Tywin's jaw clenched so hard the veins in his neck stood out.
He wanted to rise, to shout back, but pride held him frozen on the Iron Throne. Sitting there was already humiliation enough — seated above all but shaking inside.
"Get down from there, Tywin Lannister!"
King Aerys's voice cracked through the throne room like a whip.
"When the King sleeps, the Hand may sit," the Mad King hissed, staggering forward, "but when the King is present, the Hand wipes his royal arse!"
Gasps rippled through the court.
Tywin's face turned the color of iron. His fists curled until the knuckles went white, the crack of tendons audible in the silence.
Shhhk! Shhhk!
Two swords half‑drew — Barristan Selmy's and Gerold Hightower's — both knights stepping ahead to shield the King and his blood from the Lannister guards standing around the dais.
They could all feel it: one wrong word, and the throne room would drown in blood.
At that critical instant, Varys drifted gracefully out from the crowd, bowing low. "My lord Hand," he purred, "His Grace is here now. Perhaps we should proceed to the duel while his temper burns hottest— lest it consume us all."
"Fine."
Tywin bit back his rage and stood, every motion tight and brittle.
This wasn't the first time Aerys had humiliated him before half the court, but swallowing poison was part of survival.
One day, he promised silently, one day I will return this tenfold.
Meanwhile, Aerys climbed the blade‑strewn throne and exhaled like an old man easing into a fire. "Now then," he said, his bloodshot eyes narrowing toward the armed knight before him, "what's this I hear of a Lannister drawing steel against my son?"
Kevan Lannister felt every gaze in the hall sink onto him. Sweat trickled down his neck beneath the collar of gilded mail. Something in his gut screamed that none of this would end well.
The same thought struck both Tywin and Daeron at once.
Jon, you idiot, Daeron thought, sending a mental curse to Ser Jon Darry for bringing his father here.
He had planned everything — to use the trial by combat to clear his name, display his strength, and leave the court murmuring with awe, maybe even respect.
It was more than a defense. It was strategy: leverage the law to win glory.
And, for one mad heartbeat, he had even considered something darker — a plan to bite the Lannisters hard enough to rupture everything.
If war was inevitable, why wait for the tragedy at Harrenhal, why wait for crowns to fall and dragons to burn?
Better to start now — on his terms, not history's.
A bold, reckless idea.
One he wisely abandoned almost as soon as it came.
Targaryens die in their wars, he'd reminded himself. I'm too young, and I've a dragon egg to raise.
Instead of fire, he would play the long game.
Varys, ever the spider, stepped forward to summarize the situation for the King — every detail, every claim and counterclaim, his smooth words neutral yet damning.
Aerys listened with unnerving patience, then let out a low, rasping laugh. "So," he said, leaning forward at last, "that's how it is, old friend?"
Tywin's expression didn't flicker. "Your Grace, both parties requested judgment. You are free to command as you see fit."
The King smiled thinly — a wolfish stretch of lips. "I've no objection," he said, "except this: to pit my eleven‑year‑old son against Kevan Lannister… is that fair?"
A murmur of confusion spread.
Then Aerys turned with sudden fire. "If it's to be combat, let it be equal! Let me pick his champion!"
He pointed suddenly to one of the white knights at Daeron's back.
"Barristan!"
The room froze. Even Tywin's mask cracked.
"Your Grace…" Barristan knelt, head inclined. His calmness bled into the chaos like balm on a wound.
Aerys was grinning now, teeth bared. "You'll fight for my son," he said sharply, his voice almost gleeful. "Strike down the Lannisters where they stand!"
The words hit the air like lightning.
Gasps, shouts, a few screams — because everyone understood what Aerys had just done.
Barristan Selmy — the man who saved the King at Duskendale, who once cut down a Blackfyre pretender single‑handed — now ordered to duel a Lannister lord.
Kevan felt ice in his veins. He turned to his brother in quiet, desperate disbelief.
Tywin's eyes, if possible, burned hotter than fire.
"You wouldn't dare," he hissed under his breath.
Aerys's laugh was high and frayed. "Wouldn't I, old friend? Are the lions of Casterly afraid of one white cloak?"
Tywin took one step forward — and then stopped.
He couldn't refuse. Trial by combat allowed proxies. If the King chose Barristan, none could reject the decision.
"Brother…" Kevan's voice was hoarse. But retreat now would brand their house cowards.
"I will fight," he said finally, steadying his breath.
Daeron watched the exchange quietly, his mind racing.
This had to stop before it spiraled — and quickly.
"Father."
The word came low but clear as he approached the throne.
Aerys looked down, frowning. "What?"
"I would like to speak," Daeron said.
The King gestured sharply.
Daeron climbed the final step to meet his father's blood‑red gaze. "With respect, Father," he said calmly, "Ser Barristan should not stain his blade on a mere Lannister. Let me fight."
Aerys studied him, suspicion warring with pride. "You'd spare him?"
Daeron leaned close, lowering his voice so only the King could hear. "If he dies, it will make me feared. But if I defeat him and let him live, it will make me great."
He let his father feel the confidence in his tone — the heat of his hand resting briefly on the King's.
"You're sure you can win?" Aerys asked, voice cracking.
Daeron smiled faintly. "I have mastered the life force, Father."
The King's eyes widened — and then gleamed with mad delight. "Good. Then let it be known: my son himself shall fight the lion, and the lion shall crawl away alive to remember the name Daeron Targaryen!"
Shock rippled through the chamber.
Kevan blinked. "…What?"
So did Tywin.
But Aerys was already waving Barristan aside. "Stand down, Ser Barristan. My son has shown mercy. You'd do well to thank him, Lord Kevan."
The Lannister knight's expression twisted. "Mercy?" he echoed bitterly.
But pride demanded acceptance.
He gripped his longsword in both hands and bowed stiffly. "Then I fight, Your Grace — and I finish it."
Daeron smiled faintly and, from Barristan and Jon Darry, took two swords — one in each hand — spinning them lightly to gauge weight and balance.
Every knight in the chamber straightened. A dual‑wielder. Rare. Reckless.
Kevan frowned as he slid his helmet into place. "No armor, prince?" he asked, trying to distract him.
Daeron stepped forward, relaxed, neither armored nor fearful. "For you," he said coolly, "I won't need it."
The hall held its breath.
Steel rang like a bell as Kevan raised his blade.
And from the edge of the court, the Mad King's thin voice slithered through the stillness, half gleeful, half mad:
"Begin."
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