Daeron the Defiant: A Second Dance of Dragons

Cersei:

Their reunion had been a whirlwind of kisses and caresses. Their clothes scattered across the room while they fell onto their bed, naked.

"Wait," He had stopped her.

"What?" She dispelled an angry breath, pushing strands of her hair that had fallen over her flushed face. Her heart was pounding hard inside her chest.

"I made a promise." Then his hands were around her and she understood at once, dipping her head to make it easier. He removed the pendant from around her neck just as they had vowed all those months ago. His eyes admired her body, but the threads of her patience had finally snapped.

She kissed him long and deeply, pushing him down, putting him on his back and her atop him. He didn't complain…

She stretched under the sheets. Cersei felt warm and lazy and good. So good, she amended. Her husband was beside her, perfectly pleased. I had seen to that, she smiled, showing him how much she cared for him, how much she had missed him.

The kingdoms will hold a bit longer, she knew Daeron to be responsible. He had been in the city for weeks before her arrival, before their reunion. She wanted to be selfish a little longer, not wanting to share her husband with the castle, the court, or the people. She had waited so long for this, for him. He is mine, her fingers skimming his warm skin absentmindedly, And I am his. We will face it all together, remembering her mother's words, and we will triumph.

Her fingers moved on their own accord, skimming across his flat stomach. She could feel his muscles tensing beneath her touch and could hear his intake of breath. His body anticipating what was to follow, reacting to her teasing, yearning for her to continue.

"My Queen," his voice was low, "You are insatiable." He wasn't protesting, only chuckling.

She stopped her fingers wandering before she reached him. "I am." She turned her head so she could face him to see that he was already looking at her. The cord of want grew taut inside her. "Are you complaining, husband?" She kissed his shoulder.

Daeron exhaled a breath before answering. "I missed you." His eyes were dark with desire, but it was his tone that conveyed his true meaning. It hadn't been lust, rough, and low, but love, soft, but enduring, wholly sincere. He then leaned forward and kissed her gently. "So very much," he kissed her again.

Elation kindled inside her, by his words, his tone, his kisses, everything about him that she loved. She brought her hands to his face. "Every day, I thought of you, I prayed for you, I dreamed of you." She was then in his arms, surrounded by his warmth. She felt safe and secure that she did not think even the raging winds of a storm could pull her away from him.

"I'm here," He murmured, and after so long apart they were the sweetest words to her ears.

"Your Grace?" The voice that called from behind the closed doors was an unwanted intrusion. "Queen Cersei?"

"Yes?" She smothered her groan before falling on her stomach having been on her hands and knees on their bed.

"The Lady Rowan is here to see you, Your Grace," The servant answered awkwardly, as if realizing what he may have been interrupting.

She imagined he was squirming where he stood. Silently wishing he could slink away. She wondered if the guards outside the door were smiling, amused at the servant's obliviousness. Cersei was not sure who was outside their doors now, since the shifts had likely changed a time or two since she and Daeron had sequestered themselves.

"Prince Lewyn?" Daeron called, from behind her.

"Yes, Your Grace?" He replied innocently.

She should've known, rolling her eyes at the Dornish Prince's antics. Of course, he'd feign innocence and not warn the poor servant of what it was he was stumbling into. Despite her mild annoyance at being interrupted, she couldn't help but feel a twitch of a small smile play on her lips.

"Have the kitchens informed that we'll be in need of food," Daeron said calmly, sounding every bit the king, even as he stood naked.

"Of course, Your Grace," she suspected Prince Lewyn would soon be chuckling when he went to relay the message.

There was an awkward pause. "And what of the Lady Rowan and her daughter, Your Grace?" the servant squeaked.

The anticipation that had been building in her stomach, made her slightly ornery. "Send them to my solar."

The Queen's solar was adjoined to her own separate chambers. Not that the latter would see much use. She'd be staying in the king's chambers, our chambers. She considered using those Queen bed chambers when her parents visited or when Tyrion would be staying with them.

"Very good, Your Grace," the servant was likely relieved that they could make a fast retreat.

"Send them some food," Daeron ordered, his hand on her waist. "They may be waiting a while."

"Oh?" She bit her lip, "and why will they be waiting, husband?"

He showed her why.

"Do you know how long we have been waiting?" Bethany Rowan complained.

They had barely risen from their seats at her arrival, just lifting themselves up off their chairs before quickly sitting back down when Cersei took her seat across from them. She noticed their platter of food was nearly gone.

"Do you know how to properly address your Queen?" Cersei replied, with a sweet smile and sharp glance.

Lady Bethany Rowan pursed her lips but took the rebuke with a swift dip of her head. "Forgive me, Your Grace," she said in a tone that conveyed no sincerity in her apology.

She looked like she had more to say, but Cersei wasn't interested in some barbed compliment that was carefully veiled behind a polite veneer. "Do you need any more food or drink?"

"More wine," She pointed to her cup to a waiting servant, "but Ellyn is well." She sent a smile to her silent daughter. It had been the only sincere thing she'd done since Cersei arrived.

The servant hastily and quietly obeyed, backing away with a bow when the Lady's goblet was filled. Cersei had taken those few seconds to inspect the widow of Lord Rowan. She was a handsome woman with a smattering of freckles. She wore all black which made her bright auburn hair stand out even more though part of it was covered from a dark veil. She had given Lord Rowan two daughters before he died at Golden Grove. The eldest sat beside her, even seated, Cersei guessed she was tall, a willowy girl with her mother's auburn hair. She had a pale face, with kind light blue eyes, with a cluster of freckles across her cheeks. It was hard to say her age, but she suspected Ellyn Rowan could be anywhere from eight to eleven.

"I requested this meeting to inform you of your fate," Cersei explained, "Golden Grove will now fall under the dominion of Casterly Rock." This reveal did not make Lady Rowan any happier. "Your castle and your people will no longer swear your allegiance to the Tyrells, but to the Lannisters."

"Is that why we're here? To swear our vows?"

"No, you are here to be informed that with Lord Rowan's passing, the inheritance of Golden Grove will be changing."

"WHAT?" Lady Rowan squawked. "Golden Grove is my daughter's birthright!"

Cersei noticed said daughter remained perfectly still and quiet. "She may have been, but that was before your husband declared himself for Rhaegar."

"Rhaegar was-," Lady Rowan stopped herself from saying something dangerous. She licked her lips, trying to regain her composure.

She tried to emulate her mother now. She didn't react to Lady Rowan's outburst nor what she was about to say which Cersei was sure an insult to her husband, their king. She allowed her this moment, this weakness where Bethany Rowan had revealed too much. "A new house will be created and they will call Golden Grove their home," she said smoothly moving on, "which is why we believe it is advantageous to make a betrothal between the castle's new future lord and your daughter," Cersei spotted the look of relief in Lady Rowan's eyes, the loose breath she let out, "To insure an easy transition."

"Who is it?" Bethany Rowan asked, "Who will my precious Ellyn be betrothed to?"

"My brother," Cersei answered, "Tyrion Lannister."

She curled her lips in revulsion. Her face scrunched, too scandalized to maintain her composure. "The dwarf?" She sniffed disdainfully, "This is an embarrassment."

Cersei very much wanted to reach across the table and strangle Lady Rowan. I could turn her daughters into orphans with just the right pressure from my hands around this lady's throat. She ignored the temptation, knowing that's not how Mother would handle this conflict. She kept her face smooth, her expression passive while she contained the anger at this woman's insults to her brother. She settled for silence instead of the storm. She stared back at the woman and simply waited.

Lady Rowan's composure began cracking to the quiet. She had expected to get a reaction, but it seemed Cersei's silence had proved more unsettling for the widow. She fidgeted, clearing her throat, eyes darting around the room, licking her lips to say something, anything to break this silence that seemed to be suffocating her.

"It is fine, mother," Ellyn Rowan had all the poise and tact her mother was lacking. "May I get to know him, Your Grace?"

"You may," Cersei allowed, "because you'll be staying here as my guest for the next year." Lady Rowan looked irate, but Cersei did not care. "You may know my brother then and if you do not like the match you may withdraw and join a Sept."

"Such choices," Lady Rowan mocked, "marry the dwarf or become a septa." She scoffed, "You killed my husband, you take our castle, and now you force my daughter to marry this dwarf."

Cersei responded by placing her sheathed sword on the table between them. The widow stammered and paled. "I've already used this to handle traitors to my family," she said, "I won't hesitate to use it on you, if you dare utter another insult towards my brother or my husband. Do you understand?"

Bethany Rowan's mouth twitched before she smoothed the ugly expression from her face. "I do," she said stiffly, "Come, Ellyn," she rose from her seat, "Your Grace," her curtsey was stilted, while her daughter's was properly executed.

Cersei watched them leave. She liked to believe the daughter could be a good, dutiful wife for her Tyrion. Cersei would not settle for anything less for her brother. A strong castle directly loyal to their family within their newly acquired lands from the Reach just made sense and sealing it with a betrothal between her brother and Lord Rowan's daughter should make it easy, but she'd need to be careful around Lady Rowan.

She will not be the last to despise my husband, my family, Cersei knew they still had enemies even with the war won. It was her duty to make sure they didn't lose the peace.

"Seven bless you, Your Grace!"

The crowd of commoners chanted, groveling in their gratitude as they accepted their alms. Cersei smiled, pleased at their praise. She watched the distribution being given out to the anxious rabble. The Targaryen banners were large and imposing, casting many in their shadow, so all would know of the dragon's generosity. Smaller Lannister banners were also in place, roaring lions looking out at the crowd.

Cersei had dressed as a queen should look to her people, beautiful and untouchable. Her red silks were the finest with black laces, garnets and opals sewn into the sleeves. Rubies along her bodice in the form of a dragon, having earned the right to wear the regal colors and proudly display their standard.

The smallfolk shuffled along, many stealing glances at her as they moved closer to receive their alms. She saw the awe in their eyes, the envy, the wonder in their expressions at being graced by her presence. She knew they'd speak of this for years to come.

I saw the Queen! They'd boast proudly when they were back with their rabble. Beautiful and powerful, she was! They'd all say, whispering their agreement, while others murmured resentfully for not having the chance to see her, for realizing what they had missed out on.

It isn't just about gold, or bread. It is the spectacle, the display of power and riches. You must draw them in order to ensnare them. Let them look at you and be proud, not bitter. Her mother had told her in one of their lessons when she talked about how their family gave generously to their people especially in Lannisport. A touch of envy will not kill, b ut allow it to grow, and it could turn into a dangerous spark. Mother cautioned her on finding the proper balance.

When she gave a dignified and very queenly wave, the crowd responded with more hearty cheers and shouts. She would have them forget all about Rhaegar and his foreign queen. She would pull out any support they may have had, like weeds. The capital is now ours and ours alone.

"Your Grace?"

"Yes?" She didn't turn to the knight.

"Do you wish to return to the Red Keep?" Ser Kyle Royce asked, the kingsguard knight assigned to her retinue on this clear morning.

"No, I will see this through," she remained smiling while she spoke. To maintain her image, knowing the smallfolk would continue to stare at her, and she couldn't allow any lapses.

"Very good, Your Grace," Ser Kyle dipped his head and returned to his spot.

Many who turned their heads to look at her, had their eyes travel upwards towards her crown. A thin gold band set with emeralds and amethysts, rubies and black onyx. It was nestled perfectly atop her carefully coiffed golden hair. Another display, when she saw some were still staring, she met their eyes and still smiling gave another wave. The younger men blushed and turned, but she saw how pleased they looked.

Some will treasure her smiles, her looks more than these alms. A lasting memory that would not fade like coins or food.

"What's this?" She called Ser Kyle over when she saw some scuffling. The petty smallfolk and their fighting didn't bother her, it was expected. However, she would not allow any disorder to ruin her outing. She was about to order a pair of guards to handle this discreetly, but she worried it could give the wrong impression if the smallfolk or the guards became too foolish. Violence will only fan their baser instincts.

"What is this?" She said it again, this time louder to ensure her voice carried over the din of the rabble.

The crowd stilled at once. Quieting at the command in her voice. She was pleased by their reaction but kept her attention on the reason for this unwelcome disturbance.

"He took my daughter's bread!" A man complained, said daughter was at his side. She was slim with flaxen hair and large eyes.

"Not true," the accused man protested, stamping his foot, "He lies!"

"It is!" The first man insisted, "You took it from her hands!"

The crowd began murmuring and parted when her guards came in to intervene. She had them bring both parties forward.

She raised her hand and was given immediate silence from both the crowd and the squabbling men. Cersei eyed them both before settling her attention on the small girl. "What is your name, sweetling?" She looked to be no older than her younger brother.

The girl looked surprised, and a touch frightened at being addressed, clinging to her father's side. "Wylla," she finally answered, "Wylla, Your Grace," her attempted curtsey was terrible, but endearing given her ignorance.

"Come forward, girl," She knew this would require a delicate approach, but she was ready to prove herself to the denizens of her new city. She wanted them to see just how blessed they were to have a Queen like her.

Wylla complied after looking at her father who gave a tight nod.

Cersei did her best to ignore the small lurch in her belly. The fear she'd make herself look foolish. Still smiling, to mask her sudden uncertainty, she found herself doing the unexpected, and taking a step off her makeshift stage.

"Your Grace?" Ser Kyle asked in confusion, while offering her his hand.

Cersei was not sure she chose correctly when she heard the buzzing of the smallfolk who were watching this unfold intently. Untouchable, a small voice reminded herself, chiding her for this poor judgment. However, something else made her think this was right. It was the girl's gaze.

"Is it true what your father said?" Cersei asked gently, trying not to wrinkle her nose at the girl's pungent smell.

"No, your grace," the girl answered in a mumble, her words spread like an untamed fire through the crowd. "He didn't mean it, Your Grace," her voice quivered, "I-I dropped it," she confessed, her hands were filthy. "He didn't know."

Cersei was not put off by the girl's poor failing graces. She didn't know better. Nor did she allow the girl's smell or dirty look to affect her. She looked over the girl's head to see her father looking suddenly very afraid of his mistake. He fell to his knees when he saw she had his attention, but Cersei didn't let him speak.

"Honesty," she turned back to the girl, giving her a smile that made the girl's face bloom with happiness, "should be rewarded," Cersei felt a shift in the crowd, something that she had not seen or sensed when she was on the stage. They're looking at me differently, she wouldn't allow that observation to worry or stimy her. She called a guard over, "Please make sure Wylla is given her bread." The guard bowed and went to fetch it. "You will apologize for this misunderstanding," Cersei instructed the father, before turning to the man accused, who looked relieved that he was proven innocent.

The father did, and the two shook hands afterwards as the crowd roared their approval. Though knowing the smallfolk, they would have welcomed a brawl. Cersei couldn't get a handling at how they were still looking at her. The guard returned with the bread, handing it to the girl who took it with a gap tooth smile before taking a large bite. "Thank you, Your Grace," She said, showing some sense by waiting until after she had swallowed to speak.

Cersei smiled, "Go back to your father, Wylla."

The excitement of the altercation died down so once again the lines were moving swiftly.

It was on the steps with her back turned to the crowd. The lone heartbeats of reprieve did she dispel a breath, hoping to ease the knot in her belly, that had worried she'd make some gaffe. Composed, she was about to turn to face the crowd once more before looking down to see the mud on the hem of her gown. The ugly brown splotch standing out against the expensive, brilliant red silk. Gold, bread, and mud, she amended, on knowing what she needed to make this her city, at not being afraid to get dirty to see it through. When she turned back to them, she was smiling and she waved once more.

Their response was deafening, the loudest yet.

Hearing them she knew the truth. They were hers.

Daeron:

Daeron Targaryen was alone in the throne room. There would be no witnesses to his first ascent of the Iron Throne. He would be without his Queen, without his Lord Hand, without a fully formed Small Council. It was just him.

He felt the empty gazes of the dragons watching him as he approached the Iron Throne. How much more secure would my reign be with them? He stopped, to look at one of the larger skulls, And how much bloodier would the war have been with them? He kept walking.

The Iron Throne was a jagged monstrosity. All steel teeth and claws, sharp edges and cold iron. He found himself in the Throne's shadow looking up at the seat where his father sat when he ordered men burned alive. How he cackled when the smell of burnt flesh wafted in the air. The seat that was supposed to be Rhaegar's and never his. The darkness of the shadow enveloped him.

Daeron took the throne from his brother. He had done it without dragons, through friendships he rose to be King of the Seven Kingdoms. There had been no fire, but plenty of blood. The crown atop his head felt heavier the closer he was to the throne. The weight of the kingdoms pressing down on him. He kept going.

He climbed the steps that led to the iron dais. The iron steps seemed to roll down to him, like a large steel tongue, wanting him to climb them to reach the seat where it was surrounded by jagged iron teeth ready to devour him. Daeron hesitated before his boot hit the iron step, but it was a heartbeat not of doubt, but preparation.

This leads to something different. That cannot be undone. To walk up the steps was like passing through some unspoken threshold where nothing would be the same again. He climbed the steps. He didn't count them, and when he reached the final step, he moved to sit without pausing.

Part of the Throne loomed over his head like the teeth of a monster's maw ready to bite down, to seal him beneath a row of iron fangs. He didn't lean back, staying perched in the seat. He did not feel discomfort. It almost seemed like a normal seat to him. He felt some of the tension in his shoulders melt, the tightness in his stomach loosening. He looked down at the throne room that spread out below him. He put his arms carefully against the armrests, but felt no biting protest from the steel barbs that were nested there.

He smiled.

"Are you disappointed?"

He could feel her eyes on his back. He mulled the question over for a heartbeat, putting his tunic on the back of his chair. It was the tinge of frailness in her tone, a wisp that clung to her words. They had not had time to talk. Well, he corrected himself, they had the time but had decided to use it in other ways since they've been reunited. "About?"

"That I'm not with child," She confessed, but she did not give him time to answer her own question, "I thought I was over it, all those months ago," she let out a laugh that seemed both brittle, and harsh, "but then I come to the capital and see that your mother is with child."

Yes, that had surprised him too. While she was speaking, he turned to give her his full attention. She was sitting at the edge of their bed, dressed in a thin shift. Her hands folded in her lap, but her impatient fingers were not so easily detained. Her eyes unfocused, lost in thought, while she worried on her lip.

She was delicate in her observation about his mother, but he could see that it stung her, "And I feel as if everyone is having a child, but me, and I am the one who needed it most," That was when she looked at him as if to challenge him, as if expecting him to say that it was not important that his wife, the queen, not have an heir.

He approached her, it wasn't pity she wanted from him. Her green eyes that burned like wildfire watched him cross the room, eyes that didn't admit fear, that didn't shy away from blood. "When I first saw my mother when I reached the capital," he told her, "I saw the swell in her stomach and I," he paused with a chuckle, "stared quite openly," he saw the ghost of a smile come across her face, "but never did I think that my wife had failed me."

"What did you think?"

"That I missed my wife," he answered, "And I wanted to see you, to hold you," He held her to him, "To ravish you," he felt her shiver, "We do need children," he admitted, "but we have time," he slowly lifted her off the bed, she swayed in his arms. "And I plan on spending that time wisely."

"You do, do you?"

"I do," he pulled her into a kiss, enjoying the feel of her chest pressed against his.

She broke the kiss, her heaving chest beneath her thin, transparent shift caught his attention. Something she noticed given her wicked smile. She then posed to brazenly display her barely covered breasts.

He lifted her against him. They kissed each other feverishly, desperately.

"Fuck me," her green eyes smoldered with lust, with want.

Daeron carried her to their bed to do exactly that.

"What does it feel like, Cousin?" Robert asked, looking up at the Iron Throne, the two were walking through the empty throne room.

"It's different," Daeron remembered how his voice carried when he sat there, looking down at everyone. His words rained down onto the court like rumbling thunder. He understood why his ancestors designed such a seat, the intimidation, he could see it in their faces. The distance it put between him and his subjects. He loomed over them all. A dragon is above all others.

"Huh," Robert said, barely mulling over his answer before he added, "And how does it feel to sit on it when your wife's sitting on your lap?"

"Robert," Daeron half groaned, half protested, his cousin only laughed. He glanced behind him to make sure his guards couldn't hear their conversation. "I never should've said anything." He grumbled, blaming the wine and his cousin's annoying ability to drink him under the table. It wasn't as if I had done it with her, he thought, It was more a secret desire. Though he couldn't even call it that anymore.

"Don't worry, Cousin, I shan't say anything to the Queen," He made a mock pledge, but the mirthful gleam in his eye shifted when he studied his face, "Oho!" He laughed, "She knows of this little fancy."

Daeron didn't answer which may as well have been an answer given Robert's following guffaw. Thankfully, his cousin had enough tact to know not to press. "Where is the Queen?" He asked, "Isn't this gift for her?"

"It is, but I wanted to see it first before presenting it to her." They left the throne room to make their way to the council chambers. "She's with Viserys. They went off to see the elephants."

"Elephants?" Robert asked, picking up on the s. "You have more than one?"

"A few more actually," He answered, "The ones that fled your battle have been spotted by some lords or smallfolk wandering the land, and I've had them brought to me. I cannot honestly say who likes the elephants more, my wife or my brother." He smiled, recalling their fondness for the creatures, "I heard one lord fainted when he looked out his window and saw an elephant on his grounds."

The two Targaryen guards outside the council chambers bowed at their approach before opening the door.

Daeron hadn't redecorated the council chambers room since his return to the Red Keep. There were a few things he'd change, some of the exotic decor had all the appearances of his good sister's taste. Furniture and trappings that were more suited for Volantis or Pentos. He did have one of the tapestries pulled down so it could be replaced with a banner bearing Daeron's personal standard. Now that he was the undisputed king of the Seven Kingdoms, he would return to using the three headed red dragon of his family's standard that they had used for centuries. However, he still thought it important to display the banner he had used to honor his friends and rally his allies in his war against Rhaegar.

The long table remained untouched, at its end sat the high seat where he had seen his father sit many times. At its right was the seat marked for the Hand of the King to sit. It was the seat on the king's left that Daeron was looking at. He had specially commissioned for his wife, believing it important that the Queen had her own seat. The wood was finely carved, and decorated, its long back had the carvings of large, and looming dragons as well as smaller lions in tribute to her family. There were some other designs etched into the wood, to furnish the seat and make it worthy of a queen. My queen, he smiled, running a finger along the armrest of the chair that was cushioned with red material, soft, and plush against his hand.

He was excited to see her there, sitting at his side while they presided over their newly formed Small Council to usher in a new and better reign over the Seven Kingdoms. His idyllic imagination was interrupted by Robert.

"Lots of seats, Cousin," he said, "Can you even call this a small council anymore?" He gestured to all the empty seats that went up and down the long table.

Daeron took his eyes away from the seats that were to be his and Cersei's. "Yes, more seats at the table, more voices to be heard," He did not have names yet for every empty seat. It was more a trial to see if it could work and if it did then he'd consider making it a tradition. "My father cared only for his toadies, my brother only for his prophecies. Their troublesome reigns cannot be repeated," he said, sensing Robert's gaze on his back, "The war is over and the crown is mine, but I will listen to the men who fought against me, to lift them back to their feet, because they love their homes and their families, more than they ever loved my brother."

"So should I expect one of these seats to be filled by Lord Tyrell?"

"I'm not that generous," Daeron answered dryly. Perhaps in time he would get a seat, but for now, he'd plan to give other lords of the Reach a chance to be heard.

Robert guffawed. "What about me, Cousin? What seat will I take?"

"You want a seat?" Daeron asked slowly, carefully, surprised by his cousin's request. "I didn't think you'd be interested," he said honestly, "I suspected you'd rather be in Storm's End."

Robert was standing behind one of the chairs. "I want to be considered," he replied, "I did help you win your throne." The Lord of Storm's End stood tall and serious. His large, calloused hands were resting on the back of the empty seat.

"You did," Daeron would never forget his cousin's service nor his loyalty. Still, Robert's request caught him off guard, in the passing heartbeats of silence, he considered what role could be suited for his cousin. Robert had his talents, Daeron knew of them, had used them in the war, but which of those would help him in peace? "There is something," he said, coming upon an idea. "It is not glamorous and the title has rarely been given to a lord as powerful as you, Cousin, but its role will change under my rule."

"What would that be?"

"Commander of the Gold Cloaks," Daeron answered, "I want good, disciplined men. It will involve sparring and training, riding, and fighting, patrolling and serving, but I wish to make them a great and respectable service to this city. And I planned to give the commander a seat at this table," he gestured to the long table between them. "I want to be kept informed with how King's Landing is faring and her people." He had other plans for the city, and one of Cersei's new roles as Queen would be overseeing the capital with a closer eye to help this city flourish.

"Aye," Robert smiled, "I could do that, Your Grace," His blue eyes shone with determination.

"Your Grace?" Barristan was standing in the open doorway. "The Queen is here."

She was early, Daeron thought, glancing back at her new seat. He had no curtain he could hide the gift behind, but he also had no desire to delay her. He wanted to see her. Robert excused himself with a knowing look, which Daeron ignored since as his cousin was leaving the room, his wife was entering it.

Cersei looked radiant in red silk. Gems glittered along the black lining of her sleeves. The swirl of red and black across the bodice before it gave way to her fair complexion. It was low cut and lovely, giving him tantalizing glimpses of the tops of her breasts. The elegant red shawl that she'd wear across her shoulders to shield the exposed skin along her collar and chest was in one of her hands. "Daeron," Her voice pulled his eyes back to her face where she greeted him with a smile, perfectly aware of the effect she had on him.

"I wondered if you'd stay with the elephants all day." He kissed her cheek, looking over her shoulder to make sure the doors of the small council chambers had closed after her arrival. They had.

She chuckled, "Your brother would not have complained."

"Only my brother?" He saw the bit of pink in her cheeks at his teasing question, knowing full well his wife's own fascination with the animals.

"Well, he is the one who wants to have an elephant on his personal standard when he's old enough."

Daeron laughed, but before he could say anything further he saw the change in her expression. She had seen it. Before he could gauge her reaction, she was moving towards it, away from him, leaving him to follow her. She didn't make a sound, and he couldn't see what she was thinking or how she was looking at it until she stopped in front of it. There she looked from the seat to him. "A gift for my queen," He told her, "A seat at my side for our Small Council."

Her eyes went wide before sparkling with adoration. Her mouth moved from a small o shape to a wide smile. Then she was hugging him, kissing him, murmuring her gratitude between her kisses.

"Anything for my queen," he was holding her close to him, pleased at how well she liked her seat and all it entailed for their future together as husband and wife, king and queen.

She moved in his grip so her mouth was at his ear. Her hot breath a gentle tickle against his skin. "Tell the guards we need to be alone," she said, "And that we're not to be disturbed in the throne room."

"The throne room?" He frowned, they weren't in the- Oh! Then it came to him, and he couldn't stop smiling, "I'll let them know."

She was already holding his hand and leading him out of the small council chambers. "Good," she smiled slowly, "Because I want to reward my king properly."

"Where are we going?"

"To continue an earlier conversation before you distracted me."

"I don't recall you complaining about that," she teased with a sultry lilt.

He chuckled, "because I'm not a fool."

The two were walking through the Red Keep. As alone as a King and Queen could be in their own castle, a pair of Targaryen guards were ahead of them, Daeron having already told them their direction. While Sers Barristan and Kyle walked behind them at a respectable distance.

"What conversation was this one?" Her gown was dark and elegant bespeckled with rubies and black diamonds. Red silk snaked through parts of the black fabric in an intricate pattern to resemble a pillar of fiery flames.

"About my kin," He felt her hand tighten in his grip. It had not been one of their better conversations. Brief, and brash, it was their only dark spot since their reunion.

"I've said my peace."

"You have," He saw her stiffen from the corner of his vision. He understood why she said it, the daughter of Lord Tywin understood the use of brutality. One could not venture to the Rock without hearing the Rains of Castamere, he mused.

"Your Grace," the Targaryen guards who went ahead of them were waiting by the closed doors, between them stood a woman whom Daeron recognized as one of his nephew's attendants, Della, who had served his family since before Viserys was born.

"Your mother isn't here," she informed him, guessing incorrectly the reason for his unannounced visit. "She's tired, the babe in her belly had her retire early this evening."

"Is she well?" Daeron didn't immediately correct her for why he and Cersei were here.

"She's strong, Your Grace," Della answered, a hint of pride when speaking of his mother. Della had short grey hair. Her face was lined with age, with attentive dark eyes, and a small mouth. "I shall tell her of your visit."

"I'm not here to see my mother," He said, "I'm here to see my nephew and niece."

Della hid her surprise well, barely raising an eyebrow. Her eyes lingering a heartbeat longer on Cersei before dipping her head. "They're still awake."

"Open the doors," he instructed his guards, not taking his eyes off of Della, "And you will stay with me."

Della took his order with a beat of hesitation before nodding, "If that is the king's wish."

"It is," Daeron told her, "You're responsible for their wellbeing." He gestured for her to go in. She did.

"No one is to come or go," Daeron instructed Ser Barristan who took the orders with a nod, "I'll have no interruptions while I'm in here."

"Do you need any guards in the chambers with you?"

"You don't like my chances against Della?" Daeron's jape got a small smile from his Lord Commander, "You may stay inside the doors if you wish."

"Very good, Your Grace."

Still holding onto his wife's hand, Daeron and she entered. He could not remember what this room had been before he allowed his mother to use it for them. It was egg shaped, with two small alcoves at the far end. A large myrish rug was sprawled out on top of the stone floors. The sofa and chair were embroidered with red and black cushions, the armrests carved to look like sleeping dragons.

The babes' cradles were further in the room, red curtains were drawn back to allow the children some privacy from each other, while black curtains hung against tall windows blocking the sunlight from entering. At least one of the windows was still open, since he caught the scent of the sea wafting in the chambers as well as a gentle gust of an evening breeze.

Della was standing with her hands in front of her, beside the larger of the two cradles. "Aegon?" He guessed, she nodded. He felt Cersei's grip in his hand, and her furtive glances in his direction, but he didn't turn to her. He led them both to where his nephew was resting.

A gurgle greeted them, and soon a pair of purple eyes. Silvery tresses dangled across his pale brow. His nephew had pulled himself up to see his visitors. He had chubby cheeks and a red mouth that stood out against pale cheeks. He made a wet cooing sound.

Daeron regarded him for a second before passing him to go to the next crib. His niece was younger, more babe than small child, who hadn't seen her first name day while her older brother was closer to his second then to her first.

Rhaenys was tucked in red sheets, and a black blanket. Her eyes were large and looked at him. Her face scrunched and Daeron expected her to cry, but she didn't. It passed as if it had been an unpleasant itch and her expression smoothed out once more, but she remained still staring up at him. "I wish to hold her."

"Your Grace?"

"My niece," Daeron was standing over the crib, "I want to hold her."

Della came to his side, carefully picking up Rhaenys who didn't protest at being taken from her bed. He could hear Aegon behind them babbling, but Daeron didn't try to listen to any of the incoherent words. "Here you are," Della handed him the babe.

Daeron took her hesitantly despite having asked for his niece. Rhaenys squirmed in his arms while he tried to find the proper way to hold this mewling babe. He had no experience in this. If he had held Viserys when he was a babe, then Daeron couldn't remember. What he did remember was his father's precautions and mean suspicions that cast a scary pall over his younger brother's head. Della was polite and patient in her instructions while the seconds passed in agonizing slowness for Daeron, who was trying to listen and learn the right way to hold his niece.

"Very good, Your Grace."

He gave a stiff nod, still feeling uncomfortable holding her. As if the babe would slip from his arms and fall to the floor. He felt tense and rigid, keenly aware of his body and his hold on Rhaenys. Every heartbeat, every breath was made with deliberate slowness as if adjusting for her and his holding her. A growing part of him wanted to hand her right back, to be done with it, with her, but Daeron ignored it. He didn't look down at his niece and feel some great stirring. The babe in his arms may as well have been the cook's daughter and not his brother's. Daeron felt little when he appraised Rhaenys, and seeing the babe's eyes, he felt he was being equally appraised by his quiet niece. Do you find me equally disappointing?

"I need a moment with my wife, Della," He said without looking at either of them, "Leave us."

"Your Grace?"

"Now," The word was not shouted or said with any ferocity or meanness. It was the tone of a king, and it sent her out of the room without further delay.

"Why did you bring us here?" Cersei asked when the door closed behind Della. She had been unusually quiet since arriving, drifting away from him, off to the side when he made his decision to hold his niece.

"You know why," he said over Aegon's innocent gurgling. His nephew's head swiveled back and forth between him and Cersei as if they were puppets meant to entertain him. His smile was wide and naive, ignorant in the way only a babe could be.

"This doesn't change what they can be," Cersei said, "Babes can grow into problems, into threats."

"They can."

"My father-"

"Is not the king," Daeron looked at her, "And I will not become him or my own father." He saw the slight scowl flicker across her face. "I mean no insult to Lord Tywin, but if I kill those who have done nothing wrong then I'm no different than my father." The crackling of fire and the mixture of his father's cackling and the screams of his burning victims filled his ears. "I took this crown to save us. I will not use it to destroy those I do not like or falsely suspect like my brother and father had done."

"And if they're older," Cersei challenged him, "What then?" She asked, "What if they show they're just like their mother and father?"

"Then they will be crushed," Daeron said without hesitation.

"I will not have you be a kinslayer." The determined gleam in her eyes spoke plainly to the words she did not speak aloud.

Daeron nodded, watching his wife's face soften as they came to their understanding. Making plans for a day he did not think would ever come. They will not be our enemies. He trusted his mother with their care, and he trusted her in raising and preparing them for their respective roles. Rhaenys yawned in his arms. He returned his niece to his crib.

Cersei went to him as soon as he was done with his niece. Daeron embraced her, he had felt nothing when he held Rhaenys, but not his wife. She was his world.