The Great feast

The feast was in full swing, laughter and conversation filling the grand hall of the Red Keep. Goblets clinked, servants moved swiftly between tables, and the scent of honeyed duck and roasted boar wafted through the air.

Daeron sat comfortably, nursing a goblet of wine while half-listening to Jason Lannister's endless stories about hunting in the Westerlands. His thoughts, however, were elsewhere—on the fact that he had agreed to this performance.

Across the hall, Rhaenyra leaned over to her father, whispering something in his ear.

King Viserys, who had been absentmindedly chewing on a piece of bread, turned his head slightly, listening. After a moment, a slow, amused smile formed on his face. He gave his daughter a small nod, and Rhaenyra's face practically lit up like a festival fire.

Daeron narrowed his eyes slightly as she turned toward him, beaming with an expression that screamed You're about to hate me, but it's for your own good.

Rhaenyra lifted her goblet toward him in a silent toast.

Before he could fully process what was about to happen, King Viserys stood up. The hall gradually quieted as all eyes turned to him.

"My lords and ladies," the king began, raising his goblet. "Tonight, we celebrate my queen, Aemma, whose kindness and grace have been a blessing to us all."

There were murmurs of agreement, and many raised their goblets as well, toasting the queen.

Viserys continued, his tone warm with amusement. "And to further the joy of this night, my daughter has informed me of a talent among us that should not go to waste. It seems we have not only knights and warriors in this hall but also a bard of no small skill."

"Prince Daeron," the king declared, smiling down at him, "will perform a song for the queen's honor."

A soft wave of murmurs and polite applause filled the hall. Daeron shot a look at Rhaenyra, who had the audacity to look utterly pleased with herself.

He sighed, placing his goblet down as he rose to his feet. He gave the king and queen a respectful bow—though there was a certain reluctant stiffness to it. " My talents are nothing much, I hope everyone can forgive me in advance for the torture your ears might go through," earning a few laughs.

Viserys laughed and spoke, " I have heard about your prowess with the lute and singing Daeron. I would be honored if you present us with a song . I believe everyone would enjoy it."

Daeron sighed and replied, " If your grace desires it, I shall do my best to satisfy your heart." He picked up his lute, thinking what song to play. Rhaenyra's previous words echoed in his mind, a performance for her mother. Why not something like a song that is similar to the story of his parents? Thier story deserves to be heard.

Daeron cleared his throat and softly spoke, " This song is something beautiful yet sad, speaking of a love unfulfilled. Something dedicated to my parents and their untold story. Although it may break your heart."

Silence spread across the hall as he plucked the first notes. A soft, mournful melody filled the air as he struck the strings gently .

These scars long have yearned for your tender caress

To bind our fortunes, damn what the stars own

Rend my heart open, then your love profess

A winding, weaving fate to which we both atone

His voice was rich, deep, carrying the sorrow of ages. The hall was utterly still, captivated by the melody.

At the high table, Queen Aemma watched him with a soft expression, her hands clasped together. Rhaenyra's lips were slightly parted, her gaze locked onto him, as if the song had transported her elsewhere.

Across the room, Alicent Hightower gripped the edges of her sleeves, her emerald-green eyes filled with quiet emotion.

Corlys Velaryon, normally a man unmoved by sentiment, leaned forward slightly, his silver brows furrowed in thought. Even Lord Lyonel Strong, ever the pragmatic man, seemed lost in the music.

You flee, my dream come the morning

Your scent, berries tart, lilac sweet

To dream, of raven locks entwisted, stormy

Of Ashen eyes, glistening as you weep

The prince , she followed into the storm

To find his warmth , its passion displaced

By ire ever growing, hardening into stone

Amidst the cold to hold you, in a heated embrace

You flee, my dream come the morning

Your scent, berries tart, lilac sweet

To dream, of raven locks entwisted, stormy

Of Ashen eyes, glistening as you weep

I know not if fate denies to let them live as one

Or if by love's blind chance they've been bound

The wish She whispered, when it all began

Did it forge a love, one might never have found?

You flee my dream come the morning

Your scent, berries tart, lilac sweet

To dream of raven locks entwisted, stormy

Of Ashen eyes, glistening as you weep....

As Daeron softly plucked the strings to silence, the guests in royal hall was holding their breath, as if a single noise would disturb this beautiful melody.

The melody lingered in the air like mist, wrapping around every soul in the hall. Some of the noble ladies discreetly dabbed their eyes with embroidered handkerchiefs. Even seasoned knights, hardened by war, averted their gazes, blinking rapidly.

Gerold Royce, a man of the Vale known for his stoicism, clenched his jaw, visibly moved. Jeyne Arryn placed a hand on her mouth, her eyes glistening with tears as she looked at Daeron in a trance.

Jason Lannister, usually full of bravado, sat still, his usual smirk absent. He thought to himself, " He is my friend, but I can't help but wish to follow him."

Daemon was absent, but had he been here, perhaps even he would have found himself caught in the song's grasp.

You flee my dream come the morning

Your scent, berries tart, lilac sweet

To dream of raven locks entwisted, stormy

Of Ashen eyes, glistening as you weep

As Daeron plucked the final notes, the hall remained in hushed reverence, as if no one dared to break the spell.

A single drop of a tear fell onto the table—Queen Aemma's. She wiped it away quickly, though her trembling lips betrayed her emotions.

Only soft sounds of tears being wiped could be heard as some of the ladies gently wiped their tears away.

Even some of the hard veteran knights had tears in their eyes which they concealed by looking away.

Rhaenyra clapped loudly while standing up , followed by Alicent. Both of them were very touched by melancholy of the song just as the rest, Their handkerchiefs still wet with tears.

Everyone got back to their senses and started clapping loudly, Viserys stood up and clapped the loudest with a proud smile, while wiping his own tears.

" That was the most beautiful yet sorrowful song I have ever heard Daeron! You are indeed the most talented person I have seen." Viserys spoke with a smile. " In return for your grand performance You can ask any reward from me. As long as it's within my power, I shall grant it."

A stunned silence fell over the hall.

The nobles straightened in their seats, eyes glinting with interest. Such an offer was rare—a boon from the king himself. Wealth, lands, power… anything was possible.

But Daeron merely bowed and smiled. "Thank you, Your Grace, but I have nothing I desire at this moment. If I truly wish for something, I would rather achieve it through my own efforts."

The hall buzzed with disbelief.

"But," Daeron continued, "perhaps some relief for the smallfolk—lessening their burdens—would be a reward worth granting."

A gasp rippled through the nobles.

What?!

A direct reward from the king—something every lord in the realm would fight for—and he gave it up for the common folk?!

Viserys stared at him in amazement for a moment, while all the nobles cursed in their minds. This was a direct reward from the king, something everyone desires. But he just asked for nothing, even suggesting to give it to the small folks! There has never been such an incident before.

Rhaenys smiled proudly, looking at her brother as she thought," Fate , huh? Perhaps it was indeed fate that led me to find you. I hope it stays kind to you, little brother."

Viserys laughed loudly and nodded. He then came down from his seat and patted Daeron on the shoulder. " You are indeed a great man Daeron, your parents would be proud of you. I wish I could have a son who can be just like you."

He took a pause and declared, " I , King Viserys Targaryen, The first of his name, protector of the realm, hereby declare that all small folk shall receive a boon of half of their taxes reduced for the next year.

I also declare that if I have a son , He shall be named Daeron , to hope he is born just as talented as Prince Daeron Penndragon. I also announce that Prince Daeron shall forever be acknowledged as a prince of the crown, and a member of our royal family, wherever he may go ."

Everyone was gobsmacked at the major announcement, and then a loud cacophony of applause and murmuring arose amidst the crowd.

Many of the nobles were against such a decision, but they could only applaud and proclaim the king's magnanimity. Not to mention they were impressed by the display of Daeron . Some were already thinking of setting up a betrothal with him to gain favour.

Daeron, the man in question however was just standing calmly. However his mind raced. " I now have a legitimate claim for the throne, something that would help me further when my plans come to fruition. But it also makes me feel guilty a bit. I know I won't make a move as long as Viserys is alive , but how should I go about it?

I need to change my plans a little. With North, Driftmark, Runestone backing me; and the Lannisters possibly avoiding fighting me if Jason becomes lord. Not to mention I will have time to see if any unstable factors rise. I hope I have more than 10 years time, by then I can control all of Essos and hopefully Yi Ti as well.

If that is achieved, the power I hold will be many times greater than Westeros. In fact,

I plan to expand Pentos and build my Capital of Essos There. The location is perfect for maintaining close proximity to Kingslanding. But those plans will start after I leave here." He smiled.

The feast had turned into a battlefield.

Not of steel and blood, but of smiles and silken whispers, of perfume-drenched ambition and the unmistakable scent of desperation.

The moment King Viserys had declared Daeron a Prince of the Crown and bestowed upon him honors that even some of the realm's greatest lords had never received, the entire noble court had turned their attention toward him. And now, he was suffering the consequences of his success .

He had been prepared for some noble interest, of course. Favor with the king was worth its weight in gold. But what he had not expected was to be surrounded by a mob.

It began subtly enough—glances across the hall, lingering smiles, and the occasional flirtatious remark. But as the night wore on and the wine flowed more freely, the noblewomen of Westeros abandoned their restraint entirely.

Daeron was now drowning in them.

"Prince Daeron, you must meet my daughter, Lady Marisa," a portly lord from House Roxton declared, dragging forth a shy but clearly determined young woman who batted her eyelashes so aggressively it was a wonder she didn't take flight.

"She is well-versed in embroidery, music, and, might I add, managing household affairs," he continued, his tone smooth as silk.

Before Daeron could formulate a polite response, another lord—leaner and fox-faced—stepped in. "Ah, but Prince Daeron, my daughter, Lady Sylva, is well-read in history and poetry. She could compose songs to match your talents."

"Oh?" Daeron said dryly. "Perhaps she could compose one about the unending line of fathers attempting to marry off their daughters tonight."

Neither lord seemed amused, but the surrounding nobles laughed. Unfortunately, his remark did little to deter them.

One after another, highborn ladies were paraded before him like prized mares at an auction. Some were shy, some were bold, and others…

"Prince Daeron, your song was divine," Lady Velessa Rosby cooed, pressing far too close for propriety. Her breath was laced with Dornish wine, her lips painted a deep red. "It made my heart ache in the most delightful way… perhaps you could sing for me again? Somewhere more... private? In return, I'll give you relaxing massage that'll melt all your stress away." She winked with a sultry smile.

Before he could respond, another voice cut in smoothly.

"Forgive me, Lady Velessa, but I was hoping for a moment alone with the prince," purred Lady Myrielle Lannister a cousin of Jason, golden-haired and emerald -eyed, her fingers already trailing over his arm.

"After all, we Lannisters do appreciate talent. I'm sure my father would be most eager to host such a gifted young man at Casterly Rock."

It's a trap! Daeron almost yelled out.

 A golden cage disguised as an offer of hospitality. Daeron knew better than to get tangled in Lannister ambitions, Jason being the only Lannister as a friend .

He forced a polite smile. "A generous invitation, my lady. But I fear I am rather preoccupied."

"Oh, but surely one song for me wouldn't hurt," Lady Myrielle murmured, her fingers tightening around his wrist ever so slightly. "I promise to be a very gracious audience, and reward rather generously."

Before he could extricate himself, a third voice joined in.

"Now, now, ladies, let us not smother the poor prince," said Lady Alys Beesbury with a breathy giggle, though her hands were already smoothing over his chest as if testing the firmness beneath his doublet. "You must give him room to breathe."

"Oh, for the love of... you know what, when life gives you sluts , you should enjoy them and run out the next day to buy milk! " Daeron nodded to himself.

Daeron was many things—warrior, tactician, even an accidental bard—but he was not prepared for this.

"Ah, well," he said, carefully stepping back, only to find his way blocked by yet another noblewoman.

"Prince Daeron," Lady Celia Tully said sweetly, her fingers brushing the sleeve of his tunic, "it's such a pity that a man of your talents remains unwed. Do you have a preference, perhaps? Fair-haired ladies? Or do you favor the darker sort?" She shot a glance at Lady Velessa, whose dark curls framed her face perfectly.

Daeron opened his mouth, only to be physically grabbed by Lady Velessa once more.

"My prince," she whispered directly into his ear, her lips brushing against his skin, "I do hope you're not too uncomfortable . A true woman knows how to make a man... comfortable in her company."

She traced a slow, lazy circle against his wrist with her thumb while her other hand dishonestly sneaked below.

"I could make him far more comfortable than a vixen," Lady Myrielle countered, voice purring like a lioness staking her claim.

"Perhaps we should let him decide," Lady Celia said, eyes gleaming.

They were surrounding him now, like a pack of wolves scenting weakness.

Daeron, for all his strategic mind and sharp wit, was losing this battle. He sent a desperate look to Rhaenys, who was watching the entire scene from her seat with the most infuriatingly amused expression.

She took a slow sip of wine, raised a brow at him, and said absolutely nothing.

Traitor.

At this point, a few of the bolder ladies had completely abandoned all shame.

Lady Velessa had somehow managed to press against his side, her hand wandering dangerously low before he caught it just in time, the girl even shamelessly interlocked their hands in that chance . Lady Myrielle was leaning forward in a way that was entirely too deliberate in showing the valley of her chest, and Lady Celia? The way she was eyeing him hungrily told him she would probably suck him dry.

For a moment, Daeron seriously considered throwing himself out of the nearest window.

Fortunately, salvation came in the form of Rhaenyra.

With a huff of impatience or jealousy , the princess stormed over and grabbed his wrist with all the force of a woman on a mission.

"Excuse us,ladies" she said, tone syrupy sweet, but her eyes burned with something far less polite. She yanked him away without so much as a second glance at the noblewomen.

Behind them, someone actually gasped as if she had been personally robbed.

Daeron stumbled slightly but quickly matched Rhaenyra's pace as she led him away. Once they were at a safe distance, he exhaled loudly.

"My saviour princess ," he said with a chuckle.

Rhaenyra, however, was not amused.

She crossed her arms, her lips pursed in a pout. "You certainly weren't struggling that hard to escape."

Daeron ran a hand through his hair, sighing. "I was being polite. And also trying to keep my dignity intact. Do you expect me to punch them or something?"

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes. "You were clearly enjoying it."

Daeron smirked. "I am a man, Rhaenyra. I can't help it when ladies start flattering me. Though I will admit, it was... exhausting."

Rhaenyra narrowed her eyes. "Then why were you smiling when Lady Velessa was practically sitting on your lap?"

Daeron chuckled. "If someone offers you free sweets, would you not eat them?"

He immediately regretted his words.

Because Rhaenyra—without any hesitation—stepped on his foot with all the strength her little body could muster.

With a pained grunt, Daeron jerked his foot back, glaring at her. But before he could retaliate, Rhaenyra spun on her heel and stormed off with a jealous huff.

Daeron groaned. "Women are terrifying."

Unfortunately, someone else had been watching.

A shadow lingered at the edge of the hall, hidden among the columns. He observed the entire exchange carefully before slipping away, disappearing into the castle corridors like a whisper on the wind.

His destination? Otto Hightower.

The Hand of the King listened to the report with a slow, deliberate nod, his fingers steepled together in thought. After a moment of silence, his lips curled into a thin smile.

"Soon," Otto murmured, his voice smooth as oil. "Soon, he will have to leave. He should not have provoked me and expect to suffer no consequences."

He raised his goblet, staring into the dark wine as if peering into the future.

"Let us see how long the prince enjoys his newfound favor."