The Throne Room.
Tywin Lannister sat high on the Iron Throne, presiding over a hall filled with more than a hundred nobles and lords of Westeros.
The matter had escalated beyond rumor.
In the center of the marble floor knelt a blood‑stained Lannister soldier. Beside him, on a stretcher, lay Geryn Lannister — battered beyond recognition, his body a map of bruises.
Whispers rippled through the chamber. The Hand's own brother, nearly beaten to death by the King's favored son — and the King wasn't even present. Everyone prayed this hearing wouldn't descend into madness.
From the crowd, Varys raised his smooth, soft voice. "Lord Hand," he asked delicately, "when might His Grace join us?"
Before Tywin could reply, a middle‑aged maester hurried in and whispered something in his ear.
Tywin nodded once, pale eyes flashing cold. He spoke in a tone that silenced the hall.
"His Majesty is resting. This matter," he said, "falls under my full discretion."
No one dared object. That was the law: when the King slept, the Hand ruled.
Count Owen Merryweather, pressed somewhere within the anxious crowd, wiped sweat from his brow. This is bad, he thought miserably. The King's not here — the prince won't get a fair hearing.
Minute by minute, the tension thickened.
Finally, Tywin broke the uneasy stillness. "Where are the Kingsguard?" he demanded. "Wasn't the prince summoned?"
Before anyone could answer—
"They're here!" someone cried. "Prince Daeron — with Ser Gerold and Ser Barristan!"
The high doors groaned open.
And Daeron Targaryen entered.
He stepped through the sunlight spilling across the black stone steps, posture tall, gaze steady. He looked completely unbothered — as if he were walking into a reception, not a trial.
Two shadows followed: Gerold "the White Bull" Hightower to his left, and Barristan the Bold to his right. The sight of those two unflinching legends flanking the King's son drew collective breath across the hall.
Even the lords, who had arrived eager for blood and scandal, found themselves whispering instead of jeering.
They had heard of the King's "beloved second son." Few had actually seen him. Until now, most assumed Daeron's repute came only from his father's favoritism.
But the young man who walked past the wounded Lannisters gave a different impression entirely — his calm radiated authority.
He stopped at the base of the throne's twisted blades as Tywin rose.
"That's far enough, Your Grace," the Hand called sharply.
Without Kingsguard to protect him personally, Tywin sat surrounded only by his Lannister soldiers — brave enough, but meaningless against two knights of such caliber.
Daeron inclined his head coolly. "You wished to see me, Lord Hand?"
"You stand accused of violent assault," Tywin declared, voice louder, formal now. "Do you deny it?"
Daeron's eyes flicked toward the stretcher. "You mean him?"
Tywin's stare didn't waver. "Indeed. The evidence is clear. You ordered Ser Jonothor Darry to strike down eight Lannister guards — killing three, maiming five — and personally beat my brother half to death. We have witnesses to attest to it."
Daeron didn't flinch. "And the cause?" he asked mildly. "Did you even bother to ask what started the fight?"
Tywin's jaw clenched. "The cause does not excuse the crime."
Daeron almost laughed. Of course not, he thought. That's how he means to trap me.
It wasn't the first time Westeros had seen royals judged by the sword.
In his mind, Daeron recalled another story — the 209 AC tourney at Ashford Meadow, where his great‑grandfather Aegon the Unlikely's brother, Prince Aerion "Brightflame," had assaulted a commoner. Ser Dunk — the wandering knight later known as "Dunk the Tall" — had struck the prince in defense.
For that insolence, the royal demanded a Trial of Seven.
Aegon had revealed his own blood to defend the knight, and in the end, Prince Baelor "Breakspear" — heir to the throne — had died saving him.
A feud of pride and honor that cost a prince his life.
And today, another prince faced something similar.
Tywin straightened, signaling one of the guards. "State your claim," he ordered.
The Lannister soldier stepped forward, trembling. "My lord, we were sent by your command to retrieve materials from the King's warehouse for harbor repairs. Lord Geryn spoke only one sentence with the prince — and then the prince attacked us."
The room erupted.
"Madness! Like father, like son!" someone whispered.
"Dragon blood… curse of the Targaryens," another muttered.
The murmur spread like fire.
Tywin let them speak — let the noise swell. It served him.
When he spoke again, his voice was calm, cutting. "Your Grace, the testimony is given. What say you in your defense?"
Daeron waited until silence fell again. "My father authorized the construction of my residence. Are you saying you did not know?"
"I knew," Tywin said flatly. "But that has nothing to do with this."
So he was disowning responsibility outright — pretending coincidence.
Varys, standing near the edge of the crowd, pressed his lips together. He could already see the line being drawn.
The order for the marble had indeed come from the council — Aerys's command, Tywin's approval, Owen's execution. At the same hour Tywin had conveniently authorized his own brother to take those same materials.
A perfect trap layered in bureaucracy.
The Hand could now claim ignorance and paint the prince's assault as unjust violence. Enough to exile him, strip him of lands, and crush him quietly.
Even clever snakes can be predictable, Daeron thought. He wants me desperate, begging. He'll cut off my wings, then teach me obedience.
His lips curved, just slightly.
A ripple of laughter escaped him.
Tywin's glare hardened. "My brother lies half‑dead, and you laugh?"
The young prince looked up, violet eyes burning brighter. "Do you truly believe you can judge me, my lord?"
A hush fell across the hall.
He turned, raising his voice so all could hear.
"The law," he said, "is not about guilt or innocence, but about the will of the living at the moment it is invoked. And I tell you now — this case was contrived with poison at its root. A snare. Not justice."
The gathered lords exchanged uneasy glances.
"You refuse to accept this court's ruling?" Tywin demanded, tone taut.
"No," Daeron said clearly, his voice echoing under the vaulted ceiling. "I reject the very premise of it."
Then, loud enough for the whole court to hear, he turned his gaze upward toward the stained‑glass emblems of the Seven.
"I am Daeron Targaryen," he declared. "I answer to no man's justice — only to the judgment of the gods."
The crowd gasped.
Tywin's fists clenched on the armrests of the Iron Throne. "Do you know what you're saying?" he hissed.
Daeron stepped forward, eyes fierce as dragon‑fire.
"I do," he said. "I call for Trial by Combat."
The words slammed through the chamber like a hammerstroke.
"If you want me condemned," he said, every syllable deliberate, "send a man worthy of dying for the verdict."
Silence followed — so deep even the torches seemed to wait.
And for the first time in years, the Iron Throne itself felt cold beneath the Lion of Casterly Rock.