned the greeting, "Come forward, you're soon to be my brother."
He looked pleased. "I wanted to help you."
"To help me?"
"Yes," he bobbed his head up and down, "You're to be my king."
"A king couldn't ask for a better subject," He brought his hand down on Tyrion's shoulder, guiding him to where he could sit. "Does anyone know you're here?"
He looked away. "Not exactly," when he finished his answer he made a sheepish smile while he wrung his hands on his lap.
"We'll say you were summoned by your king," Daeron suggested.
"Truly?" Tyrion perked up, the concern melting away by his bright eyes and warm expression.
"Yes, but I need a reason to summon you," Daeron thought of Viserys and he felt a pang in his chest for the brother he missed and loved. "And I think I have it. After all, you do want to help me."
"I do," he said quickly, "What is it?" He straightened up his posture the best he could, earnest in hearing his instructions.
"It is the most important task I can give to someone," He wasn't lying, "I need you to be there for your sister after I'm gone."
"Be there?" He tilted his head, "like protect her?" His eyes widened, "like a kingsguard." The last word brought a clashing mix of apprehension and enthusiasm into his tone and expression.
"Something better, actually."
"Better?" He breathed the word out in dismay.
"Yes, I need you to be there for her. I need you to help her, encourage her," He said, "When I'm gone, I need to know she'll be well tended to."
"I won't disappoint you," Tyrion vowed, the solemnness was a stark contrast to his boyish face.
"I know," He patted him on the shoulder, "That's why I asked you. You're the only one I can trust."
Tyrion squared his shoulders back as if preparing to take on the weight of the Rock itself.
Through no fault of his own, Tyrion's presence only expanded the ache inside him for his younger brother. I will see you again, brother. He had told Viserys that when he watched them leave the Red Keep for the Stormlands, him and Mother. Daeron meant those words. He'd see them both again and when he did, he hoped it would mean they'd be free and never again to live in fear of his father, their king.
"Your Grace?" Tyrion's timid voice called him back to the boy who sat in front of him. He was looking at his boots, shifting in his seat.
"Yes?" Daeron didn't understand the change in his behavior.
"You have to fight your brother?" He asked it so softly that Daeron had barely heard it despite how close they were sitting together. As soon as he asked, surprise flashed across the boy's expression as if he couldn't believe he had just said it aloud.
"I do," Daeron answered. It wasn't a secret. It didn't make him mad. He saw the confusion cloud over Tyrion's face. His eyes glistening at just the thought of having to fight against the brother and sister he loved so much. Rhaegar and I never shared that sort of bond.
"But why?" He croaked, his voice was still thick from his imagination plaguing him at such a terrible thought when thinking of having to be on a different side then his twin siblings.
Daeron sighed. "Rhaegar believes himself right and that makes him dangerous," He was trying to be as simple as he could make it for him to understand. "He is guided by prophecies and visions instead of good counsel and wisdom. If he was told in one of his books to let the Seven Kingdoms consume themselves then he'd stand by and let it happen. That's all that matters to him."
"What about Viserys? Is he safe?" His voice was as thin as thread.
I don't know, was his first answer, but it was one he couldn't say aloud. Not just to shield Tyrion, but himself as well, not wanting to dwell on such uncertainty for his innocent brother. "Yes, he is." The lie boosted Tyrion's lips into a relieved smile.
"Good," He said happily, "he's my friend."
Daeron returned his smile. "He thinks the same of you." He stood up, "I think you should be heading back. We wouldn't want your family to worry if they discover your absence, king's summons or not."
Tyrion nodded, getting to his feet with a bit more effort. "Thank you, Your Grace," he bowed his head. "I won't fail you."
He had walked him to the door. "I know you won't." He watched him leave and when the boy was out of sight, Daeron went back into his room to prepare for the day ahead of him.
It was finally here.
He wished he could claim he was paying attention. That he heard every word the Septon was saying, but the coronation moved around him like water around a rock. His mind kept drifting back to what he was seeing, to what was happening, to what it all meant.
There is no turning back, he looked out at the assembly of nobles and knights who crowded the sept at Casterly Rock. Each and every one of them picking him over his father, over his brother, over the law. Some were not even here, his cousin Robert, his friend Ned who had already left to rally men to his cause because they believed in him. Daunting? Exulting? Both? He wasn't sure there was one word or one proper feeling that he could name to what he felt growing within him.
I cannot fail them. His resolve had never been stronger knowing the fate of so many were being put on his shoulders once this crown was atop his head. The face he sought the most was hers.
The Light of the West, he quietly marveled at her beauty. My soon to be wife. My soon to be queen. It was their wedding not this coronation that drew most of his excitement. Her green eyes sparkled when they met his, a sly smile followed as if knowing his thoughts.
The septon's voice took him away from his future bride so as to finish the ceremony. He knew what was to come. I've already said the words, thinking of the oath he took, he presented himself to the septon.
Daeron was dressed in a simple, but rainbow colored robe that was specifically tailored for this ceremony. It was now carefully parted. The cool air against his exposed skin nearly made him shiver.
The septon anointed him with the seven oils, calling on each of the Seven when he dipped his finger in their respected glasses. He carefully smeared it on Daeron's chest to make The Seven-Pointed Star. He felt the droplets dribble down his abdomen, but he kept still. A second one was then drawn on his forehead, the Septon repeating the process and when he was finished, he led them in a hymn and then in prayer.
A heavy cloak was placed on his shoulders by an attendant while another fixed his robe. In the corner of his eye he saw the crown being brought forward. It was resting on a small red pillow.
"Oh Father Above, we beseech you and the other aspects of the Seven who are One. Bless this man and sanctify his rule. On this day we set a crown upon his head, so enrich his royal heart with your abundant grace, and crown him with all the princely virtues through the Faith of the Seven."
When it was over, the septon grabbed the crown and reverently placed it atop Daeron's head. It's touch was immediate, its weight and power coming down on him like a heavy stone on his shoulders. He didn't flinch or grimace at this burden, because he was ready for it. Everyone in the sept cried out in one voice: " Faith save the King!" Seven times they made this declaration.
In the rainbow of light that filled Casterly Rock's glamorous sept he arose as Daeron Targaryen the Third of His Name, King of all Westeros, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.
She was very distracting.
Her breathtaking smile and dazzling green eyes were ensnaring.
The septon could burst into flames in front of me and I don't think I'd notice.
She was as radiant as the sun. She was dressed in white silk with sleeves lined with gold satin. Her low cut gown showed teasing glimpses of her creamy skin and pale breasts. A swirl of rubies that shimmered like stars were sown into the bodice. Red myrish lace was expertly laced with the white silk and gold satin. There were more splashes of gold that were woven in to make it look as if she had captured sunlight itself. The Lannister lion could be seen embroidered proudly and beautifully.
"You may cloak the bride and bring her under his protection." The septon's words somehow pushed their way through to get his attention.
He unclasped the Lannister's maiden cloak and handed it to Lord Tywin, who took it with a small, proud smile and then dipped his head to him.
His family's cloak was unavailable to him, but in another display of Lannister riches and resources, they had one commissioned for him, and its design was of his personal standard. The cloak was black as night. The dragon's body and its first head shone with rubies, the second head was gold, and the final head was made of pearls. It was Oberyn who handed him his new cloak, his friend agreeing to take the role his father was supposed to fill.
Finally, he thought when he stepped back to admire her draped in his family's cloak and colors. There was not a more perfect sight. The smile she gave him shone brighter than any of the gems she wore.
"We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever."
Daeron took her hand in his. They had eyes only for each other as the septon proceeded to tie the ribbon around their joined hands and spoke the following lines.
"Let it be known that Cersei Lannister and Daeron Targaryen are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who seeks to tear them asunder."
Rhaegar, He felt the hot anger simmering within him. He had tried to stop me, but nothing or no one in the Seven Kingdoms would stop him from marrying Cersei. Rhaegar will rue the day he thought he could break my betrothal. In that one choice, my brother planted the seeds of his ruin.
The rest of the ceremony was a blur that passed between him and her until he found himself saying the closing words. "With this kiss, I pledge my love," Daeron declared, turning to his wife to kiss her.
The husband and wife basked in the celebratory noise that burst forth at the wedding's conclusion for a few moments before he signaled for it to be brought forward. It's time to crown my queen.
It would not be as elaborate or as detailed as his. When the war was won he and her would be crowned again with all the pomp and splendor in the Sept of Baelor in front of all the lords and ladies of Westeros. The crown that was brought to him was one he had created for her. It was a crown of gold set with emeralds and amethysts, rubies, and black onyx. It was a thin band to keep it light.
The septon made a move to take it, but Daeron stopped him. He ignored the man's confusion, and picked up the crown himself. He would let no other do this.
"I, Daeron Targaryen, the King of all Westeros, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men name Cersei Lannister as my queen." He gently placed it atop her golden head.
Daeron and Cersei would leave the Casterly Rock sept as the King and Queen of Westeros.