1,141An Emperor's Song
Disclaimer: I do not claim to own anything that is seen as property by the Game of Thrones, A Song of Ice and Fire & Percy Jackson & the Olympians franchises.
Warning: This story showcases violent themes, inappropriate sexual acts, foul language, etc. that is not suitable for most audiences, especially young adults and children. Please read at your own discretion or not at all.
Chapter 26. First of his Name
300 AF (Age of Fire)
Filler Arc I: [Year of Blood]
oOo
With Ser Jaime Lannister…
Jaime Lannister sat in a creaking wooden cart as it bumped along the Kingsroad, bound for the North, or rather the Wall.
He could feel the cold in the air growing sharper, though winter hadn't yet come. It bit through his cloak, its chills gnawing at him like a pack of wolves. His tired hands rested on the rough wood, flexing his fingers, he was beginning to feel the ache of the journey.
Thoughts of recent events plagued his mind. Cersei, her face pale and stricken, on the day he had confessed the truth to the world—that the three Baratheon children were not Baratheons at all. Rather they were Lannisters. Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen… his blood ran in their veins, not Robert's.
It had been a strange feeling, when the words left him, almost freeing in a way. Yet they had equally condemned him the instant they left his lips—Jaime's wandering eyes settled on a pack of stray dogs circling around a family of hares. No, he had been condemned to his fate the moment he agreed to work with Rhaegar's boy.
Jaime clenched his jaw. He had sworn he would never reveal it. He'd promised Cersei, his sister, his lover, his other half. And yet like so many others he'd broken that oath, shattered it into a thousand pieces before the throne. He once again became an oath breaker. All so that the population of King's Landing wouldn't be blown to smithereens.
And as part of his reward for taking part in the schemes of the Targaryen's, instead of being relieved of his head, he was put in chains, surrounded by silent guards, and shipped off to take the black.
Was it all worth it? Cersei's face would forever haunt him, her fury, her betrayal, etched into his soul. She would have surely spat his name like a curse that day, telling him he was as much a fool as Ned Stark, a lion turned to sheep. And perhaps she was right. But he could also say that so long as she and the rest of his family weren't erased from the bowels of history, he'd be fine with being a sheep.
And so, he continued on to the Wall in solemn resignation. A place for broken men, and now he would be one of them. Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, would wear black and be reduced to nothing more than a watcher over a realm where snow and darkness reigned.
He almost smiled at the thought—it was ironic. From the beginning, he had always been the silent protector, the knight in the shadows, sworn to protect the few and yet bound by morals to protect the many.
Jaime closed his eyes, finally allowing the chill in the air to seep into his bones, welcoming it, letting it remind him of what was to come—winter.
Maybe this was how it was meant to end for him—not in a blazing battle for glory, nor in a heroic act of rebellion against a tyrant, but in exile, amongst the worst of the worse, an honor seeking lion that abandoned his pride and chose to be among the hyenas and vultures.
oOo
Sometime later, at King's Landing…
King's Landing, the city that was never truly quiet. Its cobblestone streets were always filled with the ceaseless gossip of inhabitants, but today the clamor of murmurs reached an all time high.
Word of Perseus Targaryen's victory over the boy-king, Joffrey Baratheon, surged through the crooked streets and alleys like wildfire.
"The Targaryen's have taken the throne back from that spineless Baratheon boy, or should I say, bastard?" a toothless crone spat among her fellows as she stirred a thin pot of brown stew, the harsh crackle of the fire paired well with their laughter.
In Flea Bottom, the designated slum of the capital, where the poorest of the poor and the worst types clung to the streets like stubborn shit stains, the moniker 'Beggar King' swept through every hovel and narrow lane. Some shouted it mockingly from cracked doorways; others muttered it under their breath, eyes cast down, wary of who might hear.
For most of the smallfolk, kings and queens were distant stars. They spoke of them, yes, as one might speak of unicorns, but their loyalty lay not in bloodlines, but in the clink of coin, the weight of bread, and the warmth of a safe home.
Perseus's final victory—however glorious or shameful, depending on who spoke—mattered very little to the majority, so long as the winds of change swept over them with mercy, not cruelty.
When the sun burned high up in the sky, a sudden thrum of excitement crackled in the air. Rumors had spread that Perseus Targaryen himself, the champion of the house of dragons, was set to enter the city at any moment.
And once the procession finally appeared, the entire capital seemed to hold its breath. Would the Targaryen's show mercy to the people, the capital, or would they rape and pillage just as the Lannister's had done all those years ago when the Mad King fell?
The following sight was enough to silence even the staunchest of critics as the Targaryens chose to peacefully ride through the city with a poise of dignity that spoke of their ancient lineage, faces set with unyielding determination.
Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell's only living child, Perseus Targaryen, was in the lead, exuding an aura of strength and charisma, his wild mane of silver flowing in the wind. His dark armor, depicted with the same dragon's his house once rode, seemed to react to the light of the sun, illuminating the reddish color that was eerily reminiscent of blood.
Next was the Mad Dragon, Prince Viserys Targaryen, whose broad build, gleaming armor and gold-white hair that reached down to his shoulder blades created a vision that many maidens would use to fuel their desires for the nights to come.
Lastly, smiling warmly from the window of her carriage, Princess Daenerys Targaryen, who was the epitome of a peerless silver-haired beauty riding in to bless the lowly folk with the sight of her flawless, pale skin that was caressed by flowing violet silks. Her exotic looks and poise stirred the loins of men and boys alike who stared at her with blatant desire and self-loathing as they knew that they could only ever dream of being close to the princess.
But it wasn't the admirable visage of the last Targaryen's that mainly drew the eyes of the small folk, because behind them, dozens of wagons, groaning under the weight of crates and barrels, followed. The glint of sunlight bounced off polished steel and the soft creak of axles painted a new hope in the minds of the watching crowd.
The smallfolk watched, wide-eyed, as soldiers leapt down from their mounts and began opening crates filled to the brim with dried meats, cheeses, fruits, and jars of thick honey. Healers emerged from behind the wagons, hands already doling out bandages and tinctures to any wounded and weary in sight.
After the initial shock passed, a thunderous cheer erupted, raw and jubilant, as food was passed hand to hand. Mother's wept openly as their children bit into bread more golden than any the capital had seen in years. Old men raised trembling fists into the air, saluting the new king not for his victory, but for his mercy.
Behind their saviors and the caravan of goods, was a procession of nobles, perched in their carriages behind walls of soldiers. Some watched the scene with soft eyes, others with thin lips, unable to decide whether to criticize this new Targaryen king or to celebrate him.
There were a few highborn that actively showed their approval. The Flower of Highgarden, Margaery Tyrell, and the supposed betrothed of Prince Viserys, was one of them. She had upon her face one of the most beautiful and radiant smiles ever seen as she walked along the streets helping the healers treat the sick and sharing words of encouragement.
Another was the Heiress of Sunspear, Princess Arianne Martell, who was actively giving food to the many homeless children. Her alluring voice was as enchanting as a bard's as she sang melodies to soothe their empty bellies as her ever-present guard of Sand Snakes passed out fresh bread, honey and water.
Meanwhile, all throughout the streets, there were the thrumming chants of Perseus's name that echoed off stone and timber. The judgment of the smallfolk was cast. For now, at least, he was not as bad as the Beggar King; he was a bringer of spoils, the redeemer who had sated their hunger and nursed their wounds.
And for the small folk of King's Landing, that was enough.
oOo
At the Red Keep, with Tyrion…
The chambers of the Hand were colder than usual, the stone walls leeching warmth from the air as a heavy silence settled between the Lannister's.
Tyrion, seated in a corner with his wine in hand as per usual, made sure to keep some of his view on his sporadic sister. Cersei's features were a mask of fury and grief, her green eyes surrounded with bags that implied sleepless nights over the execution of her beloved boy.
"Jaime's folly has put us in a corner," Tywin snapped, the flicker of firelight casting harsh shadows on his gaunt cheekbones. "Our contract with the Targaryen is useless now."
"Did anyone ever find out exactly why brother mine would help the Targaryen's by revealing the children's true lineage?" Tyrion posed.
His father's jaw clenched ever so slightly, a sign that his bubbling rage was trying to slip past his iron control. He sat at the head of the long table, fingers steepled as he surveyed the room. "I do not know. I've only been made aware that Jaime has decided to take the oath of the black—willingly."
That revelation shocked everyone into silence. Their glory seeking Jaime willingly giving his sword to what was essentially the North? The world must've been ending.
The weight of the Lannister name had never felt so precarious. The true parentage of Cersei's children, laid bare for all to see, had unraveled a carefully woven web, and now their eldest son was going to freeze his balls off in the winter. leaving them with scraps and whispers to rebuild from.
"The terms were predicated on Myrcella being in line for the throne," Tyrion said, his voice flat and lethal. "With her declared as an illegitimate daughter, our path to securing a marriage with Perseus is all but useless in acquiring any significant leverage."
Before anymore could be said, the doors to the chamber creaked open. All eyes turned to the small, slender figure who entered, her gold curls bouncing lightly as she walked. Myrcella Baratheon—or Waters, as the world now calls her—moved with a grace that belied her age, her expression set with the confidence of someone far wiser.
"Grandfather, Mother, Uncle." she greeted the room, her tone steady. Tyrion arched an eyebrow. The girl had always been odd, but there was something different about Myrcella, her demeanor seemed more honed, sharpened by necessity.
Cersei's eyes softened for a moment, but she quickly masked the slip with an arched brow. "This is not a place for—"
Myrcella interrupted, meeting Tywin's gaze directly. The old lion's eyes narrowed, studying her with the same intensity he reserved for discerning potential tools. "I have a plan, grandfather. To regain the power and honor of our once great house."
Intrigued, Tyrion took a long sip of his wine, watching the interplay unfold. The girl stood tall before them, the sunlight that pierced through the stained glass windows casting golden hues across her determined face.
"Go on," Tywin said, his voice a command, not a request.
"I propose that you adopt me and my brother into House Lannister. If we are legitimized as Lannisters, not only will the matter of succession be resolved by having Tommen be heir to the Rock, but we'd still have a potential bargaining chip—an opportunity that Perseus's aides would have to consider, as I'm sure that they would leap at the opportunity to have some influence in the Westerlands through a marriage with me."
Cersei's lips slightly parted in shock, but it was Tyrion who spoke first, his voice tinged with intrigue. "It's a clever play. But wouldn't this bring more pressure onto Tommen? He would be next in line for the Rock over you, so the crown could just go after him in order to have a more secure way of gaining control over our lands." He pointed out to his niece.
Very briefly, Myrcella's face pinched. "The best way to protect my brother is to keep him away from the court. He isn't ready for the game. So I think it's best that he joins the Faith until he is ready."
"And you are, granddaughter, ready for the 'game'?" Tywin raised his brow.
His odd eyed niece looked to the old lion, her gaze as sharp as steel. "I may yet be a Lannister by name, but the blood of Lann the Clever runs through my veins just as it does yours, grandfather."
The certainty of Myrcella's statement filled the room with a thrum of energy and excitement that made Tyrion sit up in his chair.
"…we would need the authority of the High Septon and the king to make you and your brother's legitimacy official. The High Septon is no issue, but Perseus would need to give his consent. Why would he agree to make you both Lannister's? Surely you can't be banking this on the idea of a Targaryen actually listening to their advisors for once." He knew that his father was testing Myrcella's forethought.
A shadow of a smile touched Myrcella's lips. "I suspect Perseus dreams of a marital union with his aunt, Daenerys. There are already whispers of their closeness being reminiscent of Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives. The affection that they displayed at Harrenhal was different from a familial bond and according to the servants they've even been sharing chambers since they arrived at the keep. If he's smart, he will see that legitimizing both Tommen and I will provide him with necessary leverage over the Faith who despise incest. He'll use us as a recent example for there being exceptions to the faith's rules." There was the barest flicker of shame in Cersei's face but it was gone before Tyrion could fully draw his gaze to it.
Meanwhile, Tywin seemingly conceded to her point which more than likely pointed toward him having the same suspicions prior to this meeting. "And if he falters to keep his word about the marriage? You're only ten name days. A marriage between you and Perseus won't be able to be consummated until you've flowered. Many things can change between now and then."
There was a flicker of hesitation in his niece's eyes, one that his father immediately caught. "Speak plainly, Myrcella."
"I think it best that whilst I remain betrothed to Perseus, I will be a ward to the Martell's in Dorne." Her mother's reaction came instantly.
"Absolutely not!" Cersei spat venomously. "Who knows what those desert creatures would do to you?"
"Mother, not only is this the best way to get around the Targaryen's initial suspicions, but I believe we could potentially take one of their most powerful allies off the board." His sister opened her mouth to respond, but thankfully their father stepped in.
"Explain, Myrcella." Tywin's command quickly silenced the room for his granddaughter.
"The Targaryen's will think me controllable as long as I'm under the watch of their most trusted allies. But while I'm there, I will work discreetly to destroy the stability of House Martell, which is already on the brink of collapse due to Princess Arianne Martell, or her brother, Prince Trystane Martell, who are rumored to be in an unofficial contest for the seat of Sunspear. I'll do anything I have to do in order to make that happen."
"Myrcella!" Cersei hissed in disbelief.
"Mother, this is no longer about the iron throne, Perseus has already won that game. Now, it's about regaining strength and gathering allies of our own while making sure his allies are either weak or too busy fighting amongst themselves."
Tyrion's goblet paused midair as he took in the quiet, steel-edged certainty in her voice. He had never been one for conspiracy but he would be a fool to deny her conclusion.
Seeing that her point had come across the room, his niece ended. "Thankfully we have a bit of time. For now, the Targaryen's will focus on making sure who their enemies are so that nothing is misconstrued when they start solidifying their power. That is why it is necessary that we integrate ourselves into the fold now. The closer we are to the dragon underbelly, the more likely it is that we will not be turned into ashes once it starts burning everything in its sight."
Myrcella's plan was layered, intricate, and he had an inkling that she was only revealing the parts that she wanted them to hear, the portion that would be enough to allow her free reign and unhindered support to go through with her more dubious plans. She was playing to their strengths while mitigating their weaknesses with a ruthless efficiency that he couldn't help but appreciate.
Cersei's mouth moved, but no sound came out. Tywin's eyes gleamed gleefully, like a predator recognizing its kin. "You would—willingly place yourself on the board of this game despite knowing what it means to lose?" he asks.
"I would," Myrcella affirmed, her gaze unwavering. "For the future of our house."
A rare smile ghosted across Tywin's lips, thin and imperious. "We will speak further, alone," he declared, the dismissal in his tone wasn't missed on Tyrion and Cersei.
As Tyrion stood, his smirk hidden behind the rim of his cup, he moved to leave. He glanced at Myrcella who met his gaze with a wink, and a flicker of admiration formed in his equally mismatched eyes.
"Well played, niece," he muttered under his breath as he exited, leaving the echo of ambition simmering in the room behind him.
House Lannister may have lost its most powerful pieces, but it seemed the gods saw it fit to grant them a replacement. One that would either bring them further into the chasm of doom or allow them to grow wings and soar to greater heights.
oOo
Days later, at the coronation of Perseus Targaryen…
The grand hall of the Red Keep had never been so alive. Banners of black and red were once again draped from the high rafters, emblazoned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
An air of anticipation and a thousand murmurs filled the space like the rustle of leaves before fall.
All of Westeros had gathered to witness this moment—the crowning of King Perseus Targaryen, the long-anticipated heir who now stood poised to lead the realm. Lords and ladies from the petty houses to the great houses filled the room, each adorned in their house colors.
The Starks of the North, dressed in somber grays and whites, stood with a quiet dignity. Sansa Stark, regal in a gown embroidered with the direwolf of her house, kept her eyes steady on the throne, her once unreadable expression now filled with a sheen of happiness as she was once again beside her family. To her right, Arya lingered in the shadows, a mischievous smile playing at her lips, ever the rogue wolf.
The Lannisters made their entrance with practiced grace. Tywin, once the Hand of the King, took his place with an air of calm authority, Tyrion sat beside him, his mismatched eyes gleaming in the torchlight. Cersei, demure and tightly controlled, held her head high, golden hair catching the light like a crown in its own right though she no longer wore one. On the outside, it seemed the fall of her house had brought no humbling to her gaze, but those who knew her were aware that she was only barely controlling her rage.
The Martells, clad in flowing silks of deep orange and gold, moved like desert winds, their sharp eyes and even sharper smiles observing every detail. Prince Doran somehow stood tall in his seat, his leathery face marked with the wisdom that only Dorne's harsh sands could bestow. His family's legacy, fierce and unbowed, was etched into his every glance.
The lords of the Stormlands, or what remained of them, watched with tense shoulders and clenched jaws. House Baratheon's storm had been utterly silenced by the fire of the dragons, its vassals were now few, but pride still clung stubbornly in their hearts.
From the Vale came the Arryns, their blue and white sigils waving above them like the wings of a judging falcon, sharp and vigilant. The Tullys of Riverrun, with their river-hued garments, whispered quietly among themselves, casting cautious glances at the Iron Throne that had once been so close to their grasp.
Even the Ironborn arrived, though as they always did: loud, fierce, and unapologetic. House Greyjoy stood out among the sea of silks and polished armors, their salt-stained leathers and iron-studded garments marking them as outsiders. Asha Greyjoy, tall and proud, wore a smirk that spoke of bad tidings and mischief. The Kraken of Pyke was stitched boldly on her breast, its tentacles unfurling as if ready to drag down any who underestimated her. The men behind her, scarred and wind-weathered, bore the unmistakable look of men who had braved storm and steel.
After a long while, the grand hall fell to a hush as the High Septon and a contingent of arch-bishops stepped forward, their robes adorned with crystalline patterns that caught the light like the very stars of the Seven Heavens.
In the center of them all stood Perseus Targaryen, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, clad in dark armor that now had a cloak-of-blood red draped around its shoulders, the image of Aegon the Conqueror reborn.
His gaze swept over the room, fearlessly meeting the eyes of the lords and ladies who once fought against him for the right to stand where he stood now. His expression was calm, but there was fire behind it for any who wished to see it—the promise of fire and blood.
Besides the High Septon, all of the members of the Faith stopped at the bottom of the staircase as Perseus slowly climbed his way up to the throne.
Halfway to the throne was the now infamous Mad Dragon, Viserys Targaryen, who Perseus firmly clasped forearms with before continuing on. The prince watched his nephew's ascent with a smug, prideful smile that screamed out to all of the people who had once stood against them.
Standing elegantly just a few steps below the throne, was the young princess, Daenerys Targaryen, who, after tales of her radiant silver hair and unforgettable violet irises spread through the capital like wildfire, became the newest member of the Great Beauties.
The resplendent girl smiled at Perseus, her nephew, with an unguarded gaze of warmth and depth, her eyes alight with joy, trust, admiration and, above all, powerful affection.
Perseus paused for a moment to trade a few words with his aunt. Necks strained to try and catch at least a word of their conversation but they were spoken softly and briefly before the young conqueror continued on.
Now directly in front of him was the seat that a million men had died for, the Throne of Blades, the Seat of Kings, the Iron Throne. It was now Perseus's right to sit on Westeros's symbol of power, and after a few moments of delay as the soon-to-be-crowned king carefully traced his fingers along its sharp edges, he took his seat with a glint of a triumphant smile.
The crown, a band of blackened steel with rubies set like drops of blood, was lifted high as the High Septon's voice echoed through the hall. "We are gathered to witness the crowning of a new king, chosen by the gods and by conquest, the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms—Perseus of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. All hail, King Perseus!"
"All hail, King Perseus!" Every lord and lady present bowed and repeated their allegiance three times.
As the crown settled onto Perseus's head, the room erupted in cheers, some sincere, others veiled by fear or reluctant loyalty. Dorne bellowed their allegiance, their voices shouting the loudest of all. The Reach, with their practiced smiles, clapped politely, petals among thorns, ever graceful but never to be underestimated.
Perseus looked to the crowd with the measured confidence of one who knew that real power was not inherited. But surprisingly, his eyes didn't show an ounce of arrogance or gloating. His focused gaze seemingly remained fixed on potential threats—both seen and unseen.
"Lords and ladies," he began, his low yet commanding voice silencing the crowd, "once again, the wheel has turned, the rulers of Westeros have changed, and now a dragon once again sits on the Iron Throne. I'm sure some of you didn't expect this outcome. Many probably thought that me and my family would die in obscurity far across the Narrow Sea. Your surprise to see us now, standing here, is warranted but also foolish if you are aware of the truth. Real power—the kind that makes change—is not gifted by birthright or by titles but forged in loyalty, resilience, and faith."
A shift of movement rippled through the crowd of lords and ladies as they listened to the young king speak in a riveting manner far unlike his predecessor.
"But I ask you: What good is absolute power if it is held back by division? There are dangers that lie in the shadows, threats that seek to fracture and corrupt the people of these great lands. They judge us, from across the Narrow Sea, sometimes they even pretend to stand beside us, but only as watchers to our struggles that they deem as nothing more than entertainment." More than a few narrowed glances were thrown at the various officials and representatives who stood aside observers from all over Essos, which made the expressions of the foreign guests grow uncomfortable and even a bit nervous.
As if the young king's tongue that spoke of dangers was dipped in tantalizing honey, a subtle, but distinct air of tension suddenly materialized between the people of Westeros and those who lived beyond their shores.
"But history shows that together, Westeros is a force that no enemy, no matter what city they come from or whichever god they pray to, can reckon with. So as my first official act as king, I ask you all to stand with me against these slave masters, coin hoggers and silk spinners as allies bound not by fear but by a shared vision of unity and prosperity. I vow to be a ruler who sees, hears and values every region, who defends not just a crown but the people. Our enemies are strong and they are many, but they underestimate the unity of those who will not bend to their exotic promises. Together, we can reshape our great lands, and show the world the true strength of a west that stands as one, as the unified kingdom of Westeros!"
Perseus Targaryen, now king by right and might, had claimed the Iron Throne, and instead of calling for vengeance or obedience, he called for unity, a resistance against the shadows across the seas that would be exposed by the light of his reign.
It didn't matter who started it, but what mattered was the invigorated chanting that grew louder and louder within and outside of the grand hall until it became deafening.
"All hail Perseus!"
"Long live Westeros!"
"All hail Perseus!
"Long live Westeros!"
And in that moment, each house, from the lion to the wolf, from the sun to the kraken, realized that the game of thrones was no longer about a fabled seat. Because for once, the winner wasn't focusing on simply retaining the throne, but instead made the first step to obtaining the very heart and spirit of the land. Whether they liked it or not, a new age was coming to Westeros.
oOo
Later that night, with Perseus…
The grand feast in the Great Hall stretched far into the night, a swirl of laughter and music, the clink of goblets, and the hum of revelry.
Every corner of the hall brimmed with lords and ladies celebrating his coronation. Yet, amidst the pointless splendor, Perseus quickly felt his boredom rising with each cheer and toast he received.
As he sipped his lemon water, the tingly taste of it did little to quell the growing lethargy within him.
"Are you alright?" Daenerys whispered worryingly from beside him, her hand slipping into his from underneath the table.
He very much wished he could hold her for added comfort but now was not the time. A few requirements still needed to be met before he could openly express his love for her.
Perseus gave her a reassuring smile. "It hasn't even been a full day since becoming king and I'm already over all of this." A sheen bitterness glazed his eyes as he glanced around at the ongoing feast.
An understanding look formed on Daenerys's face. They had gone through the lowest of the lowest points of life, when they had to steal coppers or beg just for a piece of moldy bread. So the glitz and glamor of a grand feast such as this would probably never feel normal to them. "I'm sure Willas will understand if you retire early for the night."
On the other side of the hall, standing next to Viserys, was his chief adviser, Willas, who for good reason was quickly becoming known his de-facto right-hand-man, not that he had any objections to that notion, he'd much rather let the heir of Highgarden do the labor of politicking with old men who didn't know when to shut up.
"I'll be fine," Perseus adds. "Besides, it wouldn't set a good example if the king just disappeared."
Shock fluttered across Daenerys's face before she asked with concern. "Who are you and what have you done with my flamebrain?"
A dry look from him that was met by her giggles was enough to lighten Perseus's spirits a bit. "Yeah yeah, laugh it up. I'll have you know, Willas has been teaching me a lot about this kind of stuff."
"I've been taking lessons from Margaery as well." Daenerys says.
He drily responded to that. "At least it isn't just the Sand Snakes teaching you. I'd hate to see what Tyene's tactics for persuasion are."
A sly smile formed on Daenerys's lips. "Really?"
Perseus felt her hand discreetly move down to his lap, the urge to swallow hard instantly plagued him. He glanced up to the view of the ongoing festivities and a few curious glances that made him thankful for the tablecloth that was blocking the space underneath their table.
His attention was pulled away when he felt something in particular being grasped through his trousers. "Not even a quick peek?" Never before had Daenerys looked so alluring and dangerous as she did now, the slight biting of her lip drove him further into almost maddening levels of arousal.
But above all, he noticed the mischievous glimmer in her violet eyes. He groaned, finally making her practiced expression break, and she bursted into giggles.
As Daenerys wiped tears from the corners of her eyes, there was without a doubt, nor in a million years, not a pout on the face of the newly crowned king.
He had pretty much been overworked by the massive amount of duties that appeared in front of him even before his coronation. So it had come to pass that he was feeling backed up quite a bit, something Daenerys had come to understand after a few mishaps during their grappling sessions and she wouldn't let him forget it since then.
Perseus took a deep breath, gathering himself as Daenerys's laughter softened. He gave her a look that was unamused. "You've become good at getting reactions," he murmured, his hand gently brushing hers in return.
She smirked, laughter still glimmering in her eyes. "Consider it an art form," Her posture straightened with a regal air.
Perseus chuckled and shook his head. "Come on, let's get all of this politicking over with." He rose and offered her his arm, and together they departed from the table, stepping back into the grand hall's festivities.
Their united presence, entering the 'battlefield' as it were, turned heads and moved feet as the entire room shifted to get a better chance of mingling with the silver-haired monarchs.
All the while, while the majority of the crowd was unaware of the private playfulness that had passed between them, a mismatched pair of green and gray eyes peered at the duo with gleaming intrigue.
oOo
With Daenerys…
Daenerys drifted through the celebration feast on the arm of Perseus as they were trailed by Ser Loras, her new sworn knight, his presence both a shield and a silent reassurance.
The hall was alive with laughter, the scent of roasted meat, and overflowing goblets of wine permeated the air. Some lords and ladies feasted and spoke in low murmurs, casting curious glances her way, their eyes betraying interest—and perhaps a touch of suspicion—about her family's future.
As they rounded a table near the center, they stepped into the path of Tywin Lannister and his granddaughter Myrcella, who looked quite adorable in a gown of soft gold.
Daenerys couldn't find it impossible to see the cunning in Tywin's eyes, a predatory glint that said he was always plotting, always assessing. But it was seeing the same glint in Myrcella's that surprised her as the little girl stepped forward with a courteous bow that made her pause.
"Your Grace, Your Highness," Myrcella greeted them both, her voice soft but steady, "I've witnessed the reign of two kings, and I must say, I've never seen the grand hall as alive as it is tonight."
The compliment rolled off both her skin and Perseus's, like oil. "Thank you, Princess-er," It seemed her nephew had forgotten about the girl's change in social status.
Seemingly unbothered by the hiccup, Myrcella smiled warmly. "His Grace, can simply call me Myrcella if he'd like?"
"Myrcella then." Perseus nodded gracefully at the understanding girl before his eyes drifted to Tywin's.
"Your Grace, I'm surprised that this is our first time speaking with each other." Tywin's voice was the epitome of lethargic arrogance, as if he had long become accustomed to being the one with all of the power in the room.
So of course, her rogue, Perseus had to remind the old lion who between them now held the real power, "It's a shame you had to call for a retreat the first time we met, Lord Tywin, we could've spoken much sooner."
A glint of well masked anger passed through the balding man's eyes, though his face remained the image of relaxed indifference. "Fate usually holds plans different from our own, Your Grace."
"A wise lesson, Lord. One I'm sure we all understand quite well at this point." Her lips tugged at Perseus's sly remark.
Before her goading nephew could poke at the lion's scars any longer, she interjected. "Has your house made a decision on the matter of succession, Lord Tywin?"
The lord's eyes shifted to her and, despite her own will repelling any outward effects on her being, she felt a chill run down her spine at the danger of those green orbs.
"A decision has been made, Princess. But it involves a fragile matter that I will need to convene in private with the king, if it would please His Grace to meet with me at a later date." Tywin's gaze shifted back to Perseus.
"I'd be so honored to have a meeting with you, Lord Tywin." Her nephew definitely didn't sound so honored but the lord took the invitation for what it was.
From the corner of her eye, Daenerys witnessed the shift in Myrcella's poise as a gleam of genuine curiosity shone brightly through the young girl's eyes.
Perseus slightly shifted toward the blonde girl, seemingly sensing the same as her. "Was there anything else?"
The former princesses eyes lingered on Perseus for a moment, before she spoke. "Do you truly believe that there are threats across the Narrow Sea?"
The question made Perseus humm, as it registered in his mind. "A friend of mine once told me, 'to beware not only of the threats you see but also of those that go unspoken; and often, the quietest dangers are those that cut the deepest.'"
"While I believe we do not currently face a foreign enemy, I do believe in the serious dangers those from across the seas pose." As the Lannister's gave their outward displays of approval, she made a mental note to later ask about his friend who she had never met or heard of because whoever they were sounded quite wise.
"Your friend sounds very wise, Your Majesty." Myrcella mirrored Daenerys's own thoughts.
After a few more casual exchanges, their groups parted, giving way for further conversations to be had.
One of the most notable being Harrold Hardyng, the presumptive heir of the Vale and Lord Yohn of House Royce who struck up an intriguing conversation about the state of their homeland.
"Your Grace, I am Lord Yohn of House Royce and this is Ser Harrold Hardyng, Heir Presumptive of the Vale." The graying lord offered a bow as he introduced himself and his companion.
Seeing nothing particularly unique in the large, stout lord, Daenerys's eyes flickered to Ser Harrold.
Truthfully, the young man was very handsome. He had sandy hair, deep blue eyes, dimples that implied a genuine happiness and long limbs hardened with muscle. The apparent squire looked every inch a young lord-in-waiting, she wasn't at all surprised at the adoring looks he was receiving from nearby maidens.
"Your Grace, Your Highness, it's an honor to meet you." Harrold Hardyng had greeted them with a respectful bow before he straightened.
Daenerys chose not to acknowledge the young heir's appreciative glance at her silvery dress adorned with ivory dragons. The satisfaction she took from drawing the gazes of other men had dwindled ever since Perseus confessed his love for her and vice versa. Now only his gaze could stoke the flames of passion within her.
"I was sent as a representative of the Vale by the Lord Paramount Robin of House Arryn. The young lord wants to assure you that the Vale is at your service," Lord Royce declared with a booming voice that was deep and measured, every word chosen to reflect the gravity of the oath.
"Well met, Lord Royce, Ser Harrold," Perseus replied, his voice indiscernible. "As for the loyalty of the Vale, that is a given, as the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms. Is it not, Lord?"
The lines in the lord's face creased even further. "Of course, my king."
"Then it isn't the oath of the Vale that me and my family require, but the oath of House Arryn. Only then can we ever put this war behind us." His voice sounded threatening but Daenerys knew that Perseus was simply giving the lord a firm reminder.
"The Vale has never declared war with House Targaryen." Lord Rhoyce saw it fit to remind her beloved.
A glint of confusion flew across Perseus's eyes before lighting up with realization. "You must think I'm referring to that stupid little scuffle Joffrey started, that's barely worth mentioning. I'm talking about Robert's Rebellion."
It was the lord's turn to be the confused one. "That war ended over a decade ago, Your Grace."
"The war may have ended over a decade ago for you, Lord Rhoyce," Perseus replied with a practiced smile that was as sharp as a Valyrian steel blade. "But it never ended for us. We remember quite well how useless the oath of the Vale was when we had to beg for scraps and run from assassins like stray dogs. So you'll have to be understanding of our desire to personally see House Arryn of the Vale bend the knee. And I'm sure we both can imagine what events may happen if that desire is not met."
As Perseus casted a backward glance to the armored Knight of Flowers who stood sentry behind her, his resting hand practically twitching in the pommel of his sword, the temperature around them seemed to rise to a boiling point. Almost immediately, Lord Rhoyce's broad shoulders seemed a bit less broad, to say the least.
However large the lord was, even he knew the dangers Ser Loras posed to any man and so he bowed deeply. "I will make sure to inform the young lord of your—"
"The Vale has been under a shadow, my king," Harrold interjected, his voice calm yet sharp. "Petty Lord Baelish of the Fingers has far too much sway over my baby cousin. It's not right; the boy is too young and too easily led by the likes of him. If it were up to me, I'd see the Vale guided by its own, by someone willing to put the land and its people first, not the schemes of sly-tongued weasels."
Daenerys saw the fire in Harrold's eyes—a determination perhaps not yet honed but raw and potent. She glanced at Perseus, catching his eye, recognizing the spark of a shared thought.
"Perhaps we can discuss this troubling matter further in private, Ser Harrold. I'll have one of my people reach out to you." Perseus says, a dismissal evident in his tone which was taken with a graceful bow.
They walked away, and Daenerys leaned close, lowering her voice so only he could hear. "Ser Hardyng's resentment toward Lord Robin and Lord Baelish could work in our favor. If something were to put into question House Arryn's capability to lead the Vale, Baelish will lose his grip on the last scraps of power he has, and by putting Harrold in charge, he could give us the Vale without any strings attached."
As Perseus considered this, the memory of the failed plot between The Mountain and Lord Baelish, that had long soured her heart, resurfaced. She had never been much of a schemer, but Littlefinger had tried to seize her for his own schemes, and the thought alone stirred her into action.
"Even if everything Lysono and Varys informed me about Petyr Baelish's less than ideal acts as the Master of Coin isn't true," Perseus said quietly, her eyes sharp. "I will still see him pay for what he tried to do to you."
His gaze met hers, his expression unreadable yet somehow reassuring. "He will be among those who will burn by the end of the year."
With a firm and silent understanding between them, they moved back into the heart of the celebration, their bond and purpose crystallizing amid the dangers and secrets of Westeros.
oOo
With Sansa…
Sansa watched him drift away from the hall, his polite smile the last thing she saw before he stepped out, leaving the laughter and music behind.
She followed after him, a silent stalker. Her heart thudded in her chest as he moved through the shadows of the grand corridors of the Red Keep and into the gardens beyond.
The bitter chill of the night swirled around her, but she stayed course, curiosity driving her forward.
The gardens were hushed and cool, stars glittering above like distant fires. It was as if the night itself had conspired to create this quiet sanctuary, so different from the stifling heat and revelry of the celebration.
Sansa found her feet moving along the familiar path to the grove of weirwoods, the white trees aglow under the moonlight. She often came here to think, to find solace among the faces carved into the ancient bark, faces that had watched over her ancestors for generations.
Ahead, she saw Perseus Targaryen, the new king, standing in front of one of the trees, his hand resting on the gnarled, pale trunk. He seemed lost in thought, and for a moment, she hesitated, unwilling to break the peace that surrounded him. But then, almost instinctively, she found herself speaking.
"Your Grace," she murmured softly.
He turned, his gaze meeting hers, and a slight smile tugged at his lips. "Lady Sansa," he greeted. "What're you doing so far from the celebration?"
She stepped closer, a faint smile brightening her face as she replied, "I could ask the same of you, Your Grace. You were the one crowned king."
Perseus sighed, his eyes glancing back toward the castle lights. "I needed a moment away. I'm not really used to all of this. It can be a bit much. The feasts, the crowds… the ass-kissing."
A very unladylike snort slipped from her at the king's comment, though a trace of understanding entered her gaze. "It can be. My father used to avoid gatherings like these. He'd say the southern lords all had 'soft hands and softer words.' He hated leaving Winterfell."
A soft chuckle escaped Perseus. "Lord Stark sounds like a wise man."
Sansa's smile wavered, sadness shadowing her features. "He was." The memory of her father's execution still haunted her, the pain lingering even now.
Seeing her grief, Perseus's expression softened. "I'm sorry for what happened to him," he said gently. "He may have once been the enemy of my house, but Lord Stark was an honorable man, and I know he didn't deserve that end."
His words touched her deeply, and Sansa felt her eyes prickle. "If only I had been wiser. Perhaps he would still be here if… if I hadn't trusted the wrong people." Her voice faltered, barely above a whisper.
Perseus shook his head, his tone filled with empathy. "The Lannisters would have done anything to protect their secrets, Lady Sansa. None of this was your fault."
Her tears spilled over then, and before she could stop herself, she reached out, clutching his arm, finding a strange comfort in his presence that glowed warmly like a hearth. "I was so foolish," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. "I thought… I thought things could be different, that they would change."
His hand moved gently along her back in quiet reassurance, "I fell victim to that plenty of times, my lady." He shared a story of his own—a choice he'd made with his heart rather than his head, one that had led to regret. As he spoke, she looked up, surprised by the vulnerability in his voice.
His deep, violet eyes held sprinkles of sea-green like glittering stars that each told its own tale. She felt instinctively drawn to them, to their untold stories.
"I suppose we both know what it's like to let our hearts lead us astray," she murmured softly after he finished.
He nodded, his words gentle but firm. "Mistakes happen, Lady Sansa. What matters most is what we do next. We can't change the past, but we can shape what lies ahead."
A tentative smile touched her lips, and she looked at him with a glimmer of hope in her eyes. "You sound wiser than your years, Your Grace. Like my father, in a way. It's nice."
He grinned, a playful spark lighting his gaze. "Really? Maybe I've heard too many false tales in Essos. They say Westerosi women favor strength over wisdom."
Sansa laughed softly, her face brightening as she teased, "I'm from the North, Your Grace. We value both in our men, but especially wisdom. It's usually what keeps us warm during winter."
"Winter must have come early, then," he said, glancing down as if only now realizing she was fully leaning into him.
A blush warmed her cheeks, and she quickly stepped back, embarrassment coloring her face. He chuckled, thankfully sparing her the need to explain.
When the laughter faded, he turned to her thoughtfully. "So, what's next for Lady Sansa Stark?"
She considered the question, letting the stillness of the grove fill the moment. "I'll go home, I think. Rejoin my family, for a while at least. Beyond that… I don't know. But I owe you thanks. You freed me from a life I would never have chosen."
Perseus's gaze softened. "Joffrey was a vile king and an even worse man. I would have freed you, even if just to spite him."
Sansa's smile lingered, her eyes warm. "Regardless, thank you. You've reminded me that heroes do still exist."
A shadow crossed his handsome face, and he shook his head slightly. "I'm no hero," he said quietly.
But to her, he was. She smiled softly, the words unspoken but clear in her gaze. Not only did Perseus look like the epitome of a hero, but he also seemed to be a genuinely good person. The old gods would strike her down if she ever denied the rapid thumping of her heart as she held the young king's gaze.
"Sansa!" A voice broke the spell, and Sansa looked back to see her mother, Lady Catelyn, approaching, her face drawn with concern and even a bit of fear.
"Mother." Sansa said as Catelyn joined them, her mother shifting in between her and the king as if to form a barrier.
Her mother's oddly alert gaze remained on the king as she spoke. "I couldn't find you at the feast."
Uncertain and a bit overwhelmed as to why her mother was acting this way, Sansa replied meekly. "I was just getting some fresh air, Mother."
"Forgive me, Lady Catelyn. I approached your daughter to have a conversation with her. I must've lost track of time." To her surprise, the king lied quite smoothly for her sake in order to placate her mother whose gaze didn't seem to grow any less alert.
"No apologies needed, Your Grace. But I think it's best for Sansa to rejoin her family now." Catelyn's voice was terse, as if she were a nursing direwolf guarding her pup. It brought another blush of embarrassment on Sansa's face.
Perseus replied with an understanding nod. "I hope the two of you have a good rest of your night."
She was barely able to form a response in her mind before she was suddenly being whisked away by her mother.
Intent on seeing Perseus one last time, Sansa glanced over her shoulder at the tall, well built figure of the young monarch. Butterflies swarmed her belly when the king gave her a conspiring wink in return, and she quickly turned to hide her reddening face.
Once they were well away from the gardens, her mother quietly hissed at her. "What were you doing alone with him?"
"We were just talking, Mother." Her weak reassurance only seemed to irk Catelyn even more.
"Starks are not supposed to be 'just talking' with Targaryens. You need to stay away from that boy. He'll only bring us more trouble." Said Catelyn as if it were an obvious truth.
For whatever reason, anger bubbled within her at her mother's dismissive attitude towards Perseus. "His Grace has a name. And what do you mean stay away from him, is he not our ally now?"
A crinkle appeared on her mother's face, as if she had tasted something sour. "Robb made a mistake pledging the North to them. He should've—"
"Been crushed by the rest of the kingdoms for declaring war on the Targaryen's?" Sansa interjected with an equally quiet hiss. "All while I helplessly watched from the Red Keep as a prisoner? Have I not suffered enough, Mother?"
Her teary eyed words finally seemed to register with Catelyn as a good portion of her anger slowly dissipated. She understood that it was one thing to know that a member of your family had been wrongfully executed, but that it was another to be within arms reach of the people who ordered it and still be able to do nothing.
"I do not mean ill, daughter," Her mother's words were spoken softly. "I simply worry that history may be repeating itself. You know as well as I what the Targaryen's did to your aunt, Lyanna."
Sansa recalled the story of how her aunt had apparently captivated the crown prince, Rhaegar, with her northern beauty which led to her being kidnapped by the prince which ultimately led to the rebellion.
All of that mattered little to her though as she recalled Perseus's untamed silver hair that seemed to glow in the moonlight and flow over eyes that were the deepest color of lavender and flecked with soft green, creating a tapestry of art for her to admire. And his body, though covered by royal attire, had been as solid as a mountain, which was probably why she hadn't noticed when she leaned against him for support.
A warm blush dominated Sansa's face as she recognized her veering thoughts. If anything, it was her that had been captivated by the newly crowned dragon.
"Don't worry, Mother. Once I go back to the North, I likely won't ever see him again." Sansa murmured, though she tried not to visibly show her sadness at that realization.
There was still much to be said about what his reign would be like, but for once, thoughts of the realm's future fled from Sansa's mind entirely as the only thing she could think of for the rest of the night was the enchanting eyes of the king and his roguish smile.
A/N: The first filler arc has started. Get ready for a whole lotta yapping and not a lot of action. This is the time for kingdom building and relationship forging. Happy Thanksgiving to everyone who loves to give their thanks by following, favoriting and reviewing An Emperor's Song. Until next time!