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Game of Thrones: Nero King of Knight
The victory feast ended clean.
Daeron had carved out two days for himself, but a certain dwarf wouldn't leave him alone. He trailed after the king, talking nonstop.
"Your Grace, how do you like the new mill on the fresh land?"
"Your Grace, look at my new pet. I call her Tessa. She's a Myr dwarf elephant—"
"Your Grace—"
Daeron had heard enough. He bent down, grabbed the dwarf by his platinum curls, and yanked. "If you've got something to say, say it. Stop running your mouth."
"Understood."
Tyrion went quiet fast.
He took a breath and tried again, careful this time. "Your Grace… do you think the way you handled the rankings at the feast might have… irritated the Hand?"
He gave a quick wink, sure the king would catch the meaning.
Daeron understood immediately.
He had done it on purpose—slighted Tywin and lifted the Velaryons higher instead.
"Your Grace, the court is already whispering things that don't help the Lannister name."
Tyrion looked up at him, serious now. He wasn't worried about reputation. Everyone knew the Lannisters already had a bad one. He was worried the king would push Tywin too far and break the balance between the two houses.
Targaryen and Lannister standing together was the smartest play. Once that balance shattered, both sides would bleed for it.
Tyrion clasped his hands tight, staring at the king. He didn't want to lose his new seat as Minister of Justice before he'd even sat down properly.
"Tywin isn't as shortsighted as you seem to think," Daeron said, perfectly calm.
The ranking had been deliberate. A quiet warning to take the old lion down a peg. Tywin was getting too arrogant. But the warning was aimed at the man, not the whole family.
Tyrion still looked uneasy. "Even so, Lord Tywin might decide to take it out on House Velaryon."
Daeron gave a small smile. "Let me show you something."
They walked to the council hall. Daeron pulled a sealed report from his desk drawer and handed it over.
"May I read it?"
"Go ahead. It's all about Lord Lucerys's many fine accomplishments," Daeron said, dropping into his chair. "Like the fire that burned fifty secret wind-rider sails from the royal fleet. Or the Myr wizards who vanished on their way home. Or how the captured spices and silks from Tyrosh suddenly turned up in Volantis ports—"
There was more. Plenty more.
Tyrion started reading politely, but the further he got, the faster his eyes moved. His face went pale.
Seven hells.
How much had the man actually stolen?
"Your Grace… is this all real?"
Tyrion's voice had gone flat.
Daeron nodded toward the door. "Varys's little birds. You tell me."
Tyrion turned. The spymaster stood in the doorway, hands tucked into his sleeves, smiling like he'd been there the whole time.
Varys knocked once on the frame. "Lord Tyrion, my birds are very reliable. The whole realm knows it."
He had come to deliver news.
Tyrion's mind worked fast. He put the pieces together. "Your Grace… you're using Lord Tywin to clean house with the Velaryons?"
"And to remind Tywin exactly where he stands."
Daeron didn't bother hiding it.
Tyrion blinked. "Does my father know about this?"
The word slipped out before he could stop it.
Daeron acted like he hadn't heard. "Tywin will make the right choice in the end. He always does."
"Shit."
Tyrion slapped his own forehead. He really had been the naive one here.
Varys smiled at the dwarf, almost kindly. "Lord Tyrion, your heart is in the right place. We all see it. You just need a little more time to learn how the game is really played."
Tyrion stared at him. Suddenly the plump little eunuch looked like the oldest fox in the room.
"The Small Council is full of monsters," the dwarf muttered. "Every single one of them."
His pride had taken a hit, but it only made him hungrier.
"I'll leave you to it, Your Grace."
Tyrion bowed and waddled out.
Daeron chuckled and pulled a bottle of ginger ale from the drawer. He needed something cold.
Truth was, he had expected Tywin to move fast against the Velaryons—make an example, remind everyone who really held power now.
But the old lion was playing it patient.
He had helped his brother Kevan settle in as Hand to Prince Jaehaerys in Myr. He was pushing his youngest brother Tygett to claim the new lands he had been granted. At the same time, he had sent half the Lannister army back across the Narrow Sea and loaded the returning ships with grain to keep Myr fed.
Everything neat. Everything controlled. No rush at all.
"The old man gets sharper every year," Daeron said around the straw.
"Your Grace, I have some news," Varys said, eyeing the ginger ale with open interest.
Daeron nodded. "Go on."
It wasn't shocking. It was about Rhaegar.
At the victory feast, Rhaegar had never shown up. Instead he had sailed out of Lys and headed straight for the Valyrian peninsula.
"Hmm."
Daeron still preferred calling it the Valyrian peninsula. The Smoking Sea sounded too cursed.
"But there's a problem," Varys said, face twisting. "On the way, something went wrong in Prince Rhaegar's group. One of his Silver Guard stole valuables and slipped away in the night."
"That's ugly," Daeron muttered.
The Silver Guard had sworn the same oaths as the Kingsguard. No wives. No lands. Total loyalty. Even a man with rotten character wouldn't just desert. The shame would ruin him.
For it to get this bad, Rhaegar's camp had to be falling apart from the inside.
"Prince Rhaegar moved fast to bury it," Varys continued. "He even sent another Silver Guard after the deserter."
Varys shrugged, almost feeling sorry for the man Rhaegar used to be.
Before he left, Varys added one last thing. "Oh, and the big Dornish ship is about to enter Blackwater Bay. Prince Doran and Prince Oberyn are both on board."
"Got it."
Midday. 1:20 p.m.
The big Dornish ship docked at Mud Gate. Lord Owen, the Master of Laws, led the Martell party into the Red Keep.
Normally the young king would have received them in the throne hall with full ceremony.
Daeron skipped all of it.
He met Prince Doran alone in the council hall.
"Most noble Daeron the Third," Prince Doran said from his wheeled chair. He looked thin and tired, but he kept his voice polite. "I come on behalf of House Martell of Sunspear to offer our most sincere greetings. May your reign be long, and may the queen soon give you a strong son."
"Thank you."
Daeron's mouth twitched at the last part. Even here, people still wished each other healthy heirs.
Prince Doran kept his hands folded on the blanket over his legs. "Forgive me for not rising, Your Grace. My gout—"
"It's fine. I don't make a habit of tormenting cripples."
Daeron meant it.
Doran coughed to hide his embarrassment. "I'm not crippled, Your Grace. Just… afflicted."
"Then get it treated."
Daeron didn't push.
Doran looked faintly disappointed. "I've seen every maester and healer in Sunspear. None of them have done much good."
Daeron just nodded.
Gout was like that. Live hard enough and your joints turned into a war of crystal knives. It wouldn't kill you fast, but when it hit, you wished it would.
Doran took a breath and got to business. "The Iron Throne's eastern campaign has been extraordinary. House Martell is part of the realm. We wish to send troops to help."
"The Iron Throne doesn't lack soldiers right now."
Daeron's tone stayed flat.
Doran was no fool. He smiled bitterly. "Your Grace, I'll speak plainly. House Martell has supported Prince Rhaegar for so long because of my sister Elia and my niece Rhaenys. Their safety and standing depend on him succeeding."
"Safety? Standing?"
Daeron's eyes narrowed. "Elia lives in Summerhall. Rhaenys is right here in the Red Keep. Tell me exactly how their situation is bad."
No one in the world gave a widowed sister-by-marriage and her daughter better treatment than that.
And the Martells still wanted to complain?
Doran had no answer. He lowered his head. "I spoke poorly, Your Grace."
Daeron let it go. "Dorne's troops can wait. The front lines are full of willing swords. Ask Rhaegar if he even wants Martell help."
The message was clear.
Doran had come offering soldiers, but Daeron wasn't buying the sudden loyalty.
Not after everything that had already happened.