Daeron left his father's chambers and made his way down the long marble corridor toward his sister Shaenie's rooms.
It had been far too long since he'd visited her.
As for collecting the funds from Lord Owen Merryweather, that could wait until tomorrow — best to give his "teacher" a little time to prepare for his next move.
The steady drip of rain outside echoed faintly through the narrow windows.
Halfway down the hall, laughter — bright, youthful, the kind that always preceded trouble — bounced between the pillars.
"Your Grace?" Ser Jon Darry's hand went to his sword hilt instantly.
Though sworn to the Kingsguard, he had his own code — and now, his post was clear: protect the prince at all costs.
Daeron gestured lightly. "Easy, Ser Jon. I doubt we're under siege from giggling girls."
And just then —
A blur of gold and silk rounded the corner, barreling into him with surprising force.
"Ow!" a voice gasped as a slender, perfumed girl stumbled against his chest, clutching his arm for balance.
Daeron blinked.
The girl pressed a hand to her ankle, face wincing prettily. "So clumsy of me…"
Gods, he thought dryly. She's actually playing this out.
Before he could speak, several elegantly dressed girls came running from around the corner, their skirts shimmering with color.
"Cersei, are you all right?"
"Did you hurt yourself?!"
Their fragrances mingled — imported oils and eastern perfumes — filling the hallway like a highborn bouquet.
"I'm fine, just twisted my ankle," the golden-haired girl — Cersei Lannister — said, lifting the hem of her red gown delicately. A flawless leg appeared beneath, her pale skin flushed slightly red at the delicate ankle.
Daeron's gaze flicked down briefly. She really did it. She actually twisted it for real.
No wonder the histories called her a master of manipulation.
When he didn't immediately react, Cersei tilted her face upward. Her eyes — bright green and sharp as gems — glittered with mischief.
"Your Grace," she said warmly, "you saved me."
Daeron arched a brow. "…Did I?"
"Of course!" she said, still clinging to his arm, her tone perfectly pitched between innocence and invitation. "If not for you, I might have fallen far worse."
Ah. There it was — the famous Lannister charm.
He decided to play along. "My apologies then. It seems I startled you."
"No!" she insisted hurriedly, tightening her grip on his sleeve. Her hands were soft, her composure perfect. "It was my fault entirely… my handsome prince."
He almost laughed. Blunt, aren't you?
She stood tall — nearly his height — with the grace of someone already long aware of her beauty. Her chin lifted just enough to display the smooth line of her throat, the delicate shine of her collarbone.
Even at fourteen, it was clear why she'd one day be called the most beautiful woman in Westeros.
And unlike most girls her age, she didn't blush or look away. Instead, she appraised him, emerald gaze bright under gold lashes.
When you stared into the abyss, Daeron thought, sometimes it smiled back.
Cersei studied him openly — the silver hair, the violet eyes bright and kind rather than cold, the boyish confidence paired with quiet strength.
Rhaegar had been beautiful, yes — haunting, melancholy, the kind whose sadness drew sympathy.
But this younger prince — Daeron — had warmth. And laughter behind the eyes.
Not like Jamie, she thought fleetingly. He's too boyish still.
The rumor was true: when the Mad King refused Tywin's offer to wed her to Rhaegar, she had cried herself raw.
Yet now… perhaps the gods had sent her a second chance. Another dragon prince — one her father would gladly support.
If I can't be his queen, she thought, breathing faster, I'll be a queen nonetheless.
Daeron carefully stepped back, freeing himself from her grasp. The gaggle of girls crowded close again, worried looks returning.
He smiled mildly — and with a flick of his wrist, conjured a single yellow daffodil from behind his back.
"Oh, how lovely!" one blonde girl gasped, eyes shining.
But Cersei's quick, sharp glare silenced her instantly.
Daeron held out the flower to her. "A gift," he said gently. "A daffodil — a symbol of spring."
Cersei accepted it gracefully, fingers brushing his. "It's beautiful," she murmured, breathing in the delicate fragrance.
Even though it was only a common-quality flower, its petals gleamed like sunlight in the corridor.
Daeron inclined his head slightly. "Then I'll take my leave. Until next time."
"Wait—" she began, but he was already gone — the silver hair flashing once around the corner.
Behind her, the other girls erupted into excited chatter.
"The prince gave it personally! How romantic!"
"And look — isn't that one of those special flowers?! The kind from the east?"
"Yes! Worth a fortune!"
Cersei smiled at their awe, lifting her chin. "It's just a flower," she said coolly. "When I tire of it, I'll let one of you have it."
Their laughter followed like applause.
"One problem," one dark-haired maid added impishly. "He's only eleven. Three years younger than you."
Cersei's eyes followed the fading glimpse of silver hair in the corridor, and her smile turned fierce.
"So what?" she said proudly. "My father is the Hand of the King — the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms, second only to the throne itself."
There had never been anything she wanted that she didn't eventually possess.
A short while later, Daeron stood before another door — sunlight spilling warm across the gilded handle.
He knocked softly.
Inside, Shaenie Targaryen looked up from her embroidery.
The eldest Targaryen daughter — silver-haired, violet-eyed, impossibly beautiful — sat cross-legged near the window, a soft golden dress draping her graciously.
The knock was familiar.
"Come in," she said quietly.
The door creaked open — and before she could rise, two small blurs of motion burst in.
"Big Sister!"
"Shaenie! We came to see you!"
The elder of the two, Jaehaerys, already had the poised manners of a young nobleman; the younger, Viserys, all wide eyes and mischief, stood in contrast — hands on hips, chin high.
"Shaenie! You didn't even come greet us!" he said indignantly. At four years old, the boy already carried the brash confidence of someone spoiled by bloodline.
Shaenie ignored him, turning her gaze back to her embroidery.
The air in the room chilled faintly. There was always a certain melancholy around her — quiet, distant, a remnant of something broken long ago.
"Hey—" Viserys began again, until a sharp smack landed on the back of his head.
"Behave," Daeron said dryly, standing in the doorway. "Unless you want me to prove I still hit harder than you scream."
The boy huffed, but the threat worked — he fell silent at once.
Shaenie finally looked up — eyes softening the moment they met Daeron's.
"I just came from Mother," Daeron said, closing the door behind them. "Thought we'd visit for a while."
He sat casually on the carpet, smiling at his sister, the way he always had — like she wasn't a mystery, or a Targaryen relic in isolation, but just family.
And for the first time in weeks, Shaenie smiled back.
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