"Ha! It's you, spymaster, who's been asleep at his post."
Lord Symon Staunton thrust an accusing finger across the council table.
As Master of Laws, he was technically responsible for King's Landing's safety—and, by extension, the City Watch. If blame wasn't thrown elsewhere, it would land squarely on him.
Varys's smile never wavered, but his voice chilled.
"My lord, perhaps you should save your outrage for His Grace. He loves a good performance."
The eunuch could hiss when provoked; Symon flinched, then huffed into silence.
At the far end of the table, Lord Lucerys Velaryon—elegant, silver-haired, blue-eyed—raised a hand.
"Enough. Arguing won't unspill blood. We need solutions."
Symon snapped, "This chaos is too great to hide! A third of the city overrun, hundreds dead! We should send word to Dragonstone, recall Prince Rhaegar to govern the realm before it collapses."
Lord Colten Chestyr, the Master of Coin, stared at him like he'd gone mad.
"Are you an idiot?" he said plainly. No insult—just a statement of fact.
Every eye widened. Even Varys blinked.
"Bring Rhaegar back?" Colten went on, incredulous. "The Mad King may be unstable, but he still wears the crown. And every one of us has won his favor by bad-mouthing the heir on the throne! You want to invite our own executions too?"
Symon's color rose, then faded to white. He rubbed his thin hair, mumbling a curse.
When the room settled, Lucerys and Colten spoke with quiet authority.
"One of us will report to the King," Colten said, "and calm the storm before it reaches his ears wrong."
"I'll work with Prince Daeron directly," Lucerys added, "and dampen the uproar. At worst, we'll spin this as a lawful clean-up."
"Exactly," Colten agreed. "Arrests of criminals, proper trials, swift justice—unpleasant but within the law. We silence the nobles who lost 'investments,' hang a few token scapegoats, and the rest will fade like a bad dream."
When the council finally broke up, Varys remained seated, hands folded, expressionless.
Had he made a mistake backing the boy?
His little birds were clever—but even clever birds couldn't see a dragon until it breathed fire.
---
## The Tower of the Hand
Daeron arrived freshly washed, clean armor gleaming.
Tywin Lannister didn't raise his voice. That alone was unsettling.
"Look what you've done, boy," he said calmly. No rant, no raging—just stating facts.
"You cut the rot from the Watch, you found loyal soldiers and cleared the streets—commendable. But in doing so, you've drenched the city in blood."
He steepled his hands.
"The people see fear, not order. Your name will bear that stain for years unless you tame it now."
When Daeron didn't answer, Tywin rose and studied him.
"What drove such reckless haste? What are you planning?"
Daeron said nothing, but his silence spoke volumes.
Tywin's gaze softened—in a way only a lion watching a younger predator might.
"If you need my help," he said quietly, "I'll offer it."
---
Moments later, the boy was gone.
Tywin stood by the door, hand tightening and relaxing on the desk.
He refused me, the Hand realized. More importantly, he believed he didn't need me.
"Is the Targaryen blood that strong?"
The words were a whisper—half wonder, half envy.
And underneath it—resentment.
That the Mad King, a fool of a man, could father such a son gnawed at him.
---
## Outside the Red Keep
Daeron forwent visiting his father. If Tywin had summoned him instead of Aerys, it meant the damage was containable.
"Still as sharp as ever," he muttered—and knew the Hand's offer had its strings.
The Lannisters never helped for free.
To accept would be to accept a future—one tied to Cersei.
Like Rhaegar marrying Elia Martell for Dorne's loyalty, he'd inherit the West with Cersei as wife.
An alliance too convenient. Too costly.
No. His unclaimed status was worth more than gold. It was leverage.
House Lannister's greed was an open secret; their enemies in the Riverlands and Reach would never trust a crown tied to Casterly Rock.
The future, he knew, lay in alliances with those still calling themselves royal loyalists.
---
"Your Grace! Good news!"
The excited shout cut through his thoughts. Lord Owen Merryweather hurried up the steps, his face flushed.
"Good news?" Daeron lifted a brow.
---
## The Mud Gate Harbor
Later that day, Daeron stood on the pier, arms folded, staring at a weather-worn three-masted ship.
To be frank—it was a wreck.
Nineteen paces long, a dragon-shaped ram protruding at the bow, the wood split and patch-stained. But its grace was still there, buried beneath age and salt.
"Lord Owen," he said carefully, "this ship looks ready to die."
The older man beamed.
"Ah-ah, but listen, Your Grace! When you asked for a seaworthy vessel, I searched everywhere—and found a forgotten treasure in the royal stores!"
Treasure. Daeron arched a brow.
Owen rushed on. "Records say it's from the far eastern continent—built of woods and metals unknown to us, the craftsmanship beyond compare!"
Then, seeing the prince's skepticism, he added the real bait.
"This very ship belonged to King Viserys the First—the one from the Dance of the Dragons era! He gifted it to his daughter, Princess Rhaenyra, so she could tour the Seven Kingdoms and find a consort."
He lowered his voice with theater-worthy gravity.
"After the civil war, King Aegon the Third kept it as a memorial to his mother. It has lain hidden since."
Daeron stared—no longer at Owen, but at the ship.
A fragment of his family's golden age, left to rot.
"…It'll need repairs."
"Of course!" Owen bounced on his heels. "I've already arranged the best shipwrights. Three days maximum!"
Three days—to restore a piece of the Conquerors' legacy.
Daeron nodded slowly.
"Then the ship is yours to manage. Get her ready."
For once, he spoke softly.
The name Rhaenyra lingered in his mind—a princess who'd burned for the throne and lost it. A reminder and an omen both.
---
A commotion erupted near the warehouses.
"Stop, smuggler!"
The Gold Cloaks rushed a scruffy brown-haired man who had just stepped off a small black-sailed boat laden with onions and beef.
Daeron would have ignored it—except for the word smuggler and the unassuming look of the man himself.
Thin, modest, with a salt-beaten face and a gray-flecked beard, he spoke calmly, hands raised in parley, already trying to talk his way out of a beating.
Daeron's interest piqued.
That easy charm. That humility. And the black ship full of onions.
He smiled faintly.
"An unexpected guest," he murmured.
"Let's see what luck the sea has brought me."
---