The Lioness & Future Plans

…Chapter Start

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(Daemon Pov)

The hall had emptied in waves—first the lesser lords, then the knights, finally, the women with laughter still clinging to their tongues. What remained were the embers of celebration: overturned goblets, scraps of pheasant and boar, half-melted candles dying in their wax. The music had long stopped, the bards dismissed. Only the banners of House Baratheon and Lannister remained—hanging solemn and quiet in the rafters like witnesses who had seen far too much.

Daemon sat alone at the edge of the great hall, eyes on the now-quiet throne, swirling the last dregs of Arbor red in his goblet. The taste was bitter, older than he preferred. Much like the silence.

He wasn't sure how long he'd sat there before he saw her, the same auburn-haired woman from earlier in the evening, stood near the edge of his vision—her cloak darker now, perhaps it was just the shadows playing tricks, or the effects of the Arbor Gold he had drowned himself in.

"She's ready for you," she said softly.

There was no need to ask who she meant.

Daemon rose without a word, the weight of his new knighthood settling on his shoulders like a second set of armor. The black-clad knight who had offered him his blade earlier now stepped forward from the archway. He gave Daemon a curt nod and began to lead him wordlessly through the winding torchlit corridors of Maegor's Holdfast.

Each step echoed loudly in his ears. The memory of the ceremony still lingered—Robert's booming voice, the ceremonial blade upon his shoulders, the roar of the hall. But it felt like a distant dream.

This?

This was something else entirely.

An audience with the Queen, His aunt. Two Lannister guards flanked the entrance to her solar. They didn't question him, they didn't need to, as Daemon placed a hand on the door, pushing it inward, taking note of how they opened without a sound.

Inside, the room was warm with candlelight, perfumed with lavender and something sharper—cinnamon or cloves. Silk drapes hung over the tall windows like veils, and the fire snapped quietly in the hearth.

Cersei Lannister sat not behind a desk, nor upon a throne-like chair—but rather, reclined by the fire on a cushioned chaise, her long golden hair cascading down her shoulder like sunlight trapped in water. She was dressed in crimson and gold, the lion of Lannister embroidered boldly across her chest.

Daemon bowed low. "Your Grace."

Cersei studied him in silence, her wine untouched on a side table. Her expression was unreadable—neither warm nor cold. Regal. Measured.

"You've grown," she said at last, voice soft and unhurried. "Not just in height. In Name."

Daemon said nothing.

"Sit," she offered, motioning to a low stool placed across from her. "We are kin, after all."

He obeyed, keeping his back straight, his hands on his knees like a squire awaiting instruction. She watched him for a moment longer—long enough that he began to feel her silence like pressure on his chest.

"Do you know why I asked to see you?" she asked finally.

"No, Your Grace."

She smiled faintly at that. "You're honest. Good."

"I've no reason to lie to you," he said.

"Everyone has a reason to lie in Kingslanding. You'll learn that soon enough." She rose to her feet, moving with the grace of a queen, and approached the fire. The light danced on her skin, casting flickers of gold and shadow over her sharp features.

"I watched you," she said, back to him now. "I watched you fall. Watch you bleed. Watch the Mountain try to break you."

Daemon's jaw tensed.

"And I watched you rise," Cersei stated.

Her words hung in the air, soft but weighty.

"It wasn't of my own strength," Daemon muttered. "Ser Lyn—"

"Are you a fool boy?" Cersei's voice took on a new edge.

"Lyn Corbray did what no one else dared: step in." Her voice was sharper now. "But you? You brought pride to both your name and the one we share. That matters."

"To whom?" Daemon asked.

"To me," she said, turning to face him. "To the court. To the realm. To father"

She walked closer, slowly, until she stood directly before him. He met her gaze, unflinching.

"You're not just a knight now," she said. "You're a name. A Lannister."

Daemon stared up at her, his shock a burning weight against his chest. "You see me as a Lannister?"

Her eyes glittered with amusement.

"Perhaps… moreso for those lesser in King's Landing." She answered.

He didn't respond. Couldn't.

She bent slightly, her voice lowering. "The realm loves a lion that bleeds, Daemon. You've bled. Now make them roar for you."

She rose and stepped away, as if the conversation had ended.

"You'll stay in the Red Keep for a time. You'll train with the other knights, attend court with the many lords and ladies, watching, protecting, and observing the game. And when the time comes…" Cersei stated…before pausing.

"What will happen?" He asked.

She turned, smiling slightly. "You'll know."

There was a finality in her tone that told him the audience was over. Cersei moved back to her wine and sipped for the first time that night.

Daemon stood, bowed again, and turned to leave.

"Daemon," she said, just as he reached the door.

He looked back.

"Your tongue needs sharpening, see that it is."

He nodded once and then he turned around and opened the door to leave the Queen's chambers.

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The door clicked shut behind him, and the tension that clung to his shoulders slipped away as the corridor embraced him with silence. For a time, he walked alone through the quieting Keep, footsteps echoing softly on stone. The night had grown long, the festivities dying down into drunken laughter and half-empty goblets echoing faintly through distant halls.

He turned a corner—and paused.

Ahead, beneath the soft flicker of torchlight, stood Myrcella, and his cousin Tommen at her side. Tyrion lounged against a pillar nearby, swirling a goblet in his hand, watching Daemon with a knowing smirk.

"Daemon," Myrcella greeted with a brightness that dispelled whatever weight still clung to his chest. "We were waiting for you."

"Waiting?" he asked, blinking.

"For you to come back down from the clouds," Tyrion chimed in, then whispered so only Daemon would hear. "Cersei didn't have you thrown from the tower, I see. Good. I had a bet riding on it."

"Uncle," Myrcella shot Tyrion a scolding glance before turning her attention back to Daemon. "We didn't get a proper moment to speak earlier—not after the knighting."

Tommen beamed. "You were amazing! When the King called your name and everyone went quiet…I've never seen anything like it. Even Ser Barristan looked impressed."

Daemon offered a tired but genuine smile. "Thank you, Tommen. I didn't expect it, truth be told."

"You looked like a knight," Myrcella said. "Even before the sword touched your shoulder."

That made something tighten in his chest—something like pride, something like guilt. He shifted slightly, eyes falling to the satchel tied at his waist.

"I… actually have something for you," Daemon said.

Myrcella raised a brow. "For me?"

"It's your nameday, isn't it?" he asked.

She nodded. Her eyes narrowing with intrigue.

From the pouch, Daemon drew a small, slender box wrapped in deep red velvet. He offered it with a hesitation he didn't quite understand.

Myrcella took it delicately, lifting the lid. Inside lay a hairpin—silver and shaped like a lion's fang, sharp at the end but polished to gleam. Embedded along the base were three tiny stones—ruby, topaz, and garnet—set like droplets of blood caught mid-fall.

"I saw it in the market," Daemon said quietly. "It reminded me of…you."

She stared at it, silent for a long moment, then looked up. "It's beautiful."

"She didn't say thank you," Tyrion whispered to Tommen, mock-scandalized.

"I did too," Myrcella whispered back, biting back a smile before stepping forward and giving him a deep hug. "Thank you, Ser Daemon."

The title made his ears burn more than the hug.

Tyrion raised his goblet slightly in mock salute. "A knight, a court favorite, and now, our golden girl's chosen hero. Careful, nephew—you're beginning to walk like a lion."

Daemon smirked. "I thought I was a bastard."

Tyrion grinned. "Aren't we all?"

Laughter flickered among them, light and unforced. It did not last long—a few moments in the capital ever did—but for that breath of space, Daemon felt something rare: a place.

Not earned, perhaps. But granted.

And for now, that was enough.

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(...The following morning)

The courtyard echoed with the clash of steel on steel.

Sunlight fell in sharp slants across the sparring ring as Daemon stood opposite a knight in Baratheon colors—a brutish man with more muscle than sense. Sweat clung to Daemon's brow, his new sword heavy but familiar in his grip.

The crowd around the ring was modest—other squires, a few minor lords, a pair of gold cloaks whispering behind their helms. Watching.

Always watching.

The Baratheon knight lunged. Daemon sidestepped and countered, his blade catching the man's arm in a glancing blow. The knight grunted, frustrated.

He came again—heavier, faster. Daemon pivoted, ducked beneath a sweeping blow, and brought the hilt of his sword hard into the man's ribs. The knight collapsed, gasping for air.

A murmur of approval rippled through the onlookers.

Daemon exhaled slowly, stepping back.

"Not bad," came a voice. "But you still drop your left shoulder on the second feint."

He turned. Jaime Lannister stood leaning against a stone column, arms folded, dressed in simple gold and ivory leathers, no armor.

"You were watching?" Daemon asked.

"I always watch my son even if he is a knight or a man, now?" Jaime replied, causing Daemon to raise a brow.

"That's a new one—haven't heard that one before."

Jaime shrugged. "You recently became a knight, even though you're ten and five, Daemon, if anyone tries to dangle their ears, at least they heard it from me and not some whisper."

"I had an audience with the Queen," Daemon said, wiping sweat from his face.

Jaime's gaze sharpened. "And what did Cersei want?"

"Truthfully? That is what I'm trying to find out," Daemon replied with a sigh whilst Jaime himself was quiet for a long moment.

"She's good at that, not being direct, I mean," he said finally.

"I don't want to be a pawn in her game, Father," Daemon muttered.

Jaime's lips twitched. "Too late." He replied before patting Daemon on the shoulder and playfully ruffling his ear, which Daemon just swatted his arm off making both of them chuckle.

The warmth of their laughter faded slowly, replaced by the quiet hum of the courtyard once more. Steel sang in the distance, and the sun had crept higher in the sky, drawing long shadows beneath the training dummies and columns. Jamie then looked Daemon in the eye before he started to speak but this time with seriousness.

"So," he asked casually, "what shall you do now that you're a knight?"

Daemon didn't answer at first. He took up a waterskin that was hanging from his side, uncorked it, and drank deeply. When he finally looked at his father, his eyes had grown distant.

"I don't know." He replied unsurely at first as if something was on his mind.

"That's a dangerous answer," Jaime replied.

"It's an honest one," Daemon commented.

He stepped back toward the edge of the ring, watching two younger squires cross blades. The Gold Cloaks were still there, standing at the archway—one tall and lean, the other broader, older, with salt creeping into his beard beneath the rim of his helm. They were speaking again, glancing his way.

Daemon's voice dropped low. "I've been thinking about the City Watch."

Jaime turned to look at him sharply. "The Gold Cloaks?"

"Aye. They're not courtly or clean, but they're real. They see the truth of the city. The filth. The blood. The way things actually work."

"And you want to wear a gold cloak and drink with drunks in Flea Bottom?" Jaime asked, arching a brow.

"I want to be useful," Daemon said simply. "I want to do more than bow in silk and play dress-up."

Jaime gave a faint snort. "It's not all silk. Not when you're a knight, even though you may be called one day when there is a problem that needs solving, Daemon."

"Exactly," Daemon said. "The Queen told me to watch. To observe. But the truth isn't in the throne room—it's in the alleys. In the piss-soaked gutters. Where people bleed for coppers."

There was steel in his voice now. More than before.

Jaime regarded him for a long time. "You sound like someone I once knew."

Daemon looked at him.

"She hated the masks too," Jaime murmured. "Hated how the lions roared at court but trembled at the sight of a real fight. Your mother had a fire in her that frightened even me."

Daemon said nothing, though something in him twisted.

Jaime exhaled and looked once more toward the Gold Cloaks. "If you're serious about it, speak to Ser Boros. He commands them now, or pretends to. But be careful."

"Why?"

"Because sometimes, when you put on a different cloak…You forget who you were beneath it."

Daemon nodded slowly, filing that away. The city was always watching. But now, he was beginning to watch back.

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…Chapter End