Tywin gave the slightest nod, signaling the Hound to finish this fast.
"I can't believe I'm drawing steel on the king."
Sandor let out a bitter laugh, pulled on the dog-shaped helm, and drew his heavy sword.
The trial by combat began. Every noble in the hall leaned forward, eyes locked on the two men. No one wanted to miss a single move.
Daeron stood relaxed, Dark Sister held loose in one hand. He lifted the blade in invitation.
"Using one hand? You're underestimating me!"
Sandor roared and charged like a charging bull, bringing his sword down in a brutal overhead strike.
Daeron stepped back and to the side. The Valyrian steel flicked out, catching the gap between Sandor's breastplate and backplate. It sliced through the steel like it was cloth.
Sandor's eyes went wide. He swung back hard to block, then pivoted and kicked with everything he had.
Daeron brought his sword up across his chest and kicked at the same time.
Boot met steel. Boot met chest.
Both men poured life force into the clash.
Boom.
Sandor flew backward several yards, barely catching himself before he hit the floor. Daeron only took two steps back, then came forward again.
"How the fuck…?"
Sandor stared, stunned. The king was lean, not even as tall as him, but the strength behind that kick felt like getting hit by a dragon in human skin.
"Careful."
Daeron warned him once, then attacked.
No fancy footwork. No elegant technique. Just raw speed and power, swinging Dark Sister however he felt like.
Steel rang. Sparks flew. Sandor blocked the first few blows, but his arms were already going numb. His breathing turned ragged. Sweat poured down his face.
He wasn't just taking the king's monstrous strength—he had to match the insane pace of the swings. Thirty seconds of this and he was already running on fumes.
"What the hell is happening?"
Tywin's jaw tightened. He hadn't expected the Hound to get pushed this hard, this fast.
He'd personally arranged for Sandor to join the Constabulary Knights. Three years of service. Lannister gold paid for the Life Seed training. Sandor had formed the seed, become one of the rare true knights in the realm. His life force was thick. His skill had sharpened.
Even against Jaime, he could last a while.
"Clegane's losing."
Prince Lewyn stood below the Iron Throne, voice low as he spoke to Arthur Dayne.
Arthur watched the fight, eyes fixed on the young king. There was hunger there—the look of a warrior who'd finally found someone worth testing himself against.
"His Grace grows stronger every day," Arthur murmured. "On the ground, even Barristan and I couldn't claim a sure victory anymore."
Prince Lewyn stayed quiet, thoughtful. If the Sword of the Morning was saying that, it wasn't flattery.
Clang.
Daeron's blade flashed. It slipped perfectly through the gap in Sandor's bracer and sliced a shallow cut across his wrist. Blood welled up.
Sandor froze. Cold sweat broke across his forehead.
That strike could have taken his hand clean off. Daeron had pulled it at the last second—cut only armor and skin, nothing deeper.
"Are you yielding?"
Daeron rested the edge of Dark Sister against Sandor's neck.
Even in full plate, with gorget and bevor, it wouldn't matter. Not against Valyrian steel and the strength behind it.
Sandor didn't shout surrender. His eyes went to Tywin.
Tywin's face was stone. He looked at the king, then at his second son's triumphant face. Through gritted teeth he said, "I declare Tyrion Lannister innocent."
"Yes!"
Tyrion shouted it loud, then added with a grin, "Guess the gods have eyes after all. They didn't want my little life today."
"Shut up."
Daeron shot him a look, then glanced at Tywin's murderous expression. He was genuinely worried for Tyrion's reckless mouth.
What the hell had the dwarf done to make Tywin this determined to kill him?
"Looks like the meeting's over."
Lady Olenna pushed herself up from her chair and walked out without waiting for anyone.
Prince Doran had stayed quiet the entire time. His eyes flicked toward the door where Oberyn and Arianne stood. He let out a quiet breath of relief.
There had been some close calls, but they'd saved Tyrion.
And the young king was back.
#
After the trial, the Small Council was called.
Daeron returned to the queen's chambers. Shaena and Rhaenys helped him out of his armor. He kissed Shaena on the cheek, then headed for the council hall.
"Your Grace."
The second he stepped into the corridor, a small shadow fell in beside him.
Daeron glanced down. Gave a short nod. "Mm."
"You came back at the perfect time. That fight was like something out of the old stories. Absolutely brutal."
Tyrion hurried to keep up on his short legs, laying on the flattery thick and fast.
He meant every word. The king had pulled him out of the fire at the last second. Like a hero knight from the tales.
As for where the "fire" had come from—best not to ask.
"What exactly did you do to make your father this angry?"
Daeron asked it calmly.
"He— I didn't do anything?"
Tyrion looked genuinely confused. Maybe it was all the brothel visits catching up with him?
"I know Tywin. He wouldn't have moved against you like this unless you crossed one of his lines."
Daeron was certain.
Tyrion was a Small Council minister. One of the most powerful men in the Seven Kingdoms and the Three Cities. With real authority.
Tywin was cold, calculating, and ruthless—but he was also practical. No matter how much he hated Tyrion, he would have swallowed it for the good of the family. Used him. Kept him close.
This sudden, vicious attack only made sense if Tyrion had touched something Tywin considered untouchable.
"What did I even do—"
Tyrion racked his brain. Then it hit him.
The private investigation into the old rumors. The questions about his mother. About what really happened at Tywin's wedding.
And his aunt Genna—who usually doted on him—hadn't even shown up to the trial.
"What is the truth?"
Tyrion felt sick. He didn't want to know. Not really.
Daeron saw the look on his face and knew he'd figured it out.
"Whatever you were doing before," Daeron said quietly, "stop. Don't touch it again."
He had bigger problems to deal with. Both Tywin and Tyrion were useful to him right now. He couldn't afford either of them self-destructing.
"Your Grace… what about House Velaryon?"
Tyrion changed the subject fast. Monford Velaryon was still locked in the black cells. Tyrion had promised to help clear the family's name.
Daeron stopped walking. He looked at Tyrion seriously.
"Tywin wronged you. But he didn't wrong House Velaryon."
Tyrion stared at him, stunned.
.
Stepstones.
The royal fleet had barely reached the Broken Arm when the raven arrived.
Lucerys Velaryon read the message once. Then again.
Treason.
He wasn't angry. He was terrified.
It was the cold, gut-deep fear of every dirty secret his family had buried for generations being dragged into the light.
"Who the fuck leaked this?"
Lucerys's hands shook.
Even before the war with the Triarchy, he'd bought the secret wind-rider sail formula from Myr. He'd armed every Velaryon ship with it. When Daeron took Myr and interrogated the captured wizards, Lucerys had been there in person. He'd seen the chance.
He wanted that technology.
House Velaryon had always been a naval house. They ruled the waves. But on land they were weak. That weakness had let Tywin Lannister walk all over him in the Small Council for years.
When the crown had no dragons, Tywin could do whatever he wanted.
Now the crown had dragons again. Daeron was restoring Targaryen glory.
Logically, House Velaryon should have been rising with them.
Instead Tywin was still trying to crush them. Still trying to keep every other great house in check.
Lucerys refused to kneel.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
A sailor's voice came through the door.
"My lord, two ships are approaching. One says they have a message from King's Landing."
"I'm coming."
Lucerys forced his face into something calm. He stepped out onto the deck.
Two vessels had pulled alongside the Sea Dragon.
One was a solid-looking ship with about a dozen armed men aboard. Sellswords, by the look of them—mixed armor, foreign faces.
The other was a longship. Only one man stood on it. Tall. Cloaked in black. Face hidden.
"Which of you is from King's Landing?"
Lucerys kept his voice steady, eyes moving between both groups.
The sellswords looked rough. One of them—a younger man with a goatee—stepped forward with an easy smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"It's us, my lord."
He walked closer, casual. "Name's Vargo Hoat. Brave Companions. Lord Tywin sent us with a message for you."
Lucerys's eyes narrowed. "You talk like a Qohorik."
"My Common Tongue's still rough."
Vargo Hoat kept smiling. He was less than ten feet away now.
In one smooth motion he yanked a dagger from his belt and lunged straight at Lucerys.
"Die."