“Here comes the bee,” I said, gently pushing my hand toward her soft little belly.
“And here comes the bird.”
“Kahhhh!” She squealed in pure delight as I tickled her, her tiny body wriggling against the soft cushions.
“Ah, the bird is coming for you once more,” I warned with a grin, circling the stuffed puppet in slow, dramatic arcs over her head before landing it lightly on her forehead.
She giggled and tried to shove it away with both hands.
“No!” she squealed, still laughing.
“Away! Go away!”
I turned the puppet toward my own face, eyes going comically wide with exaggerated terror.
“Oh no… the bird— it is— it is coming for my eye now! Save me, Lady Visenya! Save me!”
I collapsed backward onto the floor in a theatrical heap, clutching the puppet tightly against my face as though it were trying to peck my eyes out.
This is how you win an Oscar.
“Arghh! My eyes! My eyes!” I rolled around with exaggerated agony while Visenya scrambled over me on her hands and knees, her small frame surprisingly determined.
“Bird!” she declared, seizing the puppet and hurling it to the ground with all the strength her little arms could muster.
“Bad. Bird.”
I sniffled dramatically, covering my face with both hands.
A moment later I felt her climb higher, her small palms patting urgently at my fingers.
Through the gaps between my hands I watched her bottom lip begin to tremble.
Her eyes filled with genuine worry.
“Daedae,” she whispered, voice soft and anxious.
“Daedae… I save.”
I slowly lowered my hands and rolled my eyes around the room in a dramatic search for the defeated bird.
“Visenya!” I gasped.
“I can see! You— you saved me!”
She immediately wrapped her tiny arms around my neck and pressed herself against me.
I returned the hug, careful and warm, letting her settle against my chest.
“I save Daedae,” she whispered proudly.
“Yes, you did,” I chuckled, resting my chin lightly against her pale hair.
Across from us, Helaena sat with Orys on her lap.
The little boy’s face was already wet with tears, his lower lip quivering in sympathy for my injury.
“Orys, Orys, don’t cry,” Helaena said gently, rocking him.
“Look, Visenya saved Uncle Daedae. See? He’s all better now.”
I love children.
…
..
.
Don’t start kicking down interdimensional doors, FBI.
I love children the way an adult is supposed to, with paternal sort of care.
Get your sick fucking heads out of the gutter.
“No, no, Orys, look, Visenya saved me!” I scooped the little girl into my arms and carried her over to where Helaena sat with the boy.
“She is the greatest warrior the Seven Kingdoms have yet to witness. A mere bird stands no chance against her.”
“Bad. Bird,” Visenya mumbled firmly, still glaring at the defeated puppet on the floor.
“Yes,” Cassandra said from her seat by the window, not looking up from the tapestry she was stitching.
“We shall call her Visenya the Birdsbane henceforth.”
“Bad bird,” I echoed, gently poking Visenya’s nose.
She batted my hand away with a little huff, then wriggled free and toddled toward one of the gifts I had brought her, something of my own making.
She picked up the small wooden box, returned to me, and tapped it against my chest.
“Song. Song.”
Cassandra sighed softly, still focused on her needlework.
“She has grown rather attached to it. She wants the music even when she should be eating… or sleeping.”
I smiled and opened the lid, then turned the little wooden key set into the side.
When I released it, the mechanism began to turn, its ridges catching the shaped edges in a steady, delicate rhythm.
A music box.
True story.
If you ever want to make a lasting impression on a first date without completely screwing it up, there are three essential things you should consider buying: a bouquet of flowers, some muffins, and a music box… or a wind chime.
Why?
Because every time she hears that sound again, some quiet part of her mind will think of you, even if she doesn’t realize it.
Music stays with people.
Why the fuck do you think I sing?
It is definitely not because I am auditioning for Westeros’ Got Talent.
I do it because a song leaves an impression.
It lingers, it can move people.
Life advice.
Take it or leave it.
Also, for the record, it once got me to third base on a third date.
Up top?
No?
Fuck you too, then.
The music box finished its slow turn and the melody faded into silence.
Visenya giggled and clapped her tiny hands, delighted all over again.
A knock sounded at the door.
A moment later Ser Willis Fell entered, his white cloak shifting with his steps.
“My prince. The Lord Hand has summoned you to the Small Council.”
Cassandra looked up, brows furrowing.
“The Small Council? Why?”
“It was my intention to observe their workings before I leave,” I answered for him.
“It seems my grandsire is simply granting the request.”
Helaena’s face lost some of its quiet brightness.
Even Cassandra’s expression softened into something closer to regret.
I knelt in front of Visenya again, keeping my voice gentle.
“I leave at first light,” I told her.
“You will still be asleep. I’m going to miss you very much. Take care of your brother for me, all right?”
“No,” she said immediately, wrapping her small arms around my neck again.
“I will come back,” I promised, returning the hug for a long moment before carefully easing back.
“I have my duties. Listen to your mother. Eat all your meals. You still have many people to save from birds.”
I stood, gave the room one last look, and walked toward the door.
Ser Willis fell into step behind me as we left the chamber.
It had been a week since the feast, and the time had finally come for me to leave King’s Landing.
The Red Keep had its share of beauty, soaring towers, intricate carvings, the occasional garden that almost managed to look peaceful but I had never grown fond of the place.
There was always that faint, persistent smell of sewage clinging to the air.
The countless pots of petals scattered through the halls did little more than soften the stench rather than erase it.
To be fair, Kingslanding smelled but It is the medieval time, everywhere smelled.
I still prefer Oldtown.
Between the Citadel and the Starry Sept, the streets were cleaner, the channels better maintained, and there were always men of the Faith or grey-robed maesters keeping a watchful eye on the city’s underbelly.
I made my way through the Keep.
Servants and guards paused in their duties to offer bows as I passed.
The doors to the Small Council chamber were large and heavily carved.
The guards opened them without a word.
The chamber beyond was long and high-ceilinged.
An elongated table dominated the center, and at the far end a wide door stood open to reveal a sweeping view of Kingslanding and the Narrow Sea beyond.
The members of the Small Council were already seated.
Their conversations died as every eye turned toward me.
Otto stood behind the chair at the head of the table, hands pressed together.
Alicent sat to his side, her gaze flicking sharply between me and her father, clearly wondering what I was doing here.
“Why is he here?” she asked.
“For reasons,” Otto replied, the words sharp enough to carry a quiet rebuke.
His eyes flickered with a brief, pointed look that told her to leave it.
Tyland Lannister studied me with open doubt before schooling his expression.
Lord Redwyne and Grand Maester Orwyle did the same while Lord Jasper Wylde sat rigid, a curious glint in his eyes and Larys Strong simply acknowledged my presence with a small nod.
“We welcome you to the Small Council, Prince Daeron,” Lord Kennet Redwyne, the Master of Ships, said with a polite smile.
“I am here only to learn from the great lords of the realm,” I answered, returning the smile.
“It is a pleasure to have you, my prince,” Tyland said gracefully.
I took my place beside Otto and waited for the council to resume.
“As we were discussing,” Lord Tyland continued, “the Iron Bank has grown reluctant to extend further coin. The Triarchy’s falling out with certain merchant houses has complicated matters.”
The session that followed was long and grinding.
Most of it belonged to Tyland and Jasper, with Tyland leading the charge.
Money, it seemed, still solved most problems, provided one had enough of it.
I found myself wondering, not for the first time, how the realm had managed to survive until Robert’s day.
Perseverance, I supposed.
Men’s capacity to endure mediocrity should never be underestimated.
Eventually the conversation shifted to a topic that actually held my interest.
“I wish to discuss the matter of royal marriages,” Otto announced.
The table fell nearly silent.
Only Alicent looked around in open confusion, clearly unaware of whatever her father was about to propose.
“Prince Aemond is of age,” Otto continued.
“We shall seek suitable brides for him among the houses of the Reach and the Westerlands.”
Several pairs of eyes immediately turned toward the Reachman and the Lannister, as though the mere suggestion carried the scent of conspiracy.
“Forgive me, Lord Hand,” Lord Kennet said carefully, leaning forward.
“It was my understanding that after His Grace’s initial wish to wed Prince Aegon to Princess Helaena was set aside, he desired Prince Aemond to fulfill a similar match.”
Otto glanced at me before answering.
I already knew how this would unfold.
There was no realistic chance Aemond would be married before Viserys died.
Letters alone would take months to travel between the great houses.
Negotiations would drag on.
Betrothals would be proposed, delayed, and quietly abandoned.
The entire discussion was less about securing a bride and more about planting a seed.
It was a signal for lobbying.
When the needs of noble houses are set aside or slighted, there would be a dark flicker in their heads.
‘Could the house turn its cloak at the crucial hour in exchange for a prince?’
Did it sound far-fetched?
Yes.
Could it happen?
Who the fuck knew?
Possibly.
Maybe.
By placing Aemond in the light, I was also indirectly placing Helaena there as well.
A dragonriding princess was a prize many lords would covet.
But would I ever let that happen?
No.
Fucking.
Way.
The last thing this realm needed was a third house with dragons.
One Targaryen civil war was already more than enough.
Still… was there a real possibility for a third house to have dragons riders?
Absolutely.
There was already precedent.
The Queen Who Never Was had been enough to prove that dragons did not always stay neatly within the main line.
I glanced at Otto from the corner of my eye.
I still couldn’t tell whether he truly understood my wordless intent or whether he was simply playing along while keeping his own cards close.
The man wasn’t stupid.
He had to know the danger of handing a dragonriding princess to another house.
And yet he was still moving the pieces I had set on the board.
What was his play?
I had no idea.
But the mere possibility might swell Green ranks with those hoping to bind themselves closer to the throne through a princess to traverse the storms to come.
As I had said before, I did not particularly care who eventually sat the tetanus hazard.
But the Greens remained preferable.