"Then I suppose you'll have to find yourself a better Hand."
Tywin kept his voice steady, clinging to the last scrap of dignity as he turned and walked out of the hall.
The ministers watched the old Hand leave in silence. The man who had ruled the Small Council for over a decade was gone.
The meeting wasn't over.
Everyone looked at each other. No one wanted to be the first to speak.
Finally, Maester Aemon pushed himself up from his seat, slow and deliberate. "Your Grace… you have removed Lord Tywin. Do you have a new Hand in mind?"
"Of course."
Daeron didn't hesitate. He turned his head. "Tyrion. Come here."
"Me?"
Tyrion froze for half a second. Then the realization hit him like a hammer. He scrambled out of his chair and hurried forward on his short legs, eyes wide with disbelief and something dangerously close to hope.
Daeron looked around the table once, then leaned down and pinned the golden Hand of the King badge to Tyrion's chest.
"The realm has a dwarf for a Hand."
Tyrion stared at the badge like it might disappear if he blinked. His fingers brushed the warm metal. For once, he had no clever remark ready.
"I never thought…" His voice cracked. "I never thought I'd ever wear this."
"Neither did I," Daeron said, clapping him on the shoulder. "But here we are."
Tyrion's throat worked. He looked up at the king who had just handed him the most powerful position in the realm after the crown itself.
Daeron had reasons.
Tyrion was sharp. He was loyal. And more importantly, he was a Lannister. Stripping Tywin of the Hand didn't mean the Lannisters were being pushed out entirely. Putting Tyrion in the seat sent a clear message: the family still had a place at the table, as long as they played by the king's rules.
Long-term, Tyrion was the best choice anyway.
"I won't let you down, Your Grace," Tyrion said quietly. There was no sarcasm in it. Just raw, steady determination.
Daeron believed him.
He pulled out the chair to his right—the Hand's chair—and held it.
Tyrion didn't bother with false modesty. He grabbed the armrest, hopped up, and settled into the seat like he'd been born to it.
The other ministers watched in silence. Some looked impressed. Some looked uneasy. All of them understood the message: this was the king's choice. Question it at your own risk.
Daeron didn't care what they thought. He'd just made the decision that kept the realm stable while punishing the man who had overstepped.
"Now," he said, leaning back. "Let's talk about House Velaryon."
Every eye turned to Lucerys.
The man's face was dark. Tywin's sudden removal had clearly rattled him.
"Your Grace," Lucerys began, "many of those charges were fabricated by Lord Tywin out of spite—"
Daeron picked up the stack of evidence Tywin had prepared and dropped it onto the table in front of Lucerys.
"Tell me, my lord. Are all of these false?"
Lucerys picked up the first page. His face went pale as he read.
Collusion with Qohor. Selling intelligence from the Seven Kingdoms. Imprisoning wizards to extract the secret wind-rider sail formula. Purchasing mithril weapons.
Everything was documented. Dates. Locations. Names.
Daeron watched him without expression. "I didn't expect you to be this reckless, Lord Lucerys. Or this thorough."
Lucerys closed his eyes and let out a long breath. He knew there was no talking his way out of this.
"Have you started making the secret sails yet?" Daeron asked.
Lucerys shook his head. "The formula is difficult. I kept the wizards alive, but we haven't produced a single sail."
Daeron nodded to himself. That changed things.
If blood magic had been used, there would be no mercy. But if it hadn't…
"You're going to tell me everything," Daeron said. "And I'll decide how severely to punish you."
Lucerys didn't argue. He confessed it all—every deal with Qohor, every piece of information traded, every secret sail formula he'd tried to steal.
When he finished, Daeron tapped the table once.
"Buying mithril weapons, I can overlook for now. But the intelligence you sold… what exactly did you give them?"
Lucerys looked ashamed. "They wanted information about dragons. Locations of dragon lairs. Dragonstone's defenses. How many dragons the crown actually has."
Daeron's voice went cold. "And you told them?"
"No." Lucerys shook his head quickly. "I'm not that stupid. I gave them vague maps and half-truths. I told them the only dragons anyone has seen are the ones that have already been revealed. I said there might be hatchlings on Dragonstone, but most don't survive."
Daeron studied him for a long moment. "That's all they asked about?"
"They don't know much about dragons anymore," Lucerys said quietly. "They've been cut off from that knowledge for too long. They believe whatever I tell them."
Daeron believed that part.
He leaned forward. "Lord Lucerys… what you've done is treason. By rights, you should face execution or the Wall."
Lucerys lowered his head. "I know."
Daeron was quiet for a few seconds.
"But you've also served the crown well in the past. You fought in the Stepstones. You helped take the Three Cities. And unlike some men, your mistakes haven't caused lasting damage yet."
He looked at the older man kneeling before him.
"So I'm giving you a third option."
Lucerys raised his head, confused.
"Go to the Smoking Sea," Daeron said. "The haze is lifting. The Valyrian peninsula may be returning. Take your fleet. Explore it. Map it. Bring back whatever you find. Serve the crown one last time… in the place where our ancestors once ruled."
Lucerys's eyes filled with tears. His voice cracked when he spoke.
"Your Grace…"
He hadn't expected mercy. Not after everything.
Daeron looked away. He hated watching grown men cry.
"Choose quickly," he said. "Then get out of my sight."
Lucerys stayed on his knees a moment longer, shoulders shaking. Then he stood, bowed deeply, and left the hall without another word.
The chamber was silent.
Daeron didn't explain himself. He didn't need to.
Some men deserved the sword. Some deserved the Wall.
And some… some still had value left to give.
Lucerys Velaryon would either die in the ruins of Old Valyria trying to earn his redemption…
Or he would come back with something worth the risk.
Either way, the problem was handled.
Daeron looked around the table at his new Hand and the rest of the council.
"Next order of business."