I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
________________________________________
Chapter 85: A Queen's Mask & A Dragon's Return
The chamber was silent save for the faint rustling of silk as Queen Margaery Tyrell shifted in her seat, staring out at the fading afternoon sun as it bathed the Red Keep in gold. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, though her mind was anything but calm. The velvet and perfume of her station did little to mask the anxiety that simmered beneath her carefully practiced poise.
The clatter of boots outside the door broke her thoughts. A guard's voice called, "Your Grace, the Lady Olenna requests your company."
Margaery stood at once, a rare smile easing her features. "Let her in."
The door opened and in swept the Queen of Thorns, dressed in her signature headdress and a gown of deep green, she exuded the sharp wit and unyielding strength that had become her hallmark. Her stride was as sharp as her tongue, and the moment their eyes met, Margaery felt like a child again—safe, but under scrutiny.
"Well," Olenna said, glancing at her over, "there never was a Queen more worthy of a crown—or more surrounded by idiots. You look radiant, my dear."
Margaery gave a soft chuckle. "Thank you, grandmother."
"Don't thank me. Thank the gods you inherited your looks from me and not your oaf of a grandfather."
A pair of serving girls entered, placing a small table between them and laying out lemon cakes, fruits, and a steaming pot of tea. Olenna dismissed the girls with a wave before pouring two cups.
"Well then," Olenna said, stirring her tea with a clink of silver, "how is married life treating you? Does Renly still dress better than you?"
Margaery lifted her cup, her smile thinning. "It's... going well."
Olenna gave her a look that cut through layers of royal pretense. "Going well? That's court-speak for miserable. Has he at least put his seed in you yet, or does his sword still only rise for your brother?"
"Grandmother!" Margaery gasped, cheeks flushing crimson.
Olenna took a bite of a lemon cake, entirely unrepentant. "Oh, please. Don't act so shocked. I was married to your grandfather for fifty years. I've heard worse in my sleep."
Margaery set her cup down with a sigh. "I've tried everything. I even—" She paused, lowering her voice, "—had Loras in the chamber, just to ease him. But... Renly doesn't respond to me. Not at all."
Olenna blinked, then hummed, considering. "Hmm. A tragedy, truly. You're a rose in bloom and he's more interested in... the gardener."
Margaery shot her grandmother a look, but there was no venom in it. They both knew the truth, spoken or not.
"I did my duty," Margaery said, "I married the man who could give us a crown. But I wonder for how long I'll keep it. There's an army outside the gates and a dragon riding King leading it."
Olenna waved a dismissive hand. "Nonsense. You were born to be queen. Let the men play their war games; we have our own battles to fight."
"Daeron," Olenna continued, lips pursed. "That boy's a storm in cloak—burns armies by day and inspires songs by night. He's everything Renly pretends to be."
Margaery looked down at her tea. "Do you think he'll kill us all?"
Olenna reached across the table, her age-spotted hand resting gently on her granddaughter's. "You were born to be a queen, Margaery. Whether it's on the Iron Throne or in the ashes, I'll see to it you stay one."
A thunderous roar split the skies as a shadow eclipsed the sun above Castle Stokeworth. Men in the yard looked up with awe and dread, some dropping tools or weapons, others reaching instinctively for blades they knew were useless.
Lyrax had returned.
The dragon swooped above once, her wings casting a massive shadow across the field. Then, with practiced grace, she landed just beyond the outer walls, dirt and grass churning under the power of her descent. Her scales shimmered in the afternoon light—silver and blue like moonlight over water.
Daeron Targaryen, dressed in black leather trimmed with red, slid down her side with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times. His boots hit the ground lightly, and he exhaled as Lyrax gave a low rumble behind him.
A dozen riders came from the camp, among them Ser Edric Mallister and Lord Glover, but it was Robb Stark who arrived first, Greywind at his side.
"Back so soon?" Robb grinned, dismounting before Daeron could say a word.
"Moat Cailin is secure," Daeron said. "Victarion Greyjoy is dead. Asha Greyjoy is our prisoner."
Robb gave an impressed whistle. "And here I thought you were just flying off for a bit of fresh air."
Daeron smiled. "I could say the same. I heard you were having conversations with Ghost."
Robb chuckled, then clapped his friend on the back. "Father's waiting."
Inside the keep, the tension that had hung over the lords of the North and Riverlands eased as word spread of the King's return. Men bowed, women stared in awe, and soldiers stood taller knowing the dragon was back.
In the solar, Ned Stark stood when Daeron entered, followed by Ser Brynden Tully, Ser Arthur Dayne, and several other high-ranking lords.
"You made good time," Ned said, walking forward to greet him. "I take it Lyrax didn't stop to enjoy the scenery."
Daeron shook his head. "There's no time to waste."
Ser Brynden nodded grimly. "Our scouts report more movement each night. Without your presence, they were testing our lines, probing for weakness."
"They won't have long to test now," Daeron said. "We'll move within the week."
There was a beat of silence before Ser Arthur stepped forward. "And what about the North?"
"Uncle Benjen is managing things there. The west coast is secure. The Ironborn threat has been put down—at least for now."
Ned's lips pressed into a thin line. "I only hope that threat doesn't rise again. You've done well, Your Grace."
Daeron looked around the room, at the men who had followed him into war and who now looked to him for victory.