"You arrogant, insolent boy!"
Tywin's face had gone pale with fury.
Even seated high upon the Iron Throne, he felt trapped — pinned between outrage and helplessness.
"Do you even grasp what a trial by combat means?" he said, voice low and dangerous.
Daeron met his gaze without flinching. "I've read the histories. I studied well."
The very words made Tywin freeze.
Who had taught this boy those histories? Who had spent hours at his side explaining how pride destroyed rulers and how strength must always wear the mask of reason?
It was him.
It had once filled him with pride — to see the King's younger son learning not as an heir, but as a pupil. That pride now burned like acid.
"Let me ask you one last time," Tywin bit out. "Do you truly wish to invoke trial by combat?"
Daeron's voice was cold and steady. "I do."
And suddenly the chamber felt smaller.
Something unseen rippled through the air — a weight pressing down, invisible but real. The young prince's aura flared, radiant with life energy, thick enough that even the hardened knights in attendance shifted uneasily.
"Life force…" murmured Ser Barristan, eyes narrowing.
Beside him, Ser Gerold the White Bull tilted his head slightly. "Potent," he said, his deep voice rumbling, "though not yet mastered."
A few experienced warriors exchanged knowing looks. Those who had felt it before could tell — Daeron's vitality burned brighter than most knights ever achieved. The stronger one's life force, the harder it was to control… but when it burst free, it was unmistakable.
"The last time I sensed strength like that," Barristan said quietly, "was in Prince Rhaegar."
And that, coming from the Bold, was no light praise.
Around them, the nobles — most of whom had never seen such a thing — could not hide their awe.
"By the gods," someone whispered. "He's that powerful?"
"So young… and already awakened."
Even lords in the front row, suffocating under the invisible pressure of the prince's vitality, leaned back in their seats, startled.
The hall rippled with murmurs. Gold‑clad daughters and wards of great houses gazed at him as if witnessing living legend.
"Now we see why he dares challenge the Hand," a whisper hissed.
"No wonder a trial by combat—he's certain of victory!"
Tywin's expression hardened to granite. "So this is your courage, then? You think your power makes you untouchable?"
He rose abruptly, voice slicing through the whispers. "Very well then! If you want a trial by combat, you shall have it."
His gaze swept across the gathered nobles. "Who stands for the realm? Who will fight in its name?"
The question fell into silence.
Sweat trickled down the brows of Lannister knights and bannermen alike — all of them suddenly fascinated by their boots. None wished to be the one crushed by a prince blazing with dragonborn power.
Then, from the right flank:
"Brother — let me!"
"I will stand for House Lannister!"
Two voices answered at once.
The first belonged to a mountain of a man — broad‑chested and rough‑featured, curls of gold falling to his shoulders beneath the lion-engraved armor. His presence radiated violence. Tygett Lannister, the youngest and fiercest of Tywin's brothers.
The second was quieter but steadier — older, calmer, leaner, wearing embroidered silks instead of plate. His hair was thinning, but his eyes were sharp as a hawk's. Kevan Lannister.
The two brothers stepped from the crowd, practically jostling each other to the front.
"Let me face him," Tygett growled. "I'll break him to pieces."
Tywin ignored him and turned to Kevan. The dependable one.
"My lord," Kevan said evenly, kneeling before the dais, "allow me to fight for our house — and for the honor of the throne. The realm must see that lions pay their debts."
Tywin nodded once. "Then you'll represent the Throne."
"Brother—" Tygett began again, furious.
"Silence!" The single word cracked through the hall, and Tygett froze, jaw tight.
Daeron watched their exchange with faint amusement.
"Finished bickering?" he asked, voice smooth as ice.
Kevan said nothing, merely gestured for attendants. His squires hurried forward to strap on his gilded armor — practical, well-used, but still shining from the craftsman's hammer.
Tywin relaxed back into the throne, recovering his composure. Let his brother fight; it would restore order, show that no royal temper could defy the hierarchy of the realm.
Kevan Lannister, after all, was no fool. Years of training and experience had allowed him to touch the boundaries of life energy himself. He was a veteran knight — steady, strong, and entirely loyal.
Among mortals, that was enough.
Daeron didn't move. He merely watched as Kevan prepared, his silver hair gleaming under the torchlight. Combat didn't scare him; heavy armor only annoyed him.
Finally Kevan rose, sword drawn, bronze armor gleaming dully. "For my house," he said, lifting the blade. "And for justice."
"Prince…" Barristan started hesitantly.
But before he could finish, both men turned as a new sound rumbled through the hall — a heavy grinding of doors and the echo of boots on stone.
The herald's voice rang out through the chamber.
"His Grace, Aerys II Targaryen — King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm!"
The crowd bowed instantly as Ser Jon Darry entered, his hand to his chest, leading the royal escort.
Daeron's pupils narrowed.
And then the Mad King appeared.
Aerys shuffled forward, gaunt as a ghost, his silver hair half‑matted to his brow, a crown sitting crooked atop his head. He wore no armor, only a wrinkled purple sleeping robe hastily thrown over his shoulders. His skin was pale, his breath shallow — yet his eyes burned red with anger.
"Your Grace—" someone dared begin.
"Silence!" Aerys rasped, voice splitting into a cough. "I sleep for one hour, and already vipers in my court dare to strike at my son!"
Every noble in the chamber froze. Heads dipped even lower. The Mad King's reputation was no myth — and his presence turned the air itself thin.
"Father?" Daeron began cautiously.
But Aerys's gaze was already locked on Tywin, feral and furious. "You'd judge my blood without me? You'd drag my son before your petty council like a criminal?"
For possibly the first time in his life, Tywin Lannister rose uncertainly.
"Your Grace," he said evenly, "the matter—"
"Enough!" the King snapped. His frail hand jabbed toward the Iron Throne. "Get off my chair, Tywin. It's not yours!"
Tywin stiffened… then bowed with the barest restraint, stepping aside as Aerys slowly climbed the steps, assisted by Jon Darry.
Once seated, the Mad King glared down at the gathered nobles — his gaze feverish, his grip on the crown trembling.
"Now," he snarled, his lips curling, "let's see who dares rob me of my blood again."
The hall went utterly still.
Above them, the Iron Throne seemed to sigh — and for a brief, uncanny instant, it was hard to tell whether it was the King or the throne itself that remembered what it meant to draw blood.
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