Under the night sky, the streets of King's Landing burned with gold.
Band after band of Gold Cloaks spread through the city, dragging criminals from their holes. Homes, dens, brothels, gambling houses—all were stormed in turn.
They knew exactly where to go.
They had always known.
Bang!
A hidden door shattered beneath a boot. Inside—an illegal fighting pit. Organizers were seized, gamblers scattering like vermin.
"This way—children!" a soldier called.
Down in a dark cellar, three emaciated children cowered. One was a boy, maybe thirteen, his mouth split open to reveal razor-filed teeth.
"Gods…" the captain muttered. He knew this type. The child's eyes were feral, unblinking—a creature bred for blood sport.
"Lost cause. Check the other two."
The others—a smaller boy and a girl—hid their faces, crying. Normal teeth. Normal children. Whip marks, but no kills yet.
The captain nodded.
"Take them back for care. Throw the older one in Flea Bottom."
The orders were Daeron's own.
Girls under thirteen.
Boys under eleven—to be taken in.
Anyone older—judged by case.
Those too scarred to save were cast out. It sounded inhuman, but Daeron was not running a charity. He was rebuilding a future population for his own lands.
The younger ones might yet heal.
The older boys, broken by underground violence, were monsters in the making.
He'd left Flea Bottom untouched on purpose—better to contain the disease than chase it through every alley.
You don't corner a mad dog, he liked to say.
"Move! Next house!"
The Gold Cloaks swept on.
Across King's Landing, it was the same scene repeated: doors smashed, screams, chains, judgment without delay.
By midnight, a third of the capital glowed with torchlight.
Order was being reborn in flame.
---
### Dawn — Silk Street
Daeron sat on the base of a stone statue, his silver-gold hair streaked with blood and soot. His eyes burned clear.
The panel in his mind flickered:
Spring 24 – Wednesday – Sunny – 7:30 a.m.
He watched carriages roll past, each covered with white cloths that dripped red. A severed hand fell with a soft thud, twitching once before it stilled.
Aliser Thorne emerged from the fog, calm as ever. He kicked the hand aside and heaved it back into the wagon.
"Your Grace," he reported, "Shoemakers' Square is secure. Silk Street's back alleys are trickier—connections to some of the court's favorites. We'll need more time."
Daeron didn't answer. He watched blood drain between the cobbles as the sun lit it like melted gold.
A mad plan, he admitted to himself.
A mad plan that worked.
Over a thousand arrests.
Hundreds executed or mutilated.
Half a dozen wagons overflowing with limbs.
The numbers alone would haunt most men.
Not him.
"Our house has fallen so low," he murmured.
It was the year 280 After Conquest—one year before the tournament at Harrenhal, two before the Rebellion.
He had no time left for gradual change or courtesy.
Only drastic action mattered now.
If I hold the city's defenses, he thought, the rest will follow.
From beloved boy prince to true power in the capital—only control would bridge that gap.
"Rest, Your Grace," Aliser urged. "You haven't slept."
Daeron rose and shook his head.
"I don't need sleep. I need consent."
"The Small Council?"
"Yes. It's probably in chaos already."
He straightened his armor.
"Gather your men. Protect Lord Manly. He's vulnerable now—if he dies, this becomes assassination, not reform."
"Yes, Your Grace!"
When the knight left, silence fell again.
Daeron took a fresh strawberry from his satchel, bit into it, and smiled faintly.
Never skip breakfast, he reminded himself.
---
### The Red Keep — Council Chamber
As he'd predicted, the Small Council was boiling over.
"Seven hells! Do you see what Daeron did last night?"
Lord Symon Staunton, Master of Laws, was red-faced, clutching his chest as if the shock alone might kill him.
"Half the bloody city turned into a war zone. I was told the Gold Cloaks executed over a hundred in one night—a hundred!"
Across the table, Lord Lucerys Velaryon, Master of Ships, spoke in a low, grim tone.
"In a single night, the Watch butchered and purged. Seven wagons to haul what was left of them. Evidence of thieves and whores, they say—I say horror beyond measure."
Then he added, with disbelief,
"They say the prince himself cut down three men in the streets."
Symon's jaw dropped.
"What is he—Daemon Targaryen reborn?"
The youngest among them, Lord Colten Chestyr, Master of Coin, was pale and grim.
"It's too late to laugh. The King doesn't yet know. The Hand refuses to appear." He swallowed hard. "If we can't contain this, our heads may decorate the walls next."
That shut the room up.
Every eye turned to the fourth figure present—the only one who did not look afraid.
Lord Varys smiled.
"Gentlemen," he said smoothly, hands folded in his sleeves, "my little birds do need rest sometimes. Besides, who could have foreseen what happened? The prince acted without warning—swift as a blade."
"You should have warned us!" Colten snapped.
Varys's smile didn't falter.
"I did warn someone. To root out the rot and restore order—that was the goal. How could I predict the boy would accomplish both in one night?"
He shrugged delicately.
"Sometimes reform moves faster than its makers."
They stared at him as though he were mad.
And perhaps, he thought, they were right.
You never knew with dragons—
which fires would purify, and which would burn the world.