#Daeron POV
#At The Twins
Daeron dismounted from the saddle atop Caraxes, gently petting the dragon along his neck, which earned him a contented purr from the beast. Daeron couldn't help but wonder why Caraxes, so soft in moments like this, remained cold and distant when they conversed. The only reason he could think of was that Caraxes considered speaking in Parseltongue beneath him. It mattered little—for Daeron would eventually learn the true language of dragons.
The sound of galloping hooves drew his attention. Turning his head, he saw Arthur approaching with a few guards in tow. With a final pat on Caraxes' neck, Daeron stepped aside to wait. At their pace, it didn't take long for them to reach him.
"Your Grace," Arthur began, "I was starting to wonder where you had gone to clear your mind. It's been more than a day, and the North and Vale lords were filled with doubt—some feared you were dead. Rumor has it that Lannister gold caught up to you." Though his tone was sharp at first, amusement crept into his voice by the end.
Like Arthur, Daeron found it laughable that anyone would think an assassin could succeed against him.
"Well, let's put those rumors to rest, shall we, good ser?" Daeron replied with a light smile, mounting the horse one of the guards offered. The poor man would have to walk back to the Twins—though, in truth, another rider who had fallen behind soon offered him a lift. Daeron and his party then urged their horses into a full gallop toward the Twins.
He hadn't landed far from the castles, so it took only a few minutes to reach the twin keeps. Daeron had landed on the western side and noticed there were no camps or tents nearby. Curious, he turned to Arthur.
"Why haven't the men moved to this side, Ser Arthur? I made my intentions clear at the last war council—that we would soon be heading toward the Riverlands."
Arthur sighed. "The men are resting and recovering, Your Grace. The storming of the Twins may not have been a grand battle, but the long marches, even with brief rests, have worn them down. And their morale isn't high—many didn't even get a chance to draw blood."
As they approached the bridge connecting the twin castles, the portcullis was raised by guards at the gate. They rode across toward the eastern keep.
"I suppose I should have expected this. Very well—let them have this week to rest. Arrange a feast and whatever else is needed to raise their spirits."
Arthur gave a dutiful nod.
"Anything of note occur while I was away?" Daeron asked as they neared the keep.
"Nothing that demands immediate attention, Your Grace. Things are... better, in a way. Fights between the Freefolk and Valemen have lessened. Even the Vale lords are surprised. It seems both sides, weary of conflict, have reached a stalemate. If anyone deserves credit for that, it's Ser Davos—the Onion Knight. He spent much of his time at camp, doing what he could to foster camaraderie between the two groups. His efforts didn't bear much fruit, but they weren't entirely in vain."
As Arthur dismounted, he followed Daeron into the keep. Daeron had chosen a room on the southern side of the eastern castle—not the one previously occupied by the weasel lord of the Twins. His hatred for that man had been too great to tolerate any reminder. The room he'd claimed had a decent bed and a view of the Greenfork. The name was apt—the waters near the Twins were a murky green, not pleasant to the eye, but it would suffice for his brief stay.
Alone in his chambers, Daeron's thoughts turned to what must come next. Though he had gone over these plans many times, another moment of reflection could do no harm. The Riverlands would not be easily brought to heel without the support of its High Lord, but it wasn't impossible. All he needed to do was announce his claim to the throne and wait. Sooner or later, a Riverlord would turn to him—seeking protection or some advantage.
The presence of the Lannisters and Freys in the Riverlands was already disliked. And once word spread that Caraxes flew at Daeron's side, many would flock to him. After all, who didn't want to back the winning side?
Though it had been a century and a half since a dragon last soared over Westeros, every lord knew there were few things capable of bringing down a full-grown dragon. The burning of Riverrun had only reinforced that truth. They would assume Caraxes was no hatchling—but a true terror reborn.
That was also why Daeron had granted his men a week's rest. Now, he had to wait. But before that, he had yet to tell his vassals what he had done to the keep of the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands.
With a steadying breath, Daeron rose and fastened Dark Sister to his hip.
No use delaying. It would be far worse if they learned the truth from Baelish rather than from him.
-Line Break-
HighGarden
She was sitting in her chambers, gazing at the garden, when a memory crept into her mind—her granddaughter, walking and giggling alongside her handmaiden. Then, suddenly, the girl turned to her and spoke words that sent a wave of dread crashing through her:
"It was your ambition that killed me. I didn't want to become queen."
The teacup slipped from Olenna's hand, spilling warm tea across her dress and scalding her skin. The pain jolted her out of the nightmare that haunted her, even in broad daylight.
Olenna Tyrell had always prided herself on being a master player in the Game of Thrones—sharper than at least Tywin Lannister's golden daughter. Then why? Where did it all go wrong? Cersei had grown arrogant and foolish enough to burn away her only ally while enemies closed in from every side. Or perhaps Olenna had always underestimated her, blinded by pride. Had she, in her hubris, failed to see what the lioness was capable of?
It mattered not. Cersei would pay—with her children's lives first. Then the Kingslayer. House Lannister would be no more when Olenna was through with them. The rage of vengeance burned so hot in her veins that she was willing to ally even with the damned Dornish if it meant seeing Cersei's downfall. With enemies at every corner, the queen of madness would not hold the throne for long. Olenna would see to that.
As her servants cleaned the mess, Olenna's gaze drifted toward a small parchment on the table, pinned beneath a golden figurine of a rose. The words written upon it had shocked her and reminded her that even a small player could turn the entire game on its head. Eddard Stark—Lord of Winterfell, brother to Robert Baratheon in all but blood. The mere mention of his name had always made the oaf king smile. Who would've thought Stark had kept such a secret? Olenna didn't blame him—family came first. Still, she hoped wherever Robert now suffered in whatever hell awaited him, he could see this. It would be a perfect torment for the storm-born fool. If not for him, none of this would have happened.
A knock at the door drew Olenna from her thoughts. Her eyes flicked to a servant, and the woman quickly rose, understanding her lady's silent command. The door opened, and Olenna's gaze landed on the visitor. A smile tugged at her lips—for a moment.
Willas. Her grandson. The new Lord of Highgarden—and a competent one at that. The boy had a good head on his shoulders and enough charisma to charm the most grasping lords of the Reach. If not for him and his brother, Olenna truly did not know what she would have done.
"How's your health, Grandmother?" Willas asked, settling into the chair across from her and placing his cane to the side. "I hope you're taking care of yourself. Highgarden still needs your wisdom to survive these troubled times."
Though he didn't show it to anyone else, Olenna knew—he carried his own grief.
"Yes, yes, boy, I'm not a child for you to lecture every time you visit. And fret not—I'm not leaving this world until I see House Lannister, and that demon Cersei, fall. Not even the Stranger himself could take me before then," she said, the fire in her voice unmistakable.
"Good," Willas nodded. "I assume you've heard about the Burning of Riverrun—and the man behind it, Daeron Targaryen?"
He motioned to a servant, who poured Arbor Gold into the cup before him. Though the name is the same, this version of Arbor Gold was special—so rare that only a handful in the world had the privilege to own it. And Olenna, a daughter of House Redwyne, was one of them.
"You think?" she replied flatly.
Willas rolled his eyes. "No need for dramatics. A grown dragon, powerful enough to destroy a keep. With the Vale's untouched army and the North marching beside him, Daeron has a better chance of sitting the Iron Throne than Aegon with his Golden Company. That only makes Aegon's claim more questionable. If we want revenge on the Lannisters, it may be time to choose a side. The enemy of our enemy—"
"—is our friend," Olenna finished, already having considered it. With a dragon at his side, Daeron's path to victory seemed the more likely. And with possibly two, soon three, kingdoms behind him, the tide of war was shifting fast.
"I don't think it takes a clever man to choose the winning side," she said. "The question is: what do we ask for in return?"
Willas leaned forward. "The game can change in a single move, Grandmother. We've seen it happen too many times lately. If Aegon can prove even a shred of legitimacy, Daenerys will choose him over a second son, trueborn or not. Seems like old age is catching up to you, Grandmother. The Queen of Thorns isn't as sharp as she used to be."
Mischief and teasing—an attempt to lighten the mood. But Olenna had to admit, the boy was growing into a man. A bit rough around the edges, perhaps, but promising.
"My sweet summer child," Olenna said, voice thick with mock affection, "if you had paid attention to your history lessons with the Maester, you'd know better. Daenerys's dragons only hatched a few years ago—and none of them are large enough to bring down a keep. But Daeron's? His is full-grown. Now run along and contemplate how you missed that crucial detail."
With her hands folded in her lap, she turned her gaze skyward, but her thoughts were elsewhere—already shifting toward the moves she would soon make on the board.