Bronze Beauty | Daemon Targaryen

The Queen Strikes Back

The halls of the Red Keep held an air of melancholy that hadn't been felt since the loss of the late Queen Aemma. The feeling of grief and loss was almost tangible in its purity as the occupants went about their days. Everyone, including the servants, wore black mourning garbs to signify solidarity with their monarch.

In the Tower of the Hand, Diana felt like her brain was attempting to pound its way out of her skull, her eyes burned from lack of sleep, and her bones had never felt so old and frail as they did now. At almost fifty years old, Diana had never been one to moan about her lost youth; she'd never had to, with her continual exercise and daily beauty routine, which included a long list of creams and tonics to preserve her youth and vitality, she'd never felt 'old,' until now.

The last few days had been long and arduous. Cleaning out Otto Hightower's personal effects and going through them with a fine toothcomb for evidence of his treason or future plans was a full-time job only entrusted to a few long-time servants Diana trusted implicitly.

Staring down at the quickly growing pile of messages from all over the Seven Kingdoms, she felt the metaphorical weight on her shoulders grow ten sizes, trying to crush under the weight of expectations.

Reaching up to rub at her eyes with her quill-free hand, Diana sighed and, after many hours toiling away, admitted defeat and dropped her head on her desk. She'd barely had a moment to relax before she heard a knock at the door.

"Lady Hand, Prince Daemon is here to see you." Called one of the many guards assigned to her; Diana barely bothered to learn their names at this point, her heart too full of grief to care. Every day, the threat of Vaghar hung in the air, everyone seeming to hold their breaths as they stared up at the sky as if the massive dragon would drop down on them from the sky like the devils themselves come to burn them all for their sins.

Daemon looked ragged, the few age lines on his face prominent as he slowly walked over to her, a raven held in his clenched fist. Diana felt her heart drop at the look on his face. Feeling cold, she whispered, "Who? Who is it?"

She didn't need to elaborate. Her meaning was clear. The question unspoken: Who was dead?

Daemon hesitated momentarily before coming around the desk to kneel at her feet. He stared at her with plaintive eyes, "Tyson, my love. It's Tyson."

The words felt like a dagger in her already battered heart. Gasping for breath, she fell forward into Daemon's waiting arms, wheezing, "Alycia? Where is Alycia? Where is my daughter?"

Clutching her arms, Daemon held her up, maintaining eye contact and speaking slowly, "They were attacked flying over the Golden Road, a few hours away from Casterly Rock. Alycia and Cannibal arrived at the Rock badly injured but breathing. The Lannisters are calling for blood, Jason Lannister is rallying his forces, and he awaits the Queen's command to march on the Stormlands, to 'rip out the traitors, root and stem.'"

Diana laughed, the sound broken and bleak, more of a huff of air, really, "A Lannister Always Pays His Debts.' Isn't that the saying? But what are armies compared to dragon fire? How could Aemond do this? I thought I tried..."

Diana's voice broke as tears began to stream down her face.

"There was nothing more you could have done. No amount of kindness in the world could have made up for Otto Hightower's greed and fearmongering. Please, my love, you have done enough; let me take some of your burdens." Daemon murmured, kissing her forehead and clutching her close in his strong arms.

Pulling her head back from where it had been cradled in her husband's neck, Diana asked, "What do you mean?"

"The Greens have struck a blow, broken their oaths and murdered their kin. Allow me to deliver justice upon them and strike back." Daemon whispered, his words harsh, purple eyes blazing with bloodlust.