Fear thickened the air. No one dared to speak.
"Good."
Daeron nodded once, calm and cold.
"Then—do it."
Like wolves released from a leash, Aliser Thorne's men lunged forward, seizing the highest-ranking captains, those who commanded the city gates.
"Mercy, Your Grace!"
"We're innocent—we'll confess—!"
Their pleas collapsed into whimpers.
The rest—eight or nine mid-rank officers—pressed themselves against the wall, pale and sweating. Any fool could see it now: the City Watch would belong to the young prince before dawn.
"When I call you corrupt," Daeron said softly, "it's not merely greed I speak of. You turned the King's banner into a thief's cloak."
He stepped closer, the lamplight painting cold lines on his armor.
"Shall I list your deeds? The murders? The girls you sold? The coin you took to bury justice?"
The captains fell silent as stone. They knew exactly what he meant.
"While you wallowed in coin," he went on, "the city you swore to guard rotted. I will not suffer wolves in my father's house."
Panic turned to collapse. One by one, they sank to their knees, trembling.
Then he turned to the eight standing aside.
"You are less wicked—for now. I'll grant you a choice: resign your posts at dawn, or be demoted and prove your worth anew. Decide for yourselves."
A truce. A crack of hope. Some exhaled in relief.
But Daeron's smile did not fade.
"There's just one more matter."
Heartbeat. Tension.
"One among you," he said quietly, "is beyond forgiveness."
Every muscle froze.
"Ser Janos Slynt."
The name dropped like lead.
Hidden in the back, Slynt's knees gave way.
"I—my prince! Please!"
"Come forward."
Aliser grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out before the crowd.
The man looked soft and oily, his bald head glistening with sweat—every bit the coward he'd become famous as in another age.
"Please, Your Grace! Mercy!"
Daeron smiled politely and said, "Of course. I forgive you."
Hope lit Slynt's eyes.
"Thank you, thank you—"
Thud!
A dagger stabbed into the table between them, its hilt vibrating.
"Each of you will take one cut," Daeron said gently. "Show me your remorse."
The color drained from Slynt's face.
"Wait—"
The first officer moved. Then another. A third.
In seconds, the sound of steel and wet flesh filled the room.
Daeron watched in silence until it was done.
When the noise stopped, Slynt's corpse was a red tapestry on the floor.
Daeron looked down at it.
"Poor Janos—how will you keep your gold now, with so many holes to fill?"
No one laughed.
They didn't even breathe.
"Remove the bodies. Throw them to the Flea Bottom pits."
His voice was soft again, almost gentle.
"Tomorrow we begin the cleansing. At this hour, I want every Gold Cloak assembled before me. No excuses."
It was the first order of rebirth.
---
## The Next Night — Shoemakers' Square, City Watch Barracks
Hundreds of torches burned against the dark, casting long black shadows.
Daeron stood at the center in armor and purple sash, flanked by his new captains.
Before him gathered a thousand Gold Cloaks—clean armor, straight backs, eyes sharp.
They were wolves now, not carrion dogs.
The corrupt were gone; the timid dismissed. In their place stood men like Aliser Thorne, Jerimy Rykker, and a dozen other skilled lesser knights who'd once been shut out by nobles with coin.
Daeron had paid them well—with gold and with belief.
To men who'd only known exploitation, that was a religion.
"Everyone present?" he asked.
"Yes, Your Grace," Manly Stokeworth answered in a low voice. "We await your order."
Daeron took a long, slow look around the formation. Aliser stood to one side, Jerimy to the other, both tense with pride.
Before this night, they'd been drifters.
Now they were something greater—his.
"Bring it in," he said.
Soldiers hauled forward several heavy chests. The lids creaked open to reveal a mountain of coin—silver stags, gold dragons, copper stars—glittering like captured fire.
Gasps swept through the ranks, followed by a rising drumbeat of fists on breastplates.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Daeron raised a hand. The hall fell silent.
"When I took command," he began, "you were starved wolves—beaten, cheated, fed on scraps by your own. Tonight, you stand as a pack."
Every man listened.
"No more thieves in golden cloaks. No more fear in these streets. From this moment, you are hunters—fed, armed, and loyal to the dragon alone."
A roar erupted—hundreds of voices in unison, raw and furious, echoing off the walls.
At last, a Targaryen led them again.
When the noise faded, Daeron stepped forward through the torchlight.
"My father's city has sunk into rot," he said, voice like steel. "But that ends tonight."
"From this night on—King's Landing will fear the golden cloak again."
He turned to his officers.
"Form ranks. Cleanse the Shoemakers' Square and the Silk Street."
"Thieves—cut off their hands. Rapists—remove what offends. Murderers—blood for blood."
Then, softer, with an edge of mercy:
"If any choose the black and swear it true, see them to the Wall alive. We are not butchers. We are the law."
The response was a single, rippling shout that shook the barracks.
"Aye, Your Grace!"
And with that cry, King's Landing erupted into motion—the streets awash with firelight, the drums of boots on stone, and for the first time in a century, the people of the capital learned to fear the color gold again.
---