Cersei stord into the Hand's Tower, ready to demand answers from her father.
Knock knock knock!
A series of sharp raps later, Tywin's deep voice ca from inside. "Enter."
Cersei pushed the door open.
Half an hour later she ran out crying.
"Stop—stop—!"
Down the corridor, Tyrion was being dragged by his platinum curls, his small body scraping along the floor. He clawed at the white hand yanking his hair, but his arms were too short and his head too big. "Let go, Cersei! You mad bitch!"
Cersei was still wearing the flower-print sundress. She hauled Tyrion all the way back to her chambers and slamd the door.
Tyrion hit the floor hard, clutching his scalp. "Is this how you treat your own brother? Dragging in here just to humiliate ?"
"No," Cersei said sweetly, standing over him with her hands clasped in front of her. "Half of it is to humiliate you. The other half is because I need advice."
Tyrion had to admit—ugly as he was, his sister had always known he had the brains in the family. And he'd spent enough ti around Daeron to understand the prince better than most.
He looked up at her, half laughing in disbelief. "You want my help, yet you treat like this?"
"Why not?"
Tyrion's tongue was sharp even when he was on the floor. "If that's how you see it, go ask Jai. I'm not him. Why should I help you for free?"
Thump!
A fist cracked across the top of his head.
Cersei shook out her stinging knuckles. "You'd better listen, or I'll chop you into pieces and feed you to the dogs. Or sell you to the east. I hear dwarf cock is very nourishing."
She glanced aningfully between his legs.
Tyrion went pale. "All right! What do you want?"
Cersei crossed her arms, pushing up an impressive curve. "I'm going to marry the Prince. Give a plan."
Tyrion stared. "That's it?"
Cersei nodded. "What else?"
Tyrion fell silent for a long mont. When Cersei's patience was clearly running out, he finally spoke. "You went to see Father. What did he say?"
This ti it was Cersei who went quiet.
She had burst into Tywin's solar ready to flip his desk. The mont her hands touched the wood, one cold green stare had frozen her in place. She had still forced the question out anyway.
Tywin had asked her exactly three questions:
One — What makes you different from Princess Shaena?
Two — How does Daeron actually feel about you?
Three — If you can't marry him now, can you wait?
Cersei might have been impulsive, but she wasn't stupid. She knew the answers.
Shaena was a Targaryen, nearly as beautiful, and she rode a dragon. Compared to that, Cersei only had House Lannister behind her. And even the richest house in Westeros couldn't outshine a dragonrider.
As for the other two questions… she had no good answers. She simply wanted Daeron's body, the crown, and to give him strong sons and daughters. Daeron's feelings for her were lukewarm at best. And she was already almost eighteen. If she waited any longer she would be an old maid by the ti he finally married.
Tyrion watched her face and understood everything. He tried to push himself upright. "Sister, we both know the truth. Targaryens have their own strange traditions. The Prince and the Princess are a perfect match. You can't win against that."
Thump!
Cersei's foot shot out and knocked him flat again. She planted her heel right between his legs.
Tyrion's face turned purple. He grabbed her ankle with both hands, terrified she would crush anything important. "Nononono—!"
Cersei's voice was ice. "I called you here for advice, not your smart mouth. Keep it up and you won't need this anymore."
She pressed down harder.
Tyrion squealed and begged. "Sister—please—let go—!"
Cersei finally eased the pressure, withdrawing her leg and smoothing her skirts. She only stopped because Tywin had strictly forbidden her from maiming Tyrion. The little monster was occasionally useful.
Tyrion lay curled on the floor, gasping. "I… I don't have a good plan. Unless you can get past Princess Shaena, no one can help you. Not even Father."
"Get past Shaena?"
Tyrion went even whiter. "Don't do anything stupid. King's Landing isn't Casterly Rock, and Princess Shaena isn't one of your little friends. If you try anything, Father will kill you himself."
Cersei rolled her eyes. "I'm not that stupid."
Tyrion exhaled in relief. "Then give up. The Prince and the Princess belong together. You're still young and beautiful—let Father find you a great lord's son. Anyone would be better than Aunt Genna's match."
"No."
Cersei's voice was final. "I'm marrying the Prince. No one is stopping ."
Tyrion threw his hands up in surrender. "Then I've got nothing. Unless you want to go beg Princess Shaena to hand her husband over to you?"
He really had nothing left.
Cersei was gorgeous—long legs, tiny waist, perfect curves. But she was also poison. If he were Daeron, he wouldn't touch her with a ten-foot pole either. Especially when the Prince already had a better option: a quiet, adoring dragonrider who happened to be his own sister and shared the sa strange Targaryen blood.
Tywin had tried twice before—once with the king, once with Rhaegar—and both tis House Lannister had been coldly rejected. The mory still burned. Now the king was finished and Rhaegar was gone, and Tywin had used the situation to settle old scores. But with Daeron the situation was different. The Prince and Princess were the sa age, both dragonriders. There was simply no better match. Even Tywin couldn't object without looking ridiculous.
Tyrion spread his hands. "That's all I've got. Do what you want, you crazy bitch."
Cersei's eyes suddenly lit up.
---
King's Apartnts.
Daeron found his father in a pitiful state.
Aerys sat on the edge of the bed, hair wild, fingernails long and yellow, eyes glassy and unfocused. He looked like the madness had returned in full force.
Daeron stepped closer and heard the muttering.
"Dragon… I am the king… the egg will hatch…"
Aerys stared fixedly at the corner of the room where a brazier-like incubator sat open. Inside, on a bed of cold ashes, lay a single petrified dragon egg—Viserion's egg. The coals had long since gone out.
Daeron bent to pick it up.
"Don't touch it!"
Aerys roared.
Daeron paused, then left the egg where it was and returned to the bed. He sat down and began gently combing his father's tangled hair.
"What are you doing?" Aerys stiffened but didn't dare pull away. "Boy, have you co to murder your own father?"
Daeron said nothing. He finished with the hair, then called for a basin of water from the Kingsguard outside. When it arrived he held Aerys still and carefully shaved him, trimd his nails, and straightened his appearance the way he always had.
Aerys muttered the entire ti but didn't resist.
When it was done, Daeron sat beside him a little longer. Eventually the constant rambling beca unbearable. He stood and walked to the door.
"Father, the egg is yours. Take care of yourself."
He left without waiting for an answer.
The door clicked shut.
Aerys stared after him for a long mont, then shouted at the closed door, "Even if I die, I'll hatch that egg! I am the king!"
Outside, Daeron called an ergency Small Council eting.
The topic: coronation.
After seeing the state his father was in, Daeron had decided the coronation could not be delayed any longer. The betrothal could wait until after he was crowned.
Tywin imdiately objected. "The king is still alive and in good health. There is no precedent for forcing him to abdicate. The realm has never done this before."
"Before the Conquest the Seven Kingdoms were seven separate realms constantly at war," Daeron countered. "Isn't that precedent enough?"
The two of them clashed—purely on policy, with no personal venom.
Tywin wanted to keep things stable: the king under house arrest, the heir ruling in his na. Wait three to five years until Aerys was truly failing, then talk about abdication.
Daeron refused. His father was slipping deeper into madness by the day. Leaving him on the throne any longer would only create more problems for everyone.
Lord Corlton finally offered a compromise. "What if we hold both ceremonies on the sa day? The Prince is crowned first, then publicly betrothed."
Daeron nodded. "Acceptable."
Tywin gave a stiff nod. "So be it."
The other councillors exhaled in relief. At least they wouldn't have to stand between the Prince and the Hand any longer.
In truth, whether Daeron took the crown now or later made little difference to the nobility. They had been ready to replace Aerys with Rhaegar at Harrenhal. Now they were simply swapping Rhaegar's na for Daeron's. As long as Aerys was gone, they would be happy.
Just then a new raven arrived from the Citadel.
"Prince, a letter from Oldtown," Maester Harwin said carefully as he entered.
Maester Aemon took the scroll and read it quickly. His brow furrowed.
"A rather unfortunate piece of news," he said, passing the letter around. "The Conclave has read the signs. Westeros is about to enter a long sumr."
"How long?" Daeron asked.
"Three to five years at minimum," Aemon replied. "Possibly ten or more. The exact length is impossible to predict."
The councillors exchanged glances. A long sumr ant good harvests, full granaries, and fewer starving smallfolk. But it also ant the realm would grow fat and complacent—exactly the kind of peace that made n forget how quickly things could turn.
Daeron leaned back in his chair, a faint smile touching his lips.
A long sumr.
Perfect timing.
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