Daeron stepped out of the king's bedchamber and headed for his sister Shae's room.
It had been a long time since he'd last visited her.
As for getting the money from Count Owen, he would leave that until tomorrow.
Give the old man a little time to prepare.
Walking along the corridor, he heard bright girlish laughter.
"Your Grace?"
Ser Jon stayed on guard.
The Kingsguard had its own chain of command; only the king and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard could give orders, and the White Sword Tower held both council table and quarters.
The king had ordered him to protect the prince, and from now on he would not leave the boy's side.
Daeron waved a hand, signalling him not to be so jumpy.
The next second.
A slender golden-haired figure burst round the corner and "accidentally" crashed into Daeron's arms, tripping with a cry of pain.
"Ouch!"
The blonde girl almost fell, half her body pressed against the stranger's solid chest.
Daeron: …Young lady, are you here to scam me?
"Cersei, you've fallen…"
"Are you all right…"
A moment later several colourfully dressed noble girls hurried round the corner; seeing the blonde called Cersei twist her ankle, they fussed in concern.
Here, "colourfully dressed" is not a slur.
Every one of the blooming girls was beautiful, their flower-patterned gowns ahead of mainland fashion and scented with expensive perfumes from across the Narrow Sea in the Eastern Continent—like a whole garden in full bloom.
"I'm fine—just twisted my ankle."
Cersei Lannister frowned slightly, lifting her bright red skirt to reveal a stretch of smooth white calf and a dainty foot painted with henna.
The pretty girls crowded round her at once, quietly showing who stood at the centre.
Daeron kept his expression neutral, glancing at the reddening ankle.
"She really went for it—actually sprained it."
No wonder she's famous for flipping tables.
When the silver-haired prince gave no reaction, Cersei lifted her lovely face; her emerald eyes sparkled as she spoke in the clear Westernlands voice: "Your royal highness, you saved me."
"Did I?" Daeron wondered when.
Cersei's soft body stayed pressed to his. "Of course—otherwise it would have been far worse than a twisted ankle."
Anyone could see this "chance" meeting was no accident.
Daeron's mind turned; he played along. "I'm truly sorry—I must have startled you."
"No!"
Cersei denied at once; her greener-than-spring fingers closed on Daeron's arm, feeling the firm muscle, almost urgent: "It wasn't your fault at all, handsome prince."
She might as well have written her purpose on her face.
Daeron didn't expose her; he studied her with interest.
Cersei showed no maiden shyness, lifting her chin proudly to bare the delicate collar-bones above her gown and the hint of snow-white skin.
One had to admit she would one day be called "the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms."
As Daeron understood it, she was only fourteen, still a bud unopened, yet already brimming with womanly charm.
When you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back.
Cersei curved her rosy lips, admiring at close range the young, accomplished, breathtakingly handsome silver-haired prince.
For a girl she was tall—five feet six.
In Daeron's arms she had to tilt her head to see his face.
She had thought Prince Rhaegar handsome enough.
That silver hair and purple eyes, so unlike the Andals, a face both noble and melancholy, a lute that could break hearts—he drew every girl's gaze.
Beside him her constant companion, her brother Jaime, looked like a shepherd boy.
When Mad King refused her father's proposal to wed her to Rhaegar, she had wept all night.
Who could guess that in The Red Keep she would meet another "silver prince"?
The same silver hair and violet eyes, the same breathtaking beauty—but deep purple eyes the opposite of gloom, as if the gods had blessed him with openness, tolerance, and gentleness.
No less than Rhaegar's brooding charm, and far above Jaime's shallow swagger.
Best of all, her father utterly approved her pursuit of him.
"So this is why I cannot be the prince's wife—but I can be the queen."
Cersei's heart pounded; a strange thrill ran through her body.
Daeron released her, handing her to the star-struck girls; like a conjurer he produced a yellow daffodil.
"Ooh, how lovely!"
A green-gowned blonde noble girl's eyes lit up.
A moment later Cersei's cold glance sent her shrinking back.
Daeron held the daffodil out to Cersei, who was already staring, and said softly, "For you—the spring's own daffodil."
"It's beautiful."
Cersei, delight mingled with surprise, took the flower and, in front of her friends, breathed in its scent.
It was only an ordinary daffodil, not the prized silver-star variety, yet its fragrance was sweet.
"Then—until next time."
Judging the moment perfect, Daeron took his leave.
"Wait—"
Cersei wanted to talk longer, but only his back remained.
Leaving her reluctant, the other girls were thrilled.
They crowded round Cersei, chattering: "Such a pretty flower—and from a prince!"
"Look—doesn't this daffodil look like a special plant?"
One sharp-eyed girl spotted the detail.
"Yes, yes—it really does."
"An expensive bloom—Prince Daeron is so generous."
"…"
The girls twittered, eyes fixed on the daffodil; had they not feared Cersei they would have snatched it.
"It's only a daffodil—when I'm tired of it, I'll give it to you."
Cersei basked in their adoration, promising her friends.
A pretty black-haired girl spoke up: "Cersei, Daeron's only eleven—three years younger than you."
"So what?"
Watching the silver-haired figure vanish down the corridor, Cersei smiled with certainty: "My father is the Hand of the King—the most noble and powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms after His Grace."
All her life she had wanted nothing she could not have…
Soon Daeron, now carrying a whole bouquet of daffodils, stopped before a sun-facing room and knocked gently…
Shae Targaryen was inside; a soft knock sounded at the door.
The girl lifted her head.
She had the Targaryen silver hair and violet eyes, beauty almost inhuman; her honey-coloured silk dress, cut in small flower patterns, set off her slender waist.
Recognising the knock, Shae's expression grew complicated. "Come in."
Creak!
With permission the door flew open and two little rascals burst inside.
"Sister!"
"Shae, I've come to see you."
The elder was Jaehaerys, pretty-faced and well-mannered.
The younger— "Shae, I'm here—why didn't you come to greet me?"
Viserys, only four, stood with hands on hips in an infuriatingly cocky pose.
Shae said nothing, lowering her head again to her embroidery.
Her cool, aloof manner bordered on the unsociable.
"Hey, I said—"
Before Viserys could make more trouble a sharp smack landed on the back of his head; the little body staggered and nearly fell flat.
"Behave—or I'll wallop you."
Daeron's mild threat made the cub quail.
Shae looked up once more at the brother she had not seen for so long.
"I just left Mother and brought these two to play for a while."
Daeron sat on the carpet as if he owned the place.