Time flowed on.
Lord Mace Tyrell rose before dawn and worked until his eyes blurred. He had lost several pounds. The man who once ate ten thick slices of bread at a meal now managed only eight. He was running himself ragged.
He had no choice. As Master of Works he held one of the heaviest seats on the Small Council. These days, the moment he opened his eyes, two tasks loomed largest.
First: rebuild Summerhall. Prince Daeron had ordered the five-year renovation plan paused until after the coronation, but the Summerhall project itself could not be delayed a single day.
Second: construct the new royal warehouses. The old treasury was stuffed with mountains of gold and dusty antiques that only Lord Owen ever bothered to look at. The new ones had to be massive and impregnable—large enough to hold enough grain, medicine, and supplies to feed half a million people in King's Landing for several years.
"I'm truly suffering," Mace muttered, wiping sweat from his brow while directing laborers and stuffing two bites of fresh cherry pie into his mouth.
---
Red Keep.
Daeron once again skipped the routine council meeting and immediately wanted to slap himself. Why had he ever suggested creating a standing committee? Now he was trapped in meetings every other day.
The councillors had found a new way to pressure him into marriage. They kept introducing eligible noble girls from across the Seven Kingdoms and insisted on walking him through every detail of the betrothal ceremony. Lord Corlton in particular—the Iron Miser himself—kept tugging on his sleeve like he wanted to rip it off, demanding they discuss seating arrangements and floral displays.
"Why do I feel like they care more about my betrothal than my actual coronation?" Daeron wondered.
It was simple, really. In the councillors' eyes, his coronation was already a done deal. But his marriage? That still had room for maneuvering. And for the great houses of Westeros, the heir's betrothal carried enormous symbolic weight. They wanted it done with maximum ceremony.
Still, Daeron told himself it wasn't all bad. At least the councillors were finally showing some enthusiasm. During the Harrenhal council and the three-kingdom merger they had mostly coasted. Now, with the Long Summer looming, they were throwing themselves into the work with genuine energy. Both the coronation preparations and the Long Summer stockpiling were moving forward without major problems.
Humans really are just hoarders at heart, he thought wryly.
Knock knock knock.
Daeron knocked on Shaena's door. He needed to see his sister.
The door opened from inside. It was Ashara who greeted him, smiling.
"Prince. Good afternoon."
Daeron nodded and stepped inside without ceremony.
Shaena sat on a cushioned stool, carefully embroidering a small blanket. Elia was there too, gently rocking little Rhaenys with a toy ship and radiating quiet maternal warmth.
Daeron wasn't surprised to see them. After all, it was Ashara who had opened the door. And with Shaena's betrothal approaching, it made sense for her good-sister to visit.
What did surprise him was the golden-haired figure hovering around Shaena like an overeager servant.
"Cersei? What are you doing here?"
Cersei wore a soft red gown and was holding a teacup, looking ready to personally feed it to Shaena. The moment she saw Daeron her face lit up.
"Prince! You're here!"
She abandoned the tea and hurried toward him.
Daeron eyed her warily. "What exactly is going on?"
Cersei had never been subtle. Seeing her here, playing the humble attendant and learning embroidery, set off every alarm bell he had.
Cersei tilted her head and smiled. "I'm learning needlework from Princess Shaena."
She pointed at the half-finished blanket in Shaena's hands.
Daeron glanced at it, then asked, "Where's yours?"
Cersei's smile faltered for half a second. She blinked innocently.
"Out. Now," Daeron said flatly.
He waited until the door closed behind her, then turned back to his sister.
Shaena lifted the small blanket to show him the golden dragon she had been stitching. "Do you like it?"
"It's very good," Daeron said, sitting beside her. "Is it for Daenerys or for Rhaenys?"
The blanket was only five feet long—far too small for an adult.
Shaena hugged it to her chest and shook her head.
So not for either of them.
Daeron raised an eyebrow.
"I already made blankets for both of them a long time ago," Shaena said quietly.
Daeron remembered. Shaena had embroidered several tapestries over the years. One of them featured three dragon eggs. That one had been meant for little Daenerys.
"So we're really getting betrothed?" Shaena asked.
Daeron smiled. "Yes."
Shaena tilted her head. "That's why Cersei keeps coming here and being so nice."
You noticed? Daeron studied her calm face.
Shaena nodded. "Mm."
Daeron sighed and laid his head on her lap, enjoying the soft warmth of her thigh. Of all the girls in King's Landing, Shaena was still the only one he could simply exist with in comfortable silence for hours.
Ashara watched them with gentle amusement.
Elia, rocking her daughter, spoke softly. "Cersei Lannister is not someone to underestimate, Shaena. You're too trusting. Don't let her fool you."
Daeron glanced at his sister. He doubted Cersei would get very far. Shaena might seem quiet, but she had plenty going on behind those violet eyes.
"Cersei's loud," Shaena said after a moment, as if gathering courage. Then her shoulders slumped a little.
Daeron sat up. "She's not allowed back in here."
"She won't listen," Shaena replied matter-of-factly.
Daeron knew she was right. Cersei's persistence was legendary.
Elia looked between Ashara and the quiet princess, then suggested, "With Janna gone, Shaena needs ladies-in-waiting. Perhaps Queen Rhaella could select a few suitable girls from the Crownlands."
Shaena had always been solitary. Even when Janna had been here, they had never been close. Now that Olenna had taken her daughter back to Highgarden, Shaena was alone again.
Daeron considered it. "Should I ask Mother to choose two companions for you?"
Shaena shook her head. Then her eyes suddenly brightened. "Clara is coming. She'll be traveling with Lord Rowan when he comes to King's Landing."
Lord Rowan's youngest daughter. Shaena rarely asked for anything, so Daeron nodded immediately. "Perfect. You two are friends. It'll be good to have her here for a while."
He had received word a few days earlier that Lord Rowan was bringing his entire household for the coronation. The man who styled himself the Iron Throne's most loyal servant would never miss such an occasion.
Shaena looked genuinely happy. She reached out and gently patted Daeron's head.
Daeron: ——
---
Queen's Apartments.
Later that evening, Elia came to speak with Queen Rhaella about finding suitable companions for Shaena. As the future queen, Shaena could not remain without ladies-in-waiting. Elia herself had once been surrounded by attendants, but most had drifted away over time.
Rhaella was the last to hear about the betrothal. She sat in silence for a long moment, her expression complicated.
"I'll select a few appropriate girls from the Crownlands," she said at last. "I've heard House Massey has two daughters of suitable age."
Elia thanked her and prepared to leave.
Rhaella stopped her. "Rhaegar still hasn't sent for you? Is this how things will remain?"
Her disappointment in her eldest son was growing. Rhaegar had renounced the throne, sailed to Lys, and revived the old Valyrian custom of multiple wives just to marry Lyanna Stark. Fine—he could abandon his claim if he wished. But to leave his wife and daughter in King's Landing without a word? That was something else entirely.
Elia sighed softly. "My brother Oberyn wrote. Rhaegar is busy attacking the Stepstones. He doesn't have time for much else right now."
"That fool," Rhaella muttered.
She had never been especially fond of her Dornish daughter-in-law, but she respected Elia's character. She had once believed the marriage between the Iron Throne's heir and a Martell princess would be strong. Instead, it had turned out worse than her own daughter's situation. At least Shaena was here, close to Daeron, able to see him every day. Rhaegar and Elia might as well have been on different continents.
Thinking about marriages made Rhaella touch the faint lines at the corners of her eyes in the mirror. For a brief moment she felt old.
"Waaah—waaah—!"
Little Daenerys began to wail, demanding to be fed.
Rhaella immediately turned her attention to her youngest daughter. Old? Nonsense. I just gave birth to my sixth child.
"I'll take my leave," Elia said with a gentle smile, slipping out while Rhaella nursed the baby.
Once outside, Elia allowed herself a quiet sigh.
Watching Daeron and Shaena together made her envious, she couldn't deny it. But she no longer had the energy to chase after Rhaegar. Instead, she found herself thinking more and more about the upcoming coronation. She had once dreamed of becoming queen herself. That dream was gone. But she still wanted to belong inside the royal family—not stand outside watching like a stranger.
Life had to go on, after all.
---
Hand's Tower.
Tywin sat at his desk, signing documents while his thoughts wandered.
Cersei had come to him again, demanding he do something. He had no better plan than the one he already had. If necessary, he was even willing to marry her to Prince Jaehaerys—the third son still carried dragon blood. But the age gap was too large, and after two failed attempts to wed Cersei into the royal family (first to Aerys, then to Rhaegar), forcing her onto Jaehaerys would be humiliating for House Lannister.
Cersei had refused anyway. She wanted Daeron and the crown. Nothing else would satisfy her. She had even declared, with complete conviction, "I will marry the king."
Tywin had scoffed. The last person who put too much faith in prophecy had lost his throne and ended up fighting pirates on the Stepstones.
Still, he had to admit a grudging respect for Rhaegar's audacity. The man had actually gone through with reviving the old custom of multiple wives. When he decided to burn bridges, he burned them completely. Giving the realm to Rhaegar would have been a disaster.
"Restoring that tradition won't be easy," Tywin murmured.
It would mean clashing with the Faith and offending more than half the noble houses of Westeros.
He rubbed his temple, then shook his head. "Perhaps Shaena will turn out like Queen Aemma."
Queen Aemma Arryn, Viserys I's first wife, had given him Princess Rhaenyra and then lost every subsequent child—stillbirths, miscarriages, and finally her own life in childbirth. That had opened the door for Alicent Hightower to rise from lady-in-waiting to queen.
Alicent had been fertile. Three sons and a daughter for Viserys.
Tywin stopped himself. Otto Hightower was a scheming snake. I am nothing like him.
He thought of his late wife, Joanna, who had died giving birth to Tyrion. That wound still ached. He would never wish such a fate on any woman just to clear a path for his daughter.
"The lion earns its name through strength and fangs," he told himself firmly.
He would see Cersei married into the royal family. One way or another, he would make it happen.
How far are you willing to go? he wondered, gazing out the window toward the distant Dragonpit where dragon wings occasionally flashed across the sky, and beyond it, the wide Blackwater Bay that led to the Narrow Sea.
House Lannister had already reached the peak of power in Westeros. It was no longer enough. Now it was time to see how far the Targaryens would rise—and how much of that rise House Lannister could claim for itself.
---
Prince's Fief.
"Prince, look over here. I had a proper dock built just for you."
Petyr Baelish beamed as he showed Daeron the changes along the eastern coast.
Daeron looked around. Besides the new dock and a few fishermen's huts, everything seemed much the same. He frowned.
Petyr hurried to explain. "Prince, I followed the advice of the Tyroshi dye workers. I set up barriers among the reefs and began breeding purple sea snails in the shallows."
Before Daeron could respond, Petyr waded straight into the water and plucked out a thumbnail-sized purple snail. It was still alive—the soft pink flesh inside moved slightly.
Normally these snails only survived in Tyroshi waters. Outside those waters they died quickly. Yet here they were thriving.
"Prince, the breeding program is a complete success," Petyr said proudly, holding the snail out like an offering.
Daeron had to admire the man's sheer talent for groveling. No wonder someone like Petyr Baelish had once climbed so high.
"Put it back. I see it," Daeron said.
He had come to inspect the fief's progress on a whim. The farms and workshops were running smoothly. Trade was still modest, but the land was proving itself as a reliable grain supplier for King's Landing. The new royal warehouses being built nearby made perfect sense.
And now Petyr had delivered an unexpected bonus with the purple sea snails. Once they produced enough for Tyroshi-style dye, it would open a steady stream of high-value income for the crown.
"Several million gold dragons sounds like a lot," Daeron thought, "but it will disappear fast."
Surviving the Long Summer was manageable. But when the Long Winter eventually followed, grain, clothing, and medicine would become critically scarce. He needed to buy as much as possible now, while prices were still reasonable.
Money was never a problem he wanted to have.
Just then Ser Arthur Dayne approached. "Prince, Lord Rowan and his family have arrived."
Daeron nodded and turned to Petyr. "Keep focusing on the eastern coast breeding program. I'll check back soon."
As he walked away with Arthur, he asked, "Any word from the North and the Vale?"
"Some replies have come. Lord Stark and Lord Royce both intend to sail here for the coronation."