# The City Watch Garrison - King's Landing, 105 AC
The cobblestones of the garrison courtyard rang like hammered metal beneath the hooves of their destriers as the small party clattered through the iron gates. Night had fallen over King's Landing like a shroud, transforming the familiar streets into something darker, more dangerous—a maze of shadows where honest folk barred their doors and those who profited from darkness began their ancient dance with death and coin.
The City Watch garrison squatted like a fortress in the heart of the capital, its walls scarred by decades of violence and necessity. Torches blazed from every sconce, casting dancing shadows across weathered stone that had witnessed more blood than most battlefields. The structure itself was purely functional—built for housing soldiers rather than impressing visitors, with narrow windows that could serve as archer's positions if the need arose and walls thick enough to withstand siege engines.
Prince Daemon Targaryen dismounted with the fluid grace of someone born to the saddle, though now he cut a different figure than the courtly politician who had dominated the morning's council session. Over his ceremonial leathers he wore the gold cloak of the City Watch—not as ornament or symbol, but as the working garment of a man who intended to lead from the front. The heavy wool hung to his knees, its golden color rich as autumn wheat in the torchlight, and the dragon clasp at his throat caught the flame like captured fire.
Dark Sister hung at his side with that casual elegance that somehow managed to suggest both decoration and deadly serious business, but now her presence seemed less ceremonial and more practical. This was not Prince Daemon the courtier or Prince Daemon the brother—this was Prince Daemon the Commander, and the transformation was as complete as it was unsettling.
Behind him came Prince Jaehaerys, and the boy's appearance had undergone an equally dramatic change. Gone was the court finery that had marked his role as a page in the Small Council chamber. Instead, he wore the practical gear of someone who expected to see real action before dawn broke over the capital—leather reinforced with steel studs, boots designed for running across cobblestones slick with things better left unnamed, and a hooded cloak that could hide his distinctive silver hair in the shadows of Flea Bottom.
The Valyrian steel ring still gleamed on his finger, but now it looked less like jewelry and more like what it truly was—a weapon disguised as ornament, ready to channel power when conventional force proved insufficient. His green eyes swept the courtyard with systematic precision, cataloguing faces, positions, potential escape routes, and defensive positions with the efficiency of someone who had learned to expect trouble and prepare for worse.
Ser Gunthor Royce emerged from the shadows like some bronze-clad mountain that had learned to walk upright, his massive frame making even the spacious courtyard seem somehow smaller. The knight had exchanged his court attire for the full panoply of war—mail that gleamed like liquid metal in the torchlight, a surcoat bearing the ancient runes of his house, and a sword at his hip that looked capable of cleaving a man in half without particular effort.
His weathered face bore the expression of a soldier preparing for battle, all casual humor set aside in favor of the sort of grim determination that had kept him alive through decades of service to dangerous men in dangerous times. This was Gunthor Royce the warrior, the man who had earned his reputation on battlefields where survival required more than noble birth or courtly manners.
The men of the City Watch had assembled in the courtyard with the sort of professional efficiency that spoke of genuine discipline rather than mere ceremony. Two hundred gold cloaks stood in perfect formation, their ranks straight as sword blades, their attention focused with the intensity of predators scenting prey on the wind.
These were not the soft palace guards who watched gates and minded their own business while the city rotted around them. These were Daemon's gold cloaks—men he had personally selected, trained, and transformed from a rabble of sellswords and failed knights into something resembling an actual military force. Each face was weathered by experience, marked by scars that spoke of real violence survived through skill and determination.
Their armor was practical rather than ornate—leather reinforced with steel, helms designed to turn blades rather than impress courtiers, weapons maintained with the obsessive care of men who understood that their lives depended on sharp steel and steady hands. But it was their eyes that truly marked them as different from ordinary watchmen. These were the eyes of men who had seen the worst the city could offer and emerged harder, colder, more dangerous than when they entered.
Daemon strode to the center of the courtyard with that predatory grace that had made him legendary throughout the Seven Kingdoms. When he moved, every eye followed him with the sort of attention that dangerous men paid to even more dangerous leaders. His presence filled the space like the heat from a forge, impossible to ignore and slightly uncomfortable to endure for extended periods.
"My lads!" he called out, his voice carrying easily across the courtyard despite its conversational tone. That distinctive Targaryen accent—cultivated through centuries of royal breeding—somehow managed to make even casual words sound like proclamations of destiny. "Look at you. Standing straight, armor clean, weapons sharp, eyes bright with purpose instead of dulled by drink and despair."
His violet gaze swept the assembled ranks with obvious pride, taking in faces he recognized from months of careful selection and brutal training. "Three years ago, you were what? Sellswords without contracts, hedge knights without lords, watchmen more concerned with bribes than justice. The dregs of a city that had forgotten the meaning of law and order."
A ripple of uneasy laughter moved through the ranks at this description, though it carried more acknowledgment than offense. These men knew what they had been, and they had no illusions about the transformation that had made them what they were now.
"But look at you now," Daemon continued, his voice growing stronger, more commanding with each word. "Gold cloaks bright as the sun itself, standing like soldiers instead of slouching like beggars. You've become something the city fears and respects in equal measure—a force that actually enforces law rather than simply collecting tolls on criminality."
He began to pace before the assembled men, his movements carrying that restless energy that had always marked him as someone incapable of standing still when action was possible. "You are no longer the City Watch that King's Landing endured. You are the City Watch that King's Landing deserves. Professional soldiers trained to fight, disciplined enough to follow orders, loyal enough to die for the man standing beside you rather than running when the first sword is drawn."
The torchlight caught the gold of his cloak as he turned, sending ripples of flame-colored light across the courtyard like water disturbed by a stone. "And tonight, my lads, we prove exactly what we have become. Tonight, we remind this city that law exists not as suggestion or guideline, but as immutable fact backed by steel and will and the absolute determination to see justice done."
A hush fell over the courtyard, broken only by the crackling of torches and the distant sounds of King's Landing's nighttime activities—the sort of careful quiet that marked men listening to words that would define their immediate future and possibly determine whether they lived to see another dawn.
Jaehaerys, standing slightly behind his father with the proper posture of a page but the alert attention of someone expecting violence, felt the familiar weight of destiny pressing down like a storm front. His green eyes moved systematically through the assembled ranks, cataloguing faces, measuring resolve, calculating the odds of various outcomes based on factors the watching men couldn't even imagine.
The boy understood, perhaps better than anyone present, exactly what his father was proposing to unleash upon the streets of the capital. This was not going to be a routine patrol or a show of force designed to deter troublemakers. This was going to be a purge—systematic, thorough, and absolutely merciless in its execution.
History was littered with the consequences of such actions, and Jaehaerys carried the weight of that knowledge like a blade pressed against his spine. But he also understood the alternative—a city rotting from within, corruption spreading like gangrene until even the Red Keep itself was threatened by the chaos festering in Flea Bottom and the Street of Silk.
Sometimes, he reflected with the sort of grim wisdom that belonged on someone decades older, mercy was simply cruelty disguised as virtue. And sometimes the only way to save lives was to be willing to take them with surgical precision and absolute resolve.
Daemon had stopped his pacing and now stood facing his men with the sort of commanding presence that made experienced soldiers straighten their spines without conscious thought. When he spoke again, his voice carried the authority of absolute conviction backed by royal blood and years of earned respect.
"Tonight," he declared, his words ringing across the courtyard like hammer blows on an anvil, "we clean house. Completely. Thoroughly. Without mercy or compromise or the sort of half-measures that have allowed this city's rot to fester for too long."
His violet eyes blazed with the sort of dangerous intensity that had made him famous—or infamous—throughout the known world. "Every cutpurse, every footpad, every street-corner murderer who thinks gold cloaks are just another gang to be bribed or intimidated—tonight they learn otherwise. Tonight they discover that the City Watch serves law, not profit. Justice, not convenience."
The silence that followed was pregnant with possibility and heavy with the scent of coming violence. These men had served under Daemon long enough to understand that when he spoke like this—with that particular combination of royal authority and predatory satisfaction—blood was going to flow before the sun rose again.
"The rules are simple," Daemon continued, his voice dropping to a more conversational tone that somehow managed to sound more dangerous than his earlier proclamations. "Thieves lose their thieving hand. Rapists lose their capacity for rape. Murderers lose their lives. Clean, precise, final. No appeals, no negotiations, no second chances for men who have already demonstrated their inability to live as civilized human beings."
Ser Gunthor, standing like a bronze statue carved from mountain stone, felt a familiar chill run down his spine. He had seen summary justice before—on battlefields where survival required swift decisions, in frontier settlements where formal courts were luxuries that couldn't be afforded, in situations where the choice was between harsh action and total chaos.
But this was different. This was King's Landing, the capital of the Seven Kingdoms, the seat of royal power and supposedly civilized justice. What Daemon was proposing was not battlefield necessity or frontier pragmatism—it was something else entirely, something that existed in the gray spaces between law and vengeance.
Yet as the massive knight looked around the courtyard—at the hard faces of men who had seen what passed for justice in the city's darker corners, at the torches flickering like funeral pyres in the night air, at the shadows that seemed to press closer with each passing moment—he found himself wondering if traditional approaches had already failed so completely that extreme measures might be the only option remaining.
Young Jaehaerys, meanwhile, was conducting his own calculations with the cold precision of someone who had learned to weigh lives against principles and find both wanting. His memories—both his own and those inherited from another life, another world—provided context that none of the watching men could imagine.
He had seen what happened to societies that allowed corruption to flourish unchecked, had witnessed the collapse of civilizations that chose comfort over justice, convenience over principle. But he had also seen what happened when righteous anger transformed into systematic brutality, when those who claimed to serve justice became indistinguishable from the criminals they hunted.
The balance was delicate, precise, and absolutely crucial to maintain. Step too far in either direction, and you lost not just the battle but the war—not just the city but the soul of everything you were trying to protect.
Daemon raised his hand, and the gesture commanded absolute silence from the assembled gold cloaks. "Some of you are wondering if this is legal. If King Viserys has authorized such action. If the Hand has signed the necessary documents. If proper protocols have been followed." His smile was sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous. "Let me be entirely clear about our authority."
From within his cloak, he produced a scroll sealed with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, the wax still fresh from the morning's council session. "By order of His Grace King Viserys Targaryen, First of His Name, the City Watch is authorized to take all necessary measures to ensure the security and stability of the capital during the current period of increased activity and potential threat."
The scroll was entirely legitimate—a standard authorization that accompanied major public events, designed to give the City Watch flexibility to deal with increased crowds, foreign visitors, and the sort of opportunistic crime that flourished during festivals and tournaments. But Daemon's interpretation of "all necessary measures" was... creative, to say the least.
"Furthermore," he continued with obvious satisfaction, "the Crown's recent intelligence regarding coordinated threats to the realm's security justifies... enhanced vigilance in identifying and neutralizing potential enemies operating within the capital itself."
This too was technically accurate, though the connection between Stepstones piracy and King's Landing's criminal underworld required the sort of creative interpretation that only someone with Daemon's particular combination of imagination and authority could manage with a straight face.
"So yes, my lads," Daemon concluded with that predatory grin that had charmed and terrified people in equal measure throughout his adult life, "we have all the authority we need. The Crown's blessing, the realm's necessity, and the sort of clear mandate that makes subsequent questions... academic."
A low murmur ran through the assembled ranks—not of doubt or concern, but of anticipation mixed with grim satisfaction. These men had been waiting for this moment, this opportunity to strike back at the forces that had made their city a cesspit of violence and corruption. They had trained for it, prepared for it, dreamed of it during the long nights when they walked streets that seemed to mock their attempts at maintaining order.
"Companies will deploy according to our established patterns," Daemon announced, his voice taking on the crisp authority of a general issuing battle orders. "First Company takes the Street of Steel and surrounding areas—plenty of witnesses there, plenty of respectable merchants who will remember what they see and spread word of what the gold cloaks can accomplish when properly motivated."
His gaze swept the ranks as he continued, ensuring every man understood both his role and the importance of executing it flawlessly. "Second Company handles Flea Bottom and the surrounding warrens—harder work, dirtier business, but also where we'll find the worst of what needs cleaning. Third Company covers the docks and fish markets—smugglers, fence-goods dealers, the sort of organized crime that thinks it's untouchable because it pays the right bribes to the wrong people."
The tactical deployment was sound, Jaehaerys noted with professional appreciation that sat uncomfortably on his young shoulders. His father had learned the lessons of urban warfare well—hit multiple targets simultaneously to prevent organized resistance, maintain communication between units to avoid being isolated and overwhelmed, and always, always ensure you had escape routes planned in case the situation deteriorated beyond recovery.
"Remember," Daemon called out as the companies began forming up according to their assignments, "we are not a mob seeking revenge. We are soldiers enforcing law. Clean kills, precise justice, minimal collateral damage to innocent bystanders. Anyone who cannot distinguish between legitimate targets and civilian bystanders will answer to me personally—and trust me, you do not want to have that conversation."
The threat was delivered with the sort of casual certainty that made it clear Daemon was not speaking metaphorically about consequences for poor judgment or excessive enthusiasm.
As the gold cloaks prepared to move out into the night—checking weapons, adjusting armor, murmuring final prayers to whatever gods watched over soldiers walking into darkness—Jaehaerys found himself wondering if they were about to witness justice or atrocity, necessity or excess, the salvation of King's Landing or the beginning of something far worse than the problems they were trying to solve.
The night air was thick with possibility and heavy with the scent of coming change. Whatever happened in the next few hours would echo through the Seven Kingdoms for years to come, shaping not just the capital but the realm's understanding of law, justice, and the price of order.
—
# The Small Council Chamber - The Following Morning
The morning sun slanted through the tall windows of the Small Council chamber with a different quality than the day before—sharper somehow, as if the light itself carried news of the night's work through the ancient stones of the Red Keep. The familiar chamber bore witness to another gathering of the realm's most powerful men and women, but today the very air seemed charged with the aftermath of decisions made in darkness and blood spilled on cobblestones that would never quite wash clean.
King Viserys sat at the head of the great table with the careful composure of a monarch who had learned through bitter experience that royal authority required constant maintenance, like a blade that dulled with neglect. His violet eyes held the particular weariness that came from receiving reports he would rather not have needed to hear, and his fingers drummed against the polished wood with a rhythm that spoke of barely contained tension.
The painted wooden balls marking each council position sat in their customary places, but this morning they seemed less like symbols of governance and more like game pieces arranged for a match where the stakes went far beyond mere politics. The morning light caught the carved dragons that adorned the table's surface, making them seem to writhe and shift with each shadow cast by passing clouds.
Otto Hightower occupied his seat with the rigid posture of a man who had spent the night composing increasingly vitriolic speeches about the proper limits of royal authority and the dangerous precedents set by princes who confused justice with vengeance. His pale eyes held the cold fury of someone who had watched carefully constructed policies demolished by a single night's violence, and when he spoke, his voice carried the precision of a master swordsman delivering what he hoped would be a killing blow.
"Your Grace," he began, his tone carrying that particular quality of controlled outrage that had served him well in decades of political maneuvering, "I must report that last night's... activities conducted by the City Watch have created a situation requiring immediate royal attention and, I would suggest, decisive corrective action."
He rose from his chair with deliberate ceremony, producing a leather portfolio that had clearly been prepared with meticulous care. The documents within were arranged with the sort of obsessive organization that spoke of a man who understood that in politics, presentation often mattered as much as content.
"Reports from across the city describe what can only be termed systematic brutality," Otto continued, his voice growing sharper with each word. "Summary executions without trial, mutilations performed in public squares, property seized without warrant or justification. By dawn's light, the city's streets ran red with blood, and the king's peace has been transformed into something... altogether more sinister."
Viserys's expression grew grimmer as Otto spoke, though whether from disapproval of the actions described or annoyance at having to deal with the political consequences was unclear. The King's fingers had stilled against the table, a sign that those who knew him recognized as indicating either profound thought or barely restrained fury.
"Systematic brutality," Prince Daemon repeated from his seat with that dangerous smile that had been making people nervous for decades. He looked remarkably well-rested for someone who had spent the night supervising what amounted to urban warfare, though his gold cloak bore subtle stains that spoke of close proximity to violence. "How deliciously dramatic, Otto. Tell me, have you personally inspected these alleged rivers of blood, or are you relying on the testimony of those who profit from the chaos we've finally put an end to?"
Otto's jaw tightened, but his voice remained diplomatically controlled. "I hardly need to witness brutality personally to recognize its effects, Prince Daemon. The reports speak for themselves—dozens dead, hundreds more maimed or driven from the city, entire districts left in a state of terror that serves no legitimate purpose of law or governance."
"Terror," Daemon mused, settling back in his chair with the casual ease of a cat that had successfully caught and devoured several particularly troublesome mice. "How interesting. I would have called it 'respect for lawful authority,' but perhaps my understanding of civic virtue differs from yours."
He leaned forward slightly, violet eyes glittering with amusement. "Tell me, Lord Hand, when was the last time you walked the streets of Flea Bottom? When did you last venture into the alleys where honest folk fear to tread because cutthroats and rapists rule by violence and intimidation? Because I did so just last evening, and I found the experience... educational."
Princess Rhaenys, who had been listening to this exchange with the focused attention of a dragon contemplating prey, now leaned forward with that dangerous elegance that reminded everyone present why she had once been considered for the Iron Throne. Her violet eyes held depths of calculation that suggested she was weighing not just the immediate political implications but the longer-term consequences for the realm's stability.
"If I may," she interjected smoothly, her voice carrying the authority of someone born to rule even if circumstances had denied her the opportunity, "Lord Otto's concerns about... excessive measures might carry more weight if those measures had not been so demonstrably necessary."
Her gaze swept the council table with predatory precision. "The tournament begins today. Lords and ladies from across the Seven Kingdoms will fill the capital's streets, bringing with them wealth, retainers, and the sort of targets that would have made every criminal in King's Landing rich beyond their wildest dreams. Tell me, Lord Hand—would you have preferred that Prince Daemon wait until after some visiting lord's daughter had been murdered for her jewelry before taking decisive action?"
Otto's pale eyes flashed with something that might have been anger. "Princess Rhaenys, with all due respect, there is a significant difference between maintaining public order and conducting what amounts to a reign of terror through the city's streets. Legal process exists for excellent reasons—"
"Legal process?" Daemon's laugh was sharp as breaking glass. "You mean the legal process that has allowed murderers to buy their freedom with coin? The legal process that sees rapists walk free because their victims are too poor to pursue justice? The legal process that has transformed King's Landing into a cesspit where honest folk lock their doors at sunset and pray to survive until dawn?"
He rose from his chair with fluid grace, moving to stand before the great map that dominated one wall of the chamber. His finger traced the familiar outlines of the capital's districts, lingering on areas that had witnessed the previous night's violence.
"Every man who died last night had blood on his hands—multiple murders, rapes, robberies that left families destitute and children orphaned. Every hand that was severed belonged to a thief who had been taking from those who could least afford the loss. Every criminal driven from the city was someone who had made King's Landing less safe for everyone who lives here."
His voice grew harder, carrying the authority of someone who had seen the consequences of inaction firsthand. "The tournament brings thousands of visitors to our city, Otto. Lords with full purses, ladies with expensive jewelry, merchants carrying goods worth more than most men see in a lifetime. Without last night's... housekeeping, we would have faced a bloodbath that would have made the Sack of King's Landing look like a children's game."
Viserys, who had been listening to this exchange with growing impatience, finally raised his hand for silence. His expression held that particular blend of exasperation and royal authority that made even the most confident courtiers remember exactly who sat the Iron Throne.
"Enough," he said quietly, but his voice carried across the chamber with unmistakable finality. "Both of you make valid points, but this debate serves no constructive purpose. The actions have been taken, the consequences must be managed, and we have more pressing concerns than refighting last night's battles in this chamber."
The King's gaze moved between his Hand and his brother, measuring both men with the calculating attention of someone who understood that the stability of the realm often depended on managing the personalities of those closest to the throne.
"Daemon," Viserys continued, his tone carrying both affection and warning, "I do not doubt your motivations or your effectiveness. The reports I've received suggest that the city is indeed safer today than it was yesterday morning. However, the... theatrical nature of your methods has created complications that extend beyond mere law enforcement."
Otto's expression brightened slightly at this apparent royal criticism, but Viserys was not finished.
"That said, Lord Otto, your concerns about legal precedent, while valid in principle, seem somewhat academic given the practical realities we face. The realm's nobility is gathering in our capital for celebration, not to witness the sort of chaos that has plagued these streets for too long. If extreme measures were required to ensure their safety and our honor, then perhaps those measures were justified by necessity."
It was at this moment that Otto Hightower made what would prove to be a tactical error of considerable magnitude. The Hand's frustration with being caught between royal criticism and practical necessity, combined with his long-standing irritation at Daemon's ability to escape consequences for increasingly dramatic actions, finally overcame his usually impeccable political judgment.
"Your Grace speaks of necessity and practical realities," Otto said, his voice taking on the sort of pointed edge that experienced courtiers recognized as dangerous territory. "Perhaps Prince Daemon could apply the same... energy and attention to his personal obligations as he does to his duties with the City Watch. After all, a man's first responsibility should be to his family, not to the streets of the capital."
The words hung in the air like incense smoke, heavy with implication and sharp with personal attack. Every person in the chamber understood exactly what Otto was suggesting—that Daemon neglected his marriage, his estate, his duties as a husband in favor of playing soldier in King's Landing's gutters.
Prince Daemon's expression underwent a subtle but unmistakable transformation. The casual amusement he had worn throughout the morning's proceedings vanished like morning mist before dragonfire, replaced by something far more dangerous and infinitely less forgiving. His violet eyes, flecked with green like deep water touched by poison, grew cold as winter wind off the Wall.
"My personal obligations," he repeated softly, his voice carrying the sort of quiet menace that made smart men check their weapons and fools reach for last words. "How fascinating that you should bring those up, Otto. Tell me, exactly which aspect of my marriage requires your... guidance and counsel?"
The Hand pressed forward despite the warning signs, his own frustration overriding the survival instincts that had kept him alive through decades of court politics. "A marriage that has produced but one child in over eight years might benefit from... greater attention to domestic duties rather than playing at soldier in the city's taverns and brothels."
The temperature in the chamber seemed to drop several degrees at this direct attack on both Daemon's virility and his faithfulness to his wife. Several council members shifted uncomfortably in their seats, recognizing that they were witnessing the sort of personal confrontation that could reshape the political landscape for years to come.
"One child," Daemon mused, his tone growing dangerously conversational. "You're quite right, Otto. One perfectly healthy, remarkably intelligent, increasingly capable child who represents the finest qualities of both his parents' bloodlines. Tell me, why exactly should Lady Rhea and I feel the need to... expand our family simply to satisfy your curiosity about our bedroom arrangements?"
Before Otto could respond to this counterattack, young Prince Jaehaerys spoke up from his position behind his father's chair. At eight years old, he possessed the sort of timing that would have impressed seasoned comedians—and the complete lack of social filter that made children either delightful or terrifying depending on the circumstances.
"Actually, Father," Jaehaerys said with that matter-of-fact tone that had been making adults uncomfortable since he learned to speak, "both Rhaenyra and I have discussed this quite extensively, and we're unanimous in thinking you and Mother should have another child. I would be an excellent older brother, and Rhaenyra thinks it would be entertaining to have more cousins to play with during family gatherings."
The chamber fell silent except for the sound of Otto Hightower's jaw audibly dropping and the soft scratch of quills as several scribes frantically tried to record this unexpected development in the morning's proceedings.
Princess Rhaenyra, standing near the sideboard with her cupbearer's equipment, nodded enthusiastically. "Oh yes, Uncle Daemon would be a wonderful father to another child. And Jae would absolutely dote on a baby brother or sister. He's already so protective and caring with everyone he considers family."
The expression on Prince Daemon's face was something to behold—a mixture of paternal pride, mortification, and the dawning realization that his own family had just publicly undermined his arguments about being perfectly content with their current arrangements.
King Viserys, who had been growing increasingly tense as the conversation veered into dangerous personal territory, suddenly burst into laughter. Not the polite chuckle of royal courtesy, but genuine, delighted mirth that seemed to chase all the shadows from his care-worn features.
"By the Seven," Viserys gasped between fits of laughter, "leave it to the children to cut straight through all our adult posturing and political maneuvering. Out of the mouths of babes, indeed!"
His laughter was infectious, drawing reluctant smiles from even the most serious council members. "Daemon, your son has just delivered the most devastating political commentary of the morning, and your niece has provided supporting evidence that would make a maester weep with envy. I don't think Otto's speechwriting could have prepared him for that particular intervention."
Daemon, still processing the fact that his own child had just publicly advocated for siblings during a formal council session, managed a weak grin. "I... that is... we haven't actually..."
"Oh, this is precious," Princess Rhaenys observed with obvious delight, her violet eyes sparkling with amusement. "The Rogue Prince, terror of the city's underworld, reduced to stammering by an eight-year-old's straightforward observation about family planning. I believe this may be the first time I've ever seen Prince Daemon at a complete loss for words."
"It's not that I'm opposed to the idea," Daemon said, his voice growing stronger as he found his footing in this unexpected conversation. "It's simply that Lady Rhea and I have been... focused on other priorities. The estate at Runestone, my duties here in the capital, young Jaehaerys's education..."
"All excellent reasons to delay starting a family," Otto interjected with barely concealed sarcasm, apparently deciding that if he was going to lose this particular battle, he might as well go down fighting. "Though some might argue that a man who has time to terrorize criminals throughout the night might find opportunity for... other evening activities as well."
The words were barely out of his mouth before Otto realized he had made another serious tactical error. Daemon's momentary confusion at his son's intervention vanished entirely, replaced by the sort of predatory focus that had made him legendary on battlefields from the Stepstones to the Vale.
"Evening activities," Daemon repeated with silky menace, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "How thoughtful of you to concern yourself with my private life, Otto. Tell me, when did you last engage in such... evening activities? Because I seem to recall that your own wife has been dead for several years now, and your bed has remained notably... unoccupied since then."
Otto surged to his feet with explosive fury, his carefully maintained composure finally cracking under the weight of what he correctly perceived as a devastating personal attack. "How dare you—"
"Sit down, both of you," Viserys commanded, his voice cracking like a whip across the chamber. The laughter had disappeared from his expression entirely, replaced by the sort of royal authority that had held seven kingdoms together for centuries. "Otto, you have allowed my brother to provoke you into exactly the sort of response he was hoping for. And Daemon, your talent for finding the most hurtful possible response to any provocation continues to amaze and appall me in equal measure."
The King's violet eyes blazed with genuine anger as he fixed both men with looks that could have melted steel. "You are both grown men, both holders of high office, both supposedly dedicated to serving the realm's interests above your own petty grievances. Yet here you sit, bickering like children over personal matters that have no bearing whatsoever on the business of governance."
He rose from his chair with deliberate ceremony, the movement lending weight to his words. "Lord Otto, your concerns about the methods used last night are noted and will be taken into consideration for future operations. However, your decision to make personal attacks on my brother's marriage was inappropriate and unbecoming of your office."
Otto inclined his head stiffly, his pale eyes still burning with anger but his voice carefully controlled. "Your Grace is correct. I apologize for allowing personal frustration to color my professional judgment."
"And Daemon," Viserys continued, turning that royal gaze upon his younger brother, "while Otto's provocation was unprofessional, your response was unnecessarily cruel and designed purely to wound rather than advance any legitimate point of discussion. A man's grief and personal losses are not appropriate targets for political sport."
Daemon's grin faded, replaced by something that might have been genuine remorse. "You're right, brother. Otto's comments about my marriage struck a nerve, but that's no excuse for attacking a man's private sorrows. I apologize, Lord Hand. Your wife was a good woman, and her loss was a tragedy that no amount of political maneuvering can diminish."
Otto's rigid posture softened slightly at this unexpected apology, though wariness remained in his pale eyes. "Thank you, Prince Daemon. I... your words are appreciated."
The tension in the chamber began to ease as both men stepped back from the edge of what could have become an irreparable breach in their working relationship. Viserys remained standing, his presence continuing to command attention, but his expression had grown more thoughtful than angry.
"Now then," the King said, settling back into his chair with the air of someone determined to return to more productive discussion, "let us address the actual concerns raised this morning without further personal attacks or irrelevant commentary about anyone's domestic arrangements."
His gaze swept the council table systematically. "The tournament begins today. Thousands of visitors fill our streets. The city's criminal element has been... dramatically reduced through methods that, while effective, have raised legitimate questions about precedent and proportionality."
"The question before us is simple," Viserys continued, his fingers resuming their rhythmic drumming against the table. "How do we maintain public order and ensure the safety of our guests without resorting to the sort of extreme measures that create more problems than they solve?"
Daemon, who had been unusually quiet since his apology to Otto, now leaned forward with renewed focus. "The extreme measures were necessary because conventional approaches had failed so completely, brother. But now that the city's worst elements have been eliminated or driven away, normal policing should suffice to maintain order."
"Normal policing reinforced by the clear understanding that law will be enforced swiftly and decisively," Princess Rhaenys added, her voice carrying that quality of authority that made everyone pay attention. "The criminals who remain in King's Landing—and there will always be criminals in any large city—now understand that the City Watch serves justice rather than accepting bribes. That knowledge alone should provide significant deterrent effect."
Otto, clearly working to maintain the professional dignity that had been somewhat battered by the morning's exchanges, nodded reluctantly. "If the... enhanced enforcement can be limited to situations of genuine necessity rather than becoming standard practice, then perhaps the precedent can be managed without undermining the rule of law."
"Enhanced enforcement," Daemon repeated with amusement. "I like that phrasing, Otto. Much more diplomatic than 'systematic brutality,' though I suspect they describe identical activities conducted with identical methods for identical purposes."
"The phrasing matters when it comes to public perception and historical record," Otto replied with the sort of careful precision that had served him well in decades of political maneuvering. "How we describe our actions shapes how they are remembered and what precedents they establish for future policy."
Viserys nodded approvingly. "Both excellent points. Our actions last night will be remembered and analyzed for years to come. It is our responsibility to ensure that they are remembered as necessary measures taken to protect our people rather than as the beginning of some new form of tyranny."
Young Jaehaerys, who had been listening to this exchange with the sort of intense attention that belonged on someone decades older, suddenly spoke up from his position behind his father's chair.
"If I may, Your Grace," he said with that diplomatic politeness that somehow managed to command attention despite coming from an eight-year-old page, "the tournament provides an excellent opportunity to demonstrate that last night's actions were protective rather than aggressive in nature."
All eyes turned toward the boy, who straightened under the attention but showed no signs of being intimidated by addressing the most powerful people in the Seven Kingdoms. "Every lord and lady who arrives safely, every merchant who conducts business without fear, every visitor who enjoys the festivities without worrying about cutpurses or worse—they become evidence that the City Watch serves order rather than chaos."
His green eyes moved around the council table with systematic precision. "By the tournament's end, the story will write itself. Either the capital will be remembered as a place where visitors felt safe and welcome, or it will be remembered as a city where excessive force created more problems than it solved. The visiting nobility will carry those impressions back to their own lands, shaping the realm's perception of royal justice for years to come."
Princess Rhaenys studied the boy with new respect, her violet eyes bright with calculation. "Well reasoned, young prince. Public relations as statecraft—using immediate success to justify controversial methods and establish favorable precedents for future policy."
"Exactly," Jaehaerys confirmed with quiet satisfaction. "Results have a way of retroactively justifying methods, especially when those results serve the interests of people with sufficient political influence to shape public opinion."
Otto's expression had grown thoughtful as he processed the implications of this analysis. "If the tournament proceeds without incident, if our guests feel secure and comfortable, then the harsh measures taken to ensure their safety become... protective rather than punitive."
"And if problems do arise despite last night's efforts," Daemon added with dangerous amusement, "then we have clear evidence that even stronger measures would have been justified. Either way, the City Watch emerges with enhanced authority and popular support."
Viserys leaned back in his chair, his expression mixing paternal pride with political appreciation. "My nephew continues to demonstrate that the Targaryen bloodline breeds strategists as well as warriors. Though I must confess some concern about an eight-year-old who thinks in terms of political precedents and public relations campaigns."
"Better to understand such things early than to learn them through bitter experience later," Jaehaerys replied with the sort of matter-of-fact wisdom that made adults uncomfortable. "Politics shapes everything whether we acknowledge it or not. Better to engage with it consciously than to pretend it doesn't affect our lives."
The chamber fell quiet for a moment as everyone present contemplated the implications of such sophisticated political thinking from someone who should be more concerned with toys and games than statecraft and strategy.
It was Daemon who finally broke the contemplative silence, his voice carrying renewed energy and that dangerous satisfaction that marked his most successful schemes. "Then it's settled. The City Watch maintains heightened vigilance throughout the tournament, but standard procedures unless extraordinary circumstances arise. We let success speak for itself while remaining prepared to escalate if necessary."
"Agreed," Viserys said with obvious relief that the morning's tensions were finally resolving into practical policy decisions. "And both of you—" his gaze moved between Daemon and Otto with unmistakable warning "—will conduct yourselves as befits men of your stations, regardless of whatever personal disagreements may exist between you."
Both men nodded with varying degrees of sincerity, though the wary respect that had replaced their earlier hostility suggested that the morning's confrontation had actually clarified rather than damaged their working relationship.
The tournament awaited, the city lay secure beneath its covering of gold cloaks, and the game of thrones prepared to resume its ancient dance with new steps choreographed in blood and necessity. But for now, in the council chamber where kingdoms were shaped by words rather than swords, an eight-year-old prince had demonstrated that sometimes the most devastating weapons were intelligence, timing, and the ability to turn personal embarrassment into political advantage.
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