"Your Highness, wait."
Daeron had barely stepped out of the Hand's Tower when a soft, serpentine voice stopped him.
He turned.
"Lord Varys?"
The spymaster approached with his usual practiced smile, every step measured to sound harmless.
Before Daeron could ask, Varys sighed theatrically.
"The realm mourns Grand Maester Pycelle. A pillar of wisdom, snatched by age and fate. Tragic, truly."
Daeron matched his tone perfectly.
"Yes, indeed—a sage who served three kings, only to fall victim to a wayward staircase."
"May the Seven guide him to better steps." Varys offered a sympathetic nod. "So young, and already you look to the future."
"I try to," Daeron said lightly.
Then silence.
Two smiles, frozen across a thin blade of tension.
Each knew what the other was thinking.
You know I killed him.
You helped me do it.
"Your Grace has admirable composure," Varys said at last. He couldn't coax a twitch of guilt from the boy. Fascinating.
Instead, he shifted to business.
"My little birds bring a whisper or two of concern. Small matters, but worth your attention."
Daeron's eyes narrowed.
"Speak."
"Ser Janos Slynt, captain of the Dragon Gate, is plotting a coup against Lord Manly Stokeworth."
"Janos Slynt," Daeron repeated, memorizing the name. A lazy smirk flickered across his face. "In another age he might become a commander himself—so long as he keeps his king well bribed."
Varys continued smoothly.
"My sources say he and several captains plan to force Lord Manly's resignation and expel the new recruits your champion Ser Aliser Thorne brought in. These recruits disturb Slynt's… enterprises."
He slid a note from his sleeve, listing the conspirators and their meeting place.
Daeron accepted it with a smile.
"Thank you, my lord."
Varys bowed lightly, watching him walk away.
"After all, Your Grace, we serve the same goal—the good of the realm."
And occasionally, Daeron thought, we prune it the same way.
---
That night, the young prince acted.
Under Lord Manly's seal, a banquet was arranged for the Watch's captains and officers—fine wine, soft company, and no questions asked.
A Hongmen Banquet, as the old histories would call it—a trap with a toast.
---
### Shoemakers' Square — A Brothel of Bright Lamps and Louder Music
"Cheers to Lord Manly and his bloody good ale!"
"Ha ha ha—more wine! More women!"
The City Watch had leased the entire house for their "celebration." Every captain drank, laughed, and boasted until the walls shook.
Upstairs, things were quieter.
"Are you certain this is wise?" Lord Manly Stokeworth's voice trembled slightly. The man was lean, past forty, his black hair threaded with gray, his conscience fraying even faster.
Daeron smiled thinly and guided him back to his chair.
"All responsibility is mine. You need only observe."
"Prince or not," Manly protested, "if we kill our own men, it's treason."
Daeron rested a hand on his shoulder.
"Failure is treason. Success is revolution."
The words rang like steel.
Manly sighed and nodded weakly. There was no stopping what was coming.
Below, the conspirators arrived one by one—Janos Slynt and his circle of drunken officers, a few minor nobles, a dozen men used to getting rich off their badges.
They offered polite bows to Manly and stiff ones to the prince.
"Tonight is for good company," Daeron said pleasantly. "No rank, no titles—just brothers at ease."
The tension melted slightly.
Then the doors opened again.
Ser Aliser Thorne entered with armed men.
"Aliser Thorne!" Slynt's voice boomed. "What is this, a patrol? You'll scare the girls."
Laughter rolled through the room.
Daeron was patient.
"Worry not, Ser Janos. Every guest should feel safe."
He spoke mildly—then his smile faded.
"But I dislike being interrupted when I speak."
His gaze cut to Thorne.
"Ser Aliser."
Bang.
The doors slammed shut.
"What are you—?" The nearest officer stepped forward, hand on his sword.
He never finished the sentence.
Thorne moved like lightning, blade flashing once across the man's throat.
Steel whispered. Blood spattered the floor. The head rolled to Slynt's feet.
Chaos. Screams. Half-drawn swords.
"Silence," Daeron said quietly.
The word hit like a commandment.
One young noble found his voice.
"Your Grace, this is madness! We're your brethren! How can you—"
Aliser glanced at Daeron.
The prince didn't need to nod.
He was already striding forward as the man unsheathed his greatsword in panic.
The two blades met—steel on steel—sparks bursting in the lamplight.
Thorne's lighter rapier slid through the guard, kicked the noble back, and drove the tip clean through his throat.
When he pulled it free, the thin blade still gleamed, the other man's broadsword notched and bent.
"A fine weapon," Thorne murmured, eyes hungry.
The remaining captains froze where they stood. Most had bought their posts through bribes; they had no stomach for real battle.
They saw only death—and bowed to it.
Daeron stepped forward and clapped once, slowly, to draw their eyes.
"Now," he said, voice calm as ice,
"shall we talk?"