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Game of Thrones: Rune Bastard
Game of Thrones Wizard Dothraki
Game of Thrones: Knights Life
The next morning, Tyrion found Daeron the second he got back to King's Landing.
"Your Grace, I've got it all sorted out."
Tyrion looked grim.
Daeron raised an eyebrow. "Let's hear it."
"Littlefinger was definitely working with Qohor. He used whores all over the realm to move information and got paid well for it."
Tyrion laid it out piece by piece.
The man really was talented—recruiting the right kind of girls had turned into a whole intelligence network. He sold Qohor whatever they wanted to know and took their gold in return. Framing Tyrion and trying to have Lucerys Velaryon killed were both part of the same plan: stir up chaos inside the Seven Kingdoms so he could fish in muddy waters.
"Chaos is a ladder," Tyrion said, doing a passable impression of the man's voice and posture.
Daeron gave a short laugh. "That little shit never looked like a victim. He was never going to stay quiet. All that talk about losing the woman he loved and nearly getting killed by Brandon Stark? Just excuses. Brandon was a hot-headed fool who picked a fight he couldn't win. That's all."
"By every law he's committed treason," Tyrion said as they walked. "My recommendation is no public trial and no chance to take the black. Execute him here and now."
"Good idea," Daeron agreed. Men like Petyr Baelish only caused problems as long as they were breathing.
"Then I'll give the order. Ser Ilyn can take his head."
Tyrion's eyes lit up at the thought.
"No," Daeron said flatly.
Tyrion stopped. "No?"
"Let him go."
"Let him go?" Tyrion stared like the king had lost his mind.
Daeron nodded. "Exactly. Put him on a ship, send him to Slaver's Bay, and make sure he ends up in Qohor."
He'd already decided. Men like Littlefinger didn't know how to stay out of trouble. Better to drop him in the enemy's lap and let him cause chaos there instead of keeping him around to stab them in the back later.
Tyrion still looked confused. "But he knows too much. If we hand him to the West Essos Federation, aren't we just giving them information?"
Daeron smiled thinly. "If he doesn't have anything useful to sell, how's he supposed to survive over there? I want him to trade whatever he knows just to stay alive."
He paused, then added, "Besides, what important secrets could a former royal advisor actually know? He's never even set foot on Dragonstone. He probably still thinks we only have three dragons."
Tyrion sighed. "Fine. You're the king."
Part of him had wanted Littlefinger dead for revenge and to remove a future threat. Sending the man to the enemy to become their problem instead? That actually sounded satisfying.
---
Mid-morning. 10:00.
Barristan reported that Littlefinger had already been bundled onto a ship and was heading for Slaver's Bay. All his property had been seized and was being inventoried by Lord Owen.
"By the timing, Lucerys should be getting close to the Valyrian peninsula," Daeron said, almost to himself.
It had been nearly half a year since they'd exiled the former Master of Ships. Even at a slow pace, he should be near the Smoking Sea by now, ready to go in and scout.
Daeron was still very interested in what was happening out there.
"Victarion sent another request for supplies," Barristan continued. "The Iron Fleet is still sitting off the Smoking Sea and shows no sign of moving."
Daeron thought about the ironborn. Victarion was loyal enough—he stayed put no matter how boring it got. Anyone who didn't know better would think he was waiting to kill Euron with his own hands.
"Sixth year of the Long Summer," Daeron muttered. "Day whatever of waiting for the Valyrian peninsula to do something."
He had patience. Plenty of it. Waiting was just another kind of victory.
"Uncle, we've been looking for you," Rhaenys called as she approached.
Daeron smiled. "What, tired of babysitting your little brother already?"
Rhaenys gave him a flat look.
Taking care of Inar wasn't that bad, honestly. The boy had been weaned at three months and drank nothing but high-quality Iridium Star milk after that. The only real work was changing diapers and the occasional night feed. So Rhaenys had roped Aegon and Visenya into helping—one to handle the diapers, the other to deal with the night feeds. It worked. Aegon's black hair was starting to look a little gray from stress, and Visenya had gone from insomnia to napping during the day, but the system ran.
Rhaenys didn't mind. She knew she was her father's heir. One day she'd be responsible for both of them anyway. Might as well start now.
"You're going to make a fine little capitalist," Daeron teased.
Even Shaena had joked about bringing some lamp posts from Dragon-Tongue Farm so they could hang their niece up like a rain doll.
Rhaenys pulled the pale yellow dragon egg from behind her back and held it carefully. Her round face looked downcast. "My egg still hasn't hatched. Is something wrong with it?"
Daeron shook his head. "The egg's fine. The problem's on your end."
Rhaenys blinked. "What?"
"I'm kidding," he said with a grin. "Dragon eggs hatch when there's real affinity between the egg and the person. Blood, will, all of it."
Rhaenys wasn't stupid. She tucked the egg under one arm, pulled a small mirror from her pocket, and checked her reflection.
Thick Dornish features. Olive skin. A few freckles across her cheeks.
She looked very Dornish.
Her eyes started to water. She was seriously starting to doubt her own bloodline.
"Don't take it too hard," Daeron said, voice full of fake sympathy. "It's not really your fault."
Of all the children, Rhaenys really did look the most Dornish. Even Aegon, with his Stark coloring, looked fairer and more approachable by comparison.
Stark blood beating Martell blood by a mile. Human rights restored in three seconds.
Rhaenys sniffed. "I heard another dragon hatched on Dragonstone. The ugly mud-colored one you brought back finally broke its shell."
"It did," Daeron confirmed.
He kept close track of every dragon in the family. That muddy egg had produced an equally ugly little dragon. Tessarion's six eggs, on the other hand, were still quiet.
On average, though, Dragonstone was managing about one new hatchling every six months. Not bad.
Rhaenys opened her mouth like she wanted to offer her pale yellow egg in trade for the ugly new one, then thought better of it. She knew better than to push her luck while she was living under someone else's roof.
"Keep trying," Daeron told her. "Give it another six months. If nothing happens by then, I'll figure something else out for you."
"Thank you, Uncle."
Daeron waved it off. "Here's some good news instead. Go wait at the King's Gate. Word is your mother should be arriving today."
"Mother?"
Daeron nodded. "I asked Elia to come back. Once she's had a chance to speak with Prince Doran, he'll be heading home to Sunspear."
Elia had been living at Summerhall, so she'd come by land instead of sea. It had taken a little longer.
---
Near midday.
After several years away, Elia Martell stepped back into the Red Keep and was quietly surprised by how orderly everything felt. Under Aerys the Red Keep had swung between terrified chaos and complete neglect. Even Summerhall hadn't run this smoothly.
"I'll take you to see the little queen and your nephew," Rhaenys said, linking arms with her mother. Her face was bright with happiness.
"Shaena?" Elia asked, then added with mild disapproval, "You should call her Queen, not 'little queen.'"
Rhaenys tilted her head but kept walking, leading Elia toward the queen's chambers.
Rhaella and Shaena were already waiting. They welcomed Elia warmly and spent the next while catching up like old friends.
"Your Grace, Princess Elia has arrived," Ser Jon Darry reported after knocking.
"I know," Daeron said. His eyes flicked to the other Kingsguard standing by the door. "Ser Arthur, no day off today?"
Arthur Dayne stood at attention, his usually stern face showing a flicker of hesitation. "Prince Lewyn took leave to see Princess Elia. I'm covering his post."
It was a smooth excuse.
Daeron asked, "Elia came back with anyone else?"
"My sister, Ashara Dayne."
Arthur's voice dropped slightly.
Daeron understood. The man wanted to do right by his sister but couldn't speak openly because of his white cloak.
"Ashara's a good woman, Ser."
"I know, Your Grace."
Arthur met the king's eyes. "Everyone in Dorne knows her character and her beauty."
Ashara had moved to Summerhall with Elia years ago and stayed there. Arthur had watched and said nothing, because what could he say? The king wasn't going to set aside his queen, and he couldn't ask his sister to settle for being a mistress.
The situation had stayed frozen.
Daeron considered for a moment, then said, "It's been a long time since I saw Ashara. I'll visit her later."
Arthur's brow furrowed.
What did that mean?
Daeron added, "Don't worry. I won't dishonor her."
Arthur still looked confused. What did "not dishonor her" even mean in this context? Was the king planning to have a polite conversation?
That would be worse than just giving her what she clearly wanted and letting her move on from years of one-sided longing.
As a brother, Arthur was running out of ideas.
Ser Jon Darry, who knew the king far too well, gave a pointed cough and elbowed his sworn brother in the ribs. The message was clear: stop asking.
Arthur took the hint and closed the door without another word.
Daeron shook his head, amused. "Ser Arthur's sword is unmatched and his instincts are sharp, but when it comes to feelings he's completely hopeless."
He was already planning to bring the Sword of the Morning on the second eastern campaign. A commander like that did wonders for morale.