Baelon's POV
Word reached me before the ink on the King's morning decrees had even dried.
A delegation had arrived at the Red Keep gates — banners of House Beesbury, House Merryweather, House Peake, and three minor houses sworn to Oldtown. All "coincidentally" arriving on the same morning.
Not to mention the septon leading them, dressed in robes heavier than any summer day demanded.
Ser Otto Hightower also joined them, being one of the justiciars.
Trouble.
I stood beside Father in the small audience chamber when they were ushered in.
He straightened in his seat; Mother's expression cooled subtly.
The Reachmen bowed deeply — almost theatrically — and the septon placed a hand over his heart.
"Your Grace," the septon began in a smooth, sorrowful voice, "we come bearing grievances that must be answered for the sake of the Seven and the harmony of the realm."
Father's eyes flicked once to me.
He already knew who they meant.
"Speak plainly," Jaehaerys commanded.
Lord Merryweather stepped forward, his round face reddened from either the climb or indignation.
"It is Prince Daemon, Your Grace. His actions in King's Landing have disturbed the peace. Noble sons have been arrested without cause. Merchants threatened. And septons dismissed from the Watch as though the Faith holds no place in guiding the morals of the city."
There it was.
I kept my face still, though inside I felt the familiar pull between my son and my father.
I hated this part — the place where loyalty had to sharpen, not soften.
Father answered with deliberate calm.
"Prince Daemon uncovered corruption. Some of that corruption led back to Oldtown. If the Faith's septons accepted bribes, they were rightly dismissed."
The septon bowed again, deeper this time — a gesture that masked resentment rather than reverence.
"With respect, Your Grace, absolution is misunderstood by the young prince. The Faith guides lost men back to virtue. The loss of our septons leaves the Watchmen without spiritual anchor."
Mother's voice cut in, cool as freshly forged steel.
"Spiritual anchors who purchased silk and wine with the coin collected for absolution?"
The septon's lips thinned.
The Beesbury lord — an older man, unrelated to our Master of Coin — stepped forward.
"Your Grace, the Reach feels… threatened. Prince Daemon's actions send a message that the Crown mistrusts Oldtown and its faithful vassals."
This time I answered.
"The Crown mistrusts only corruption. If your men are innocent, they have nothing to fear."
Their faces tightened.
Truth rarely pleased those who profited from lies.
Lord Merryweather persisted.
"We humbly request that Prince Daemon's authority be… moderated. Oversight from the Small Council. Limitations on his command. A clear separation of authority, lest one prince's impulses endanger the peace."
Father's brows rose a fraction.
A warning sign I had learned to respect since childhood.
"And who," Father asked quietly, "proposed this delegation?"
Silence.
A brief, telling silence.
Then the septon answered — too quickly, too smoothly.
"We speak on behalf of the Faith and the stability of the realm."
Which meant: Oldtown.
The Hightowers.
And their Reach allies who feared Daemon's reforms more than they feared the truth.
Father leaned back in his chair, gaze like sharpened glass.
"You shall have your answer, but not today."
The septon opened his mouth.
"And you will not ask again," Jaehaerys added.
The chamber froze.
I stood beside him, spine straight, hands clasped behind me. I did not smile — but a warmth stirred in my chest.
Daemon, my son, had fire.
Mother had heart.
I had duty.
But Father — no one ruled like Father when he chose to remind the realm who he was.
The Reachmen bowed shakily and withdrew.
Mother exhaled once, slow and long.
Father turned to me.
"Find Daemon. Bring him to the council chamber. If the Reach wishes to test our resolve, we will answer them with unity."
I bowed. "Yes, Father."
Before I left, I caught the quiet look that passed between my parents — weary, but no longer wounded.
Old dragons.
Still dangerous.
Baelon arrived at the training grounds just as the sun began to drop, throwing long shadows across the yard. The clang of steel rang through the air — clean, sharp, rhythmic.
Daemon wasn't training with a single partner.
He was fighting four of them at once.
Two Watchmen rushed him from the left; Daemon pivoted, sweeping low, catching one by the ankle and sending him crashing down. The second swung; Daemon caught the blade, twisted, and elbowed him in the ribs.
The other two circled.
Daemon's sword hung low at his hip — loose, almost bored. Yet his violet eyes tracked every movement with predatory precision.
He saw me at the gate.
And in that distracted fraction of a heartbeat, the last man lunged at him.
Daemon didn't even turn.
His leg snapped back, heel slamming into the watchman's gut, and the man folded over with a pained gasp.
Daemon tossed his blunted sword into the rack and picked up Dark Sister, hooking it casually at his hip.
Only then did he walk over.
He wiped sweat from his brow, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"You're early, kepa," he said in High Valyrian.
"Skorkydoso emagon ziry? — Bad news?"
"Issa," I said. (It is.)
Daemon tilted his head, amused.
"They've come crying already?"
I nodded.
"A delegation of Reachmen. Beesburys, Merryweathers, Peakesjoined by ser otoo hightower… and a septon fat enough to pass for a Lannister gold chest."
Daemon snorted.
"Āeksio syt glaeson (A lord for sale.)
My tone sharpened.
"They claim you've threatened noble sons, seized ships unlawfully, and dismissed septons unjustly. They request your command be moderated by the Small Council."
Daemon laughed — an ugly, sharp sound.
"Moderated? By whom? The same fools who let Oldtown turn the Watch into their private treasury?"
I took a slow breath.
I had expected this reaction.
I still braced for the next part.
Daemon stepped closer.
"Kepa… īlva tolie iksis. — Father… the truth is worse."
My brow furrowed.
Daemon lowered his voice, switching back to Common.
"You think this is about pride? Or septons? Or noble sons embarrassed in brothels?"
He shook his head.
"No. It's deeper. Rot spreads upwards before it spreads downwards."
I frowned.
"Speak plainly."
Daemon did.
"The Reach is preparing for a shift in power," Daemon said. "Not rebellion. Not yet. Something subtler."
Baelon's jaw tightened. "Explain."
Daemon began counting on his fingers.
"One: Their men in the Watch aren't just corrupt they were placed there strategically and Deliberately as long as the royal family wont look at it it is fine. To control the flow of goods add information to and fro from the city."
"Two: Half of septons from Oldtown keep ledgers. Not of sins — but of debts. Political debts when a merchant is left laon after he bribed and smuggled goods if a nobleis caught playing cruel games with small folk they will cover it up and the debs are used for smoothing any issues that may come up."
"Three: The smugglers they protect? All carry Reach cargo."
Baelon's face darkened.
"And four?" he pressed.
Daemon met his gaze.
"Four: They are courting Viserys."
Baelon went still.
Not shocked.
Not angry.
Something colder.
"Explain," he said again — very quietly.
Daemon did.
"They flatter him. Invite him to feasts call him the next king. Send him Arbor gold and sweet cakes from Ashford. They whisper about 'gentle kings' and 'peaceful reigns.' They talk of how some princes are… too harsh."
Meaning Daemon.
Meaning Baelon.
Baelon exhaled slowly, nostrils flaring.
"So you believe they aim to influence succession?"
"I believe," Daemon said carefully, "they aim to weaken you or they are even plotting to kill you and then isolate me there are whispers of Maegor reborn to taint me . So that when the day comes… Viserys relies on them, not us."
Baelon looked away for a moment — not in doubt, but in thought. Calculating. Weighing the future.
Daemon added quietly, in High Valyrian:
"Nyke ūndegon vēzenka. ( I smell a hunt.)
Baelon finally looked back at him.
"And what exactly did you plan to do with this knowledge?"
Daemon smirked softly.
"Lo mirre. ( Not act yet.)
Baelon raised a brow. "Yet."
Daemon shrugged.
"I'm not stupid, Father. I know acting now would expose us. And them.they havebeen planning this for a long time i can feel it it was from the time of grandsires ascension even barht is in on some schemes i dont know ifgrandsire knows but i wanted to inform him later and if i started talking about these things openly.."
A beat of silenece.
"it would look like paranoia."
Baelon's expression softened — the first genuine softening Daemon had seen all day.
"You did well not to move," he said quietly.
Daemon held his gaze.
Baelon's voice lowered even more.
"But you must not show that you suspect anything. Not the court. Not the council."
Daemon's eyes glinted.
"And not Viserys?"
Baelon's jaw clenched at his brother's name.
"No," he said. "Not Viserys. If he feels accused, he will run to them all the faster."
Daemon nodded once, slow.
Baelon realized then — Daemon truly had thought this through.
Truly saw danger.
Truly saw family first.
For a moment, Baelon could not help himself.
He reached out and placed a hand on Daemon's shoulder — firm, grounding.
Daemon froze.
It had been years since Baelon last touched him like that.
The last time Baelon reached for Daemon he was angry about hs betrothal and distaced himself
Daemon's expression softened, barely.
"Okay, kepa," he said quietly. "Nyke jorrāelagon ao. ( I trust you.)
Baelon's throat tightened.
And then,
A herald hurried down the corridor, out of breath.
"My princes — the Small Council awaits. His Grace commands your presence."
Daemon smirked.
Baelon straightened.
Daemon murmured, just loud enough for Baelon to hear:
"Ñuhon kesrio syt ao ( Time to play the game.)
The herald stepped aside and raised his voice for the announcement:
"Crown Prince Baelon Targaryen — The Spring Prince!"
"Prince Daemon Targaryen — Prince Commander of the City Watch!"
The double doors swung open.
The council looked up.
And the game began.
Otto Hightower's POV
The Small Council chamber smelled faintly of heated parchment and Arbor wine — Lord Redwyne's signature arrival scent. He always came early, always drank early, always tried too hard.
King Jaehaerys sat at the head of the table, back straight, composed like a statue carved from ice.
Queen Alysanne sat beside him, expression calm but tight around the eyes. She hid her emotions well, but today even she couldn't mask the tension.
Septon Barth, the Hand of the King, was already seated with quill in hand, the realm's most aggravating combination of serene and sharp.
Lord Beesbury, Master of Coin, had ink-stained fingers hovering over his notes.
Grand Maester Allar sat stiffly, his chains chiming with every nervous shift — as if sound alone granted wisdom.
And along the wall…
Lord Merryweather.
Lord Peake.
Lord Beesbury of Honeyholt.
Three Reach lords who stood like vultures waiting to feast on whatever carcass fell first.
Idiots.
I had warned them to be discreet. To split their arrival.
They did neither.
They clustered together like guilty men walking into judgment.
Then Prince Daemon entered.
Boots loud, posture unapologetic, expression carved into stone.
Prince Baelon followed — calm, centered — the only man in this entire damned castle able to rein his brother without touching a sword.
King Jaehaerys lifted two fingers.
"Begin."
Prince Daemon didn't bow.
Didn't soften.
Didn't pretend.
He went straight for the throat.
"The last time I sat in this room,It has been a moon since then" Prince Daemon said, "I gave you a summary. Today, I give you the truth."
That arrogance should have backfired.
Instead, it commanded the room.
"King's Landing is not simply corrupt. It is rotting. And that rot grows from roots planted deliberately by Reach hands."
Lord Merryweather inhaled sharply.
Fool.
I could see the lie about to spill from his lips before Prince Baelon's glare silenced him.
Prince Daemon continued like a sword being drawn.
He placed a scrap of parchment onto the table with surgical precision.
"A ring of six men taking orphan boys from Flea Bottom. Not to feed them. Not to shelter them. To sell them to Tyroshi slavers who prefer boys without names."
The room froze.
Queen Alysanne gasped softly into her hand.
Septon Barth wrote furiously.
Even Lord Redwyne stopped breathing.
Prince Daemon added, voice low:
"Two of those men were Reachborn. One wore the seven-pointed star around his neck while bartering the price of a child."
I felt my stomach turn.
Not from morality.
From strategy.
Daemon had chosen the perfect entry point — the crime no one in the room could defend.
Prince Daemon placed a second parchment.
"Septon Rendal of Oldtown recorded absolutions in a ledger. Not of sins — of transactions."
He looked directly at the Reach envoys.
"One column for sins. One for fees. And one for… requests from noble houses. Which my dismissed guards were ordered to fulfill."
Lord Peake sputtered, "Lies!"
Prince Daemon lifted a thick ledger and slammed it onto the table so hard the inkwell leapt, splattering black ink across Lord Redwyne's sleeve.
"If you accuse me of lying again, I will open the page with your house sigil."
Peake sat down as though struck.
The Reachmen were folding like wet parchment.
"You know the harbor scheme," Prince Daemon said. "But not the extent."
He held up three fingers.
"For every three ships from the Reach, only one was taxed. The other two were waved through with a prayer, a nod, and a purse beneath the table."
He dropped his hand.
"Do you know what was inside those untaxed ships?"
Silence.
"Saffron. Silk. Lyseni wine. Smuggled Dornish steel.
And one — one ship carried three coffers made of weirwood."
The temperature in the chamber plummeted.
Queen Alysanne went white.
King Jaehaerys's frown deepened — the kind he reserved for ancient wrongs.
Prince Baelon stiffened.
I felt the ground tilt.
Weirwood.
Of all the things for Daemon to uncover…
"Sacrilege," Alysanne whispered.
"Sacrilege," Prince Daemon agreed, "funded by Reach gold."
The envoys looked ready to collapse.
Prince Daemon's next words were a hammer blow.
"Seven brothels, run by a man named Brigos, with direct ties to House Merryweather."
Lord Merryweather lurched to his feet.
"My House has no such—"
Prince Daemon slammed Dark Sister's sheath onto the table.
The entire chamber jolted.
Merryweather sat down faster than a whipped dog.
Prince Daemon didn't look at him.
He looked at the King.
"Two of those brothels sold women from the Stormlands. One sold Riverlands girls. One from the Vale."
He drew a breath — controlled, but burning.
"And one sold what no man should ever buy: mute children. Ten. Maybe more."
Queen Alysanne shook.
Prince Baelon's hands curled into fists.
Lord Redwyne gagged.
Even Septon Barth paused, grief written across his face.
The envoys paled visibly.
This was beyond corruption.
This was damnation.
Prince Daemon set the last parchment down.
"Forgeries. Harbor passes. Each stamped with the Honeyholt seal."
Lord Beesbury of Honeyholt broke.
"This is a smear—!"
Prince Daemon didn't spare him a glance.
He looked at King Jaehaerys.
"Open the first box."
Prince Baelon stepped forward, lifting the lid.
Inside:
stacks of ledgers
iron-bound books
coin purses with Reach crests
blood-stained knives
forged harbor passes
and pieces of carved weirwood, still smelling of sap
Queen Alysanne gasped.
King Jaehaerys's jaw turned to stone.
Septon Barth whispered a prayer.
Lord Redwyne muttered a curse.
The envoys stepped back.
I—
I began recalculating alliances, timelines, risks.
Prince Daemon had not just found rot.
He had excavated the entire skeleton and dragged it into the daylight.
The old fool cleared his throat.
"Your Grace, if I may—"
Prince Daemon's fingers tightened on the table edge.
Prince Baelon saw it.
King Jaehaerys saw it.
Queen Alysanne saw it.
But Septon Barth, the Hand, stopped Grand Maester Allar with his calm tone.
"Let him finish, Grand Maester.
We asked for a full accounting.
We shall have it."
Allar's mouth shut instantly.
Prince Daemon exhaled hard — then bowed to Barth.
A gesture of respect that told me Daemon knew exactly which man in this chamber mattered besides the King.
"Every man arrested confessed under oath," Prince Daemon said.
"No torture. No coercion. Ser Harrold was present for every questioning."
Ser Harrold, of the Kingsguard, bowed from the doorway.
Prince Daemon continued:
"For every accusation, I gathered witnesses. For every witness, corroboration. For every bribed guard, I found the matching ledger entry."
He gestured to the boxes.
"I have thirty-two more boxes waiting outside."
Even I swallowed at that.
Thirty-two boxes of proof.
Prince Daemon had built a case fit for history books.
Lord Merryweather tried again.
"Your Grace — the prince seeks to destroy us—"
Prince Baelon answered, sharp as a blade:
"No.
He seeks to cleanse the filth you allowed to fester."
Septon Barth added softly:
"The prince should continue."
Prince Daemon bowed again — not humble, but grateful.
He returned to his place.
His eyes locked onto the Reach envoys — no rage, no theatrics.
Just a dragon waiting for permission to burn.
"I have uprooted your rot," Prince Daemon said quietly.
"And I am not done."
A shiver rippled through the chamber.
King Jaehaerys voice rose cold and regal.
"Prince Daemon will present the remainder of his evidence in full."
He sat.
"Then I will pronounce judgment."
He added, voice like thunder cracking:
"And let every man remember — justice is not treason."
The envoys blanched.
Prince Baelon bowed his head in acknowledgment.
Prince Daemon bowed deeply.
And I—
I understood something with perfect clarity:
Oldtown had just been outplayed.
The Reach had overreached.
And Prince Daemon Targaryen was no longer a reckless prince.
He was a blade.
A sharp one.
Held firmly in the King's hand.
The chamber remained silent, thick with the weight of Prince Daemon's evidence.
The Reach envoys looked as though the stones beneath their feet might swallow them whole.
King Jaehaerys rose.
When the Old King stood, even the air seemed to brace.
His voice was quiet — and all the more terrifying for it.
"Prince Daemon," he said, "your work has exposed rot festering beneath my roof. You will finish what you began."
Prince Daemon bowed his head, jaw tight.
"You will take these men," King Jaehaerys continued, "every one of them — and bring them to justice with extreme prejudice. No leniency. No pardons. No appeals."
The Reach envoys flinched.
"As for the houses whose hands touched this conspiracy — Merryweather, Peake, Beesbury of Honeyholt — sanctions shall be imposed immediately. Their trade rights will be suspended. Their harbor access restricted. Their levies reviewed.
They will reimburse what was lost, and their taxes doubled and paid directly to the Crown for the next three years."
He paused.
"And their overlord house — House Hightower — will pay double their taxes for the next five years."
I stiffened like a struck bowstring.
King Jaehaerys's gaze sharpened further.
"If even a single coin is missing," he said, voice soft as a sword sliding free, "there will be fire.
And then there will be blood."
Grand Maester Allar stiffened as the King turned toward him.
"The Citadel shall no longer assign maesters to every noble house by default."
His mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
"You cannot—"
"I can," King Jaehaerys said softly, "and I have."
The chamber froze.
"From this day forward, any lord who wants a maester may request one.
If a house does not want to employ a maester, they shall provide timely reports instead of relying on maesters."
Allar went sheet-white.
I added quickly:
"If any lord fails to provide accurate accounting, the Iron Throne will monitor that house directly until it can."
The Reach envoys looked moments from collapse.
Oldtown's grip… broken.
Shock rippled through the chamber.
Even Septon Barth looked pale.
I stepped forward — too quickly, too desperately.
"Your Grace," I said, bowing, "House Hightower had no involvement in these matters. To punish Oldtown for the crimes of a few corrupt vassals—"
King Jaehaerys's eyes turned toward me, those violet eyes promising violence and cold as frostbite.
I pressed on, gently, carefully.
"Your Majesty… the Reach is vast. Influential. Deeply rooted in the Faith. To strike so harshly — to defy them — could destabilize the peace you have worked your life to build."
A plea.
And a warning.
Thinly veiled.
Prince Baelon stepped forward before the King could answer.
As Master of Laws, his voice carried legal authority like a blade.
"Father," Baelon said, "you are within your rights to do all of this. But the crimes involved septons. Men of the Faith.
How do you intend to deal with them? The Faith may claim jurisdiction."
A reasonable question — but one laced with danger.
Prince Daemon stood rigid beside him, fire simmering beneath skin.
King Jaehaerys answered without hesitation.
"I am King of the Seven Kingdoms.
Of the Andals, the First Men, and the Rhoynar.
I am not King of the Faith."
I inhaled sharply.
"Your Grace," I said, voice strained, "you cannot turn against the Faith. Your own Faith. You even have a septon as your Hand. To defy the Seven is to—"
King Jaehaerys cut me off with a look that silenced men far mightier.
"The Faith of the Seven is not what I practice."
The chamber froze.
Queen Alysanne looked down — not surprised, merely accepting.
King Jaehaerys continued:
"The Seven Kingdoms are secular. My people may worship as they please. Old gods, new gods, drowned gods, burning gods — so long as they harm none with their beliefs."
He turned slightly toward Queen Alysanne.
"I allowed my wife to choose her faith. I allowed my children, and my grandchildren, to choose theirs."
He fixed me with an unblinking stare.
"I will not permit the Faith to command my crown."
I bowed my head very slowly, but my knuckles were white.
King Jaehaerys's expression did not soften.
"As for Septon Barth, he was appointed Hand to mend ties after the Faith broke the King's Peace during my father's rule, which led to civil war in my House between my uncle and elder brother.
He was appointed because he is competent — nothing more."
Septon Barth inclined his head with grave respect.
Then King Jaehaerys turned toward Lord Beesbury, Master of Coin.
"Lord Beesbury, you will conduct a full accounting of all Crown revenues, harbor ledgers, guild permits, and septon-managed funds and any taxes we receive from the lords.
I want a full accounting to find if I am being cheated."
Beesbury swallowed hard.
"You will pull any man you need for this task. Any ledger. Any seal. You will report directly to me."
He leaned in.
"And you will remember that you work for your King — not anyone else."
Beesbury went pale to the lips.
The Reach envoys looked ready to faint.
Even Barth seemed shaken.
The silence was thick.
Impossible.
Unbreachable.
Until Prince Daemon stepped forward, breaking it like steel through glass.
"His Grace," Daemon said, voice ringing with authority, "Jaehaerys Targaryen — rider of Vermithor, the Bronze Fury — has given his orders.
It is the duty of the Small Council to enact the King's will.
Not question him."
The envoys flinched.
My jaw tightened.
Septon Barth lowered his quill in quiet acknowledgement.
Lord Beesbury looked as if he might faint.
Queen Alysanne exhaled — not relief, but acceptance.
And King Jaehaerys — the Old King — slowly sat back down.
Calm.
Certain.
Unmoved.
"Then it is decided," he said.
And with those words, judgment was sealed.
Let it not be said Old Jaehaerys was not a dragon.