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Game of Thrones: Rune Bastard
Game of Thrones Wizard Dothraki
Game of Thrones: Knights Life
Daeron's first thought was blunt: How the hell did one of my family's dragon eggs end up with you?
It was the same question circling in his head.
Dragon eggs hatching on the eastern continent was good news. Eggs were easy to hide. Young dragons were easy to hide too. But they grew. Sooner or later, someone would notice. That was when Daeron would ride out on dragonback and collect what was his.
He pressed Varys. "Anything more specific?"
Varys slowly shook his head. His little birds had done everything they could.
"Two pieces of good news," Daeron said.
He clapped the spymaster on his thick shoulder and laughed. "Don't worry. Once I finish sweeping the Disputed Lands, Blackfyre will be back in Targaryen hands. Volantis won't know a moment's peace after that."
Varys blinked, then visibly relaxed. Just the mention of blood magic had put him on edge. Normally he wouldn't have volunteered the location of the Valyrian steel sword so freely.
"Get some rest," Daeron added. "Obesity's a disease too, you know."
---
Midday. 11:30.
Daeron was about to eat when Ser Barristan appeared with word that Tywin requested an audience.
"Trouble," Daeron muttered.
He went anyway.
Tywin had been moved out of the Hand's Tower and was staying in a guest room in the Red Keep. Jaime knocked and opened the door.
"Your Grace."
"You came?" Tywin sat at the table with a book, calm as ever. "If you haven't eaten, join me."
Two plates waited—salad, whole wheat bread, cream of mushroom soup, roasted quail.
"After losing the Hand's badge, your appetite's improved," Daeron said with a thin smile. He had no intention of eating. He stuck to dishes made from his special crops—simple, healthy, and quietly strengthening. Most nobles only used them as supplements or knight rations. Three full meals a day was unheard of.
Tywin ate his salad with perfect noble etiquette. "Your diet is excellent. But it's already far from what ordinary people eat."
"People say Targaryens are closest to the gods," Daeron answered. "A little difference in diet seems fitting."
Tywin didn't argue. He finished the salad, moved to the soup, then the quail. Every movement was precise.
Daeron glanced around the room. "Bigger than the Hand's Tower."
"The rooms there are small. I prefer the height."
Daeron smiled but said nothing. Tyrion wearing the Hand's badge still burned.
Tywin set his napkin down. "When are you marrying Cersei?"
Straight to it.
Daeron met his eyes. "In a few days. I'll betroth her."
This time he meant it. Cersei had waited long enough. Tywin was out of power. Even with Tyrion in the Hand's seat, the old lion needed reassurance. And if Daeron was honest with himself, he wanted her. Shaena was a good wife and queen, but she wasn't fertile. Six years of marriage and only one son. He was in his prime. It was time for more heirs. More dragonriders. More strength for the family.
Tywin watched him carefully. "Really?"
"Targaryen word is bond."
"What title will you give her?"
"Consort."
Tywin's brow tightened. The word felt foreign. In the Common Tongue there was only king, queen, prince, princess. Prince was special—Daemon and Aemond had both carried the rank, one as consort, one as regent. People still called them princes. Their wives were simply ladies.
Tywin frowned deeper. "Is that how Rhaegar handled Elia and Lyanna?"
"Close enough. Ancient custom. Both called lady, but Elia as the primary wife had priority for her children's inheritance."
"So Cersei would rank with Lyanna."
"One kingdom can't have two queens."
Tywin gave a short nod. Acceptable.
They didn't revisit the earlier talk of adopting heirs. Both men understood the silence.
Daeron stood to leave.
"Cersei has waited a long time," Tywin said without looking up. "When you have a moment, go see her."
The word "please" was there, even if unspoken. A hard father making a quiet request for his daughter.
Daeron smiled. "Of course."
---
He walked the corridor to Cersei's chambers, glanced both ways, and knocked. "Cersei? You in there?"
The door flew open. A tall, golden-haired figure launched into his arms. Slim arms locked around his waist. Warm, supple curves pressed hard against him. The scent of her hair and skin hit him like a drug.
Cersei clung tight, face buried against his chest. "Your Grace… you finally came to see me."
"Just passing through," he said softly, not wanting to overpromise.
She had been alone too long to care. Her smile was radiant. "You knocking on my door is enough."
Daeron looked down. The deep red gown she wore was cut low. Full, pale breasts rose and fell with each breath, the kind of lush, aggressive beauty that demanded attention. At twenty-three, Cersei was at her absolute peak—skin like fresh cream, bold features, waist-length golden hair loose. She made even the mature Lady Shiera look tame by comparison.
Cersei felt his stare and didn't shy away. She lifted her chin and pushed her chest forward deliberately.
Daeron met her eyes and reached out, cupping the soft, trembling weight. She gasped, cheeks flushing, legs tightening under the gown. He brushed the ruby pendant resting between her breasts.
"Your necklace left a mark."
She reclaimed the pendant and pressed it deliberately against each full curve, leaving faint impressions that quickly faded. "My skin's always delicate."
Daeron didn't answer with words. He hooked an arm around her waist, yanked her hard against him, and lifted her in one smooth motion. The red gown rode up as he carried her inside.
The door slammed shut behind them.
What followed was raw and overdue. Cersei's gown hit the floor. Daeron's clothes followed. They came together hard and hungry—mouths, hands, bodies moving with the desperate rhythm of two people who had waited far too long. She was tight and eager, nails raking his back as he took her again and again, the room filling with the sounds of skin on skin and her broken cries. He claimed every inch of her like he meant to brand her as his. She met him stroke for stroke, fierce and greedy, until they finally collapsed tangled and spent.
---
Silk Street. Littlefinger's brothel.
Tyrion kicked the door open hard enough to rattle the frame. The girl inside screamed.
"My lord, what are you doing?"
Tyrion scanned the room. "Not here for you. Get Littlefinger out here. Now."
Petyr Baelish appeared from around the corner, half-dressed and trying to look outraged. "Tyrion. You're scaring off my customers."
"Oh?" Tyrion's smile was cold. "Everyone says your brothel has everything. I didn't realize you were offering yourself too. Admirable."
Petyr's eyes flicked to the Lannister soldiers behind Tyrion. "What do you want?"
"You'll find out."
Tyrion jerked his head. "Take him."
Petyr tried to resist. It didn't matter. Two soldiers had him pinned in seconds.
Tyrion stepped in close, grabbed the man by the hair, and slapped him hard across the face—once, twice. The sharp cracks echoed.
"Your good days are over, Littlefinger."