Baelon's POV
Word reached me before the ink on the King's morning decrees had even dried.
A delegation had arrived at the Red Keep gates, banners of House Beesbury, House Merryweather, House Peake, and three minor houses sworn to Oldtown. All "coincidentally" arriving on the same morning. Courtiers whispered from shaded balconies as their banners crossed the outer court, the fabric snapping in the late summer breeze. The sound of boots echoed off marble.
Not to mention the septon leading them, dressed in robes heavier than any summer day demanded. The scent of incense followed him faintly.
Ser Otto Hightower also joined them, being one of the justiciars under me representing the Reach.
Trouble.
I stood beside Father in the small audience chamber when they were ushered in. Beeswax candles burned low against the heat, parchment stacked on the council table behind us. Father straightened in his seat. Mother's expression cooled subtly.
The Reachmen bowed deeply, almost theatrically, and the septon placed a hand over his heart.
"Your Grace," the septon began in a smooth, sorrowful voice, "we come bearing grievances that must be answered for the sake of the Seven and the harmony of the realm."
Father's eyes flicked once to me. He already knew who they meant.
"Speak plainly," Jaehaerys commanded.
Lord Merryweather stepped forward, his round face reddened from either the climb or indignation.
"It is Prince Daemon, Your Grace. His actions in King's Landing have disturbed the peace. Noble sons have been arrested without cause. Merchants threatened. And septons dismissed from the Watch as though the Faith holds no place in guiding the morals of the city."
There it was.
I kept my face still, though inside I felt the familiar pull between my son and my father, that terrible space where loyalty must sharpen, not soften.
Father answered with deliberate calm.
"Prince Daemon uncovered corruption. Some of that corruption led back to Oldtown. If the Faith's septons accepted bribes, they were rightly dismissed."
The septon bowed again, deeper this time, reverence masking resentment.
"With respect, Your Grace, absolution is misunderstood by the young prince. The Faith guides lost men back to virtue. The loss of our septons leaves the Watchmen without spiritual anchor."
Mother's voice cut in, cool as freshly forged steel.
"Spiritual anchors who purchased silk and wine with the coin collected for absolution?"
The septon's lips thinned.
The Beesbury lord stepped forward.
"Your Grace, the Reach feels threatened. Prince Daemon's actions send a message that the Crown mistrusts Oldtown and its faithful vassals."
This time I answered.
"The Crown mistrusts only corruption. If your men are innocent, they have nothing to fear."
Their faces tightened. Truth rarely pleased those who profited from lies.
Lord Merryweather persisted.
"We humbly request that Prince Daemon's authority be moderated. Oversight from the Small Council. Limitations on his command. A clear separation of authority, lest one prince's impulses endanger the peace."
Father's brows rose a fraction.
"And who," Father asked quietly, "proposed this delegation?"
Silence lingered.
Then the septon answered too quickly.
"We speak on behalf of the Faith and the stability of the realm."
Which meant Oldtown.
The Hightowers.
And their Reach allies.
Father leaned back in his chair, his gaze sharpening.
"You shall have your answer, but not today."
The septon opened his mouth.
"And you will not ask again," Jaehaerys added.
The chamber froze.
I stood beside him, spine straight, hands clasped behind me. I did not smile, but pride warmed my chest.
Daemon had fire.
Mother had heart.
I had duty.
And Father ruled.
The Reachmen withdrew at last.
Mother exhaled once.
Father turned to me.
"Find Daemon. Bring him to the council chamber. If the Reach wishes to test our resolve, we will answer them with unity."
"Yes, Father."
Before I left, I caught the quiet look shared between my parents.
Old dragons, still dangerous.
I reached the training yard as the sun dipped low, throwing long shadows across the sand. Steel rang against steel. Dust drifted in pale clouds under trampling boots.
Daemon fought four Watchmen at once.
Two rushed him from the left. He pivoted, sweeping one off his footing. The second swung and caught only air as Daemon locked blades and drove an elbow into his ribs.
The remaining pair circled.
Dark Sister rode low at Daemon's hip, the grip loose in his palm, while his violet eyes tracked everything.
He noticed me just as the fourth watchman lunged.
Daemon did not turn.
His heel slammed back into the man's gut, folding him to the ground.
Daemon racked the training sword, claimed Dark Sister, and approached.
"You're early, kepa," he said in High Valyrian. "Skorkydoso emagon ziry?" (Bad news?)
"Issa," I replied. (Yes.)
"They've come crying already?"
I nodded. "A delegation of Reachmen. Beesburys, Merryweathers, Peakes, joined by Ser Otto Hightower, and a septon fat enough to pass for a Lannister coffer."
Daemon snorted. "Āeksio syt glaeson." (A lord for sale.)
My tone sharpened.
"They claim you threatened noble sons, seized ships unlawfully, and dismissed septons unjustly. They want your command moderated by the Small Council."
Daemon laughed, sharp and ugly.
"Moderated? By whom? The same fools who let Oldtown turn the Watch into their private treasury?"
He stepped closer.
"Kepa… īlva tolie iksis." (Father… the truth is worse.)
I frowned. "Speak plainly."
Daemon continued fully in High Valyrian.
"The Reach is preparing for a shift in power." (They plan something subtle, not open rebellion.)
"Explain," I said.
He counted on his fingers.
"One. Their men in the Watch were planted deliberately to control trade and information."
"Two. Oldtown septons keep ledgers of debts, not sins. Bribes, political deals, blackmail."
"Three. The smugglers they shield all carry Reach cargo."
My jaw tightened.
"And four?"
Daemon met my gaze.
"They are courting Viserys."
"Explain."
"They flatter him. Praise him as the next king. Send Arbor gold and sweet cakes. Speak of gentle rules and dangerous princes."
Meaning Daemon.
Meaning me.
I exhaled slowly.
"So you believe they aim to influence succession?"
"I believe," Daemon said carefully, "they want to weaken or even remove you, then isolate me. They spread talk of Maegor reborn to poison my name, so Viserys will rely on them instead."
Silence held between us.
"Nyke ūndegon vēzenka." (I smell a hunt.)
"And what will you do with this knowledge?" I asked.
"Lo mirre." (Not act yet.)
"Yet."
Daemon shrugged.
"If we speak now it sounds like madness. They have been shaping this for years."
My posture eased.
"You were right to wait."
"But you must show nothing," I warned. "Not at court. Not the council."
His eyes glinted.
"And not Viserys?"
"No. He would run straight to them."
Daemon nodded slowly.
I reached out then and placed a steady hand on his shoulder.
He froze.
It had been years since I'd done that.
"Kepa," he said quietly, "Nyke jorrāelagon ao." (I trust you.)
A herald hurried toward us.
"My princes, the Small Council awaits."
Daemon smirked lightly.
We straightened together.
"Ñuhon kesrio syt ao." (Time to play the game.)
"Crown Prince Baelon Targaryen, The Spring Prince."
"Prince Daemon Targaryen, Prince Commander of the City Watch."
The doors opened.
The council looked up.
And the game began.
Otto Hightower's POV
The Small Council chamber smelled faintly of heated parchment and Arbor wine, Lord Redwyne's signature arrival scent. He always came early, always drank early, always tried too hard.
King Jaehaerys sat at the head of the table, back straight, composed like a statue carved from ice. Queen Alysanne sat beside him, expression calm but tight around the eyes. She hid her emotions well, but today even she couldn't mask the tension.
Barth, the Hand of the King, was already seated with quill in hand, the realm's most aggravating combination of serene and sharp. Lord Beesbury, Master of Coin, had ink-stained fingers hovering over his notes. Grand Maester Allar sat stiffly, his chains chiming with every nervous shift, as if sound alone granted wisdom.
And along the wall stood Lord Merryweather, Lord Peake, and Lord Beesbury of Honeyholt, cousin to the Master of Coin.
Three Reach lords who waited like vultures, patient for whatever carcass might fall first.
Idiots. I had warned them to be discreet. To stagger their arrivals. They had done neither.
They clustered together like guilty men walking into judgment.
Then Prince Daemon entered.
Boots loud, posture unapologetic, expression carved into stone. Prince Baelon followed, calm and centered, the only man in the entire damned castle capable of reigning in his brother without drawing steel.
King Jaehaerys lifted two fingers.
"Begin."
Prince Daemon did not bow. Did not soften. Did not pretend.
He went straight for the throat.
"The last time I sat in this room, it was a moon ago," Prince Daemon said. "I gave you a summary. Today, I give you the truth."
That arrogance should have backfired. Instead, it commanded the room.
"King's Landing is not simply corrupt. It is rotting. And that rot grows from roots planted deliberately by Reach hands."
Lord Merryweather inhaled sharply.
Fool. I could see the lie forming on his lips before Prince Baelon's glare silenced him.
Prince Daemon continued, voice drawn like steel.
He placed a scrap of parchment onto the table with surgical precision.
"A ring of six men taking orphan boys from Flea Bottom. Not to feed them. Not to shelter them. To sell them to Tyroshi slavers who prefer boys without names."
The chamber froze.
Queen Alysanne gasped softly into her hand. Barth wrote furiously. Even Lord Redwyne stopped breathing, his wine cup halfway to his lips.
Prince Daemon added, voice low,
"Two of those men were Reachborn. One wore the seven-pointed star around his neck while bartering the price of a child."
I felt my stomach turn.
Not from morality.
From strategy.
Daemon had chosen the perfect entry point, the crime no one in the room could defend.
Prince Daemon placed a second parchment.
"Septon Rendal of Oldtown recorded absolutions in a ledger. Not of sins, of transactions."
He fixed his gaze on the Reach envoys.
"One column for sins. One for fees. And one for requests from noble houses, which my dismissed guards were ordered to fulfill."
Lord Peake sputtered. "Lies!"
Prince Daemon lifted a thick ledger and slammed it onto the table so hard the inkwell leapt, splattering black ink across Lord Redwyne's sleeve.
"If you accuse me of lying again, I will open the page bearing your house sigil."
Peake collapsed into his seat as though struck.
The Reachmen folded like wet parchment.
"You know the harbor scheme," Prince Daemon continued, "but not the extent."
He held up three fingers.
"For every three ships from the Reach, only one was taxed. The other two were waved through with a prayer, a nod, and a purse beneath the table."
He lowered his hand.
"Do you know what was inside those untaxed ships?"
No one spoke.
"Saffron. Silk. Lyseni wine. Smuggled Dornish steel. And one ship carried three coffers made of weirwood."
The temperature in the chamber plunged.
Queen Alysanne went pale. King Jaehaerys's frown deepened, the kind he reserved for ancient wrongs. Prince Baelon stilled beside the wall.
I felt the ground tilt beneath my feet.
Weirwood.
Of all the things for Daemon to uncover.
"Sacrilege," Alysanne whispered.
"Sacrilege," Prince Daemon agreed, "funded by Reach gold."
The envoys looked ready to collapse.
Prince Daemon's next words fell like a hammer blow.
"Seven brothels, run by a man named Brigos, with direct ties to House Merryweather."
Lord Merryweather lurched to his feet.
"My House has no such—"
Prince Daemon slammed Dark Sister's sheath onto the table.
The chamber jolted. Cups rattled. Candles guttered.
Merryweather dropped back into his seat like a whipped dog.
Prince Daemon did not look at him. He looked to the King.
"Two of those brothels sold women from the Stormlands. One sold Riverlands girls. One from the Vale."
He drew a careful breath.
"And one sold what no man should ever buy. Mute children. Ten. Maybe more."
Queen Alysanne trembled. Prince Baelon's hands closed into fists. Lord Redwyne gagged. Even Barth halted his writing, grief plain on his face.
The envoys blanched visibly.
This was beyond corruption.
This was damnation.
Prince Daemon set the last parchment down.
"Forgeries. Harbor passes. Each stamped with the Honeyholt seal."
Lord Beesbury of Honeyholt broke.
"This is a smear!"
Prince Daemon didn't spare him a glance.
He looked at King Jaehaerys.
"Open the first box."
Prince Baelon stepped forward, lifting the lid.
Inside:
stacks of ledgers
iron-bound books
coin purses with Reach crests
blood-stained knives
forged harbor passes
and pieces of carved weirwood, still smelling of sap
Queen Alysanne gasped. King Jaehaerys's jaw turned to stone. Septon Barth whispered a prayer. Lord Redwyne muttered a curse. The envoys stepped back.
I, I began recalculating alliances, timelines, risks.
Prince Daemon had not just found rot. He had excavated the entire skeleton and dragged it into the daylight.
The old fool cleared his throat.
"Your Grace, if I may."
Prince Daemon's fingers tightened on the table edge.
Prince Baelon saw it. King Jaehaerys saw it. Queen Alysanne saw it.
But Septon Barth, the Hand, stopped Grand Maester Allar with his calm tone.
"Let him finish, Grand Maester. We asked for a full accounting. We shall have it."
Allar's mouth shut instantly.
Prince Daemon exhaled hard, then bowed to Barth. A gesture of respect that told me Daemon knew exactly which man in this chamber mattered besides the King.
"Every man arrested confessed under oath," Prince Daemon said. "No torture. No coercion. Ser Harrold was present for every questioning."
Ser Harrold of the Kingsguard bowed from the doorway.
Prince Daemon continued:
"For every accusation, I gathered witnesses. For every witness, corroboration. For every bribed guard, I found the matching ledger entry."
He gestured to the boxes.
"I have thirty-two more boxes waiting outside."
Even I swallowed at that.
Thirty-two boxes of proof. Prince Daemon had built a case fit for history books.
Lord Merryweather tried again.
"Your Grace, the prince seeks to destroy us."
Prince Baelon answered, sharp as a blade:
"No. He seeks to cleanse the filth you allowed to fester."
Septon Barth added softly:
"The prince should continue."
Prince Daemon bowed again, not humble, but grateful.
He returned to his place.
His eyes locked onto the Reach envoys, no rage, no theatrics.
Just a dragon waiting for permission to burn.
"I have uprooted your rot," Prince Daemon said quietly. "And I am not done."
A shiver rippled through the chamber.
King Jaehaerys's voice rose cold and regal.
"Prince Daemon will present the remainder of his evidence in full."
He sat.
"Then I will pronounce judgment."
He added:
"And let every man remember. Justice is not treason."
The envoys blanched. Prince Baelon bowed his head in acknowledgment. Prince Daemon bowed deeply.
And I.
I understood something with perfect clarity:
Oldtown had just been outplayed. The Reach had overreached. And Prince Daemon Targaryen was no longer a reckless prince.
He was a blade. A sharp one. Held firmly in the King's hand.
The chamber remained silent, thick with the weight of Prince Daemon's evidence. The Reach envoys looked as though the stones beneath their feet might swallow them whole.
King Jaehaerys rose.
When the Old King stood, even the air seemed to brace.
His voice was quiet, terrifying for it.
"Prince Daemon," he said, "your work has exposed rot festering beneath my roof. You will finish what you began."
Prince Daemon bowed his head, jaw tight.
"You will take these men," King Jaehaerys continued, "every one of them, and bring them to justice with extreme prejudice. No leniency. No pardons. No appeals."
The Reach envoys flinched.
"As for the houses whose hands touched this conspiracy, Merryweather, Peake, Beesbury of Honeyholt, sanctions shall be imposed immediately. Their trade rights will be suspended. Their harbor access restricted. Their levies reviewed. They will reimburse what was lost, and their taxes doubled and paid directly to the Crown for the next three years."
He paused.
"And their overlord house, House Hightower, will pay double their taxes for the next five years."
I stiffened like a struck bowstring.
King Jaehaerys's gaze sharpened further.
"If even a single coin is missing," he said, voice soft as a sword sliding free, "there will be fire. Then there will be blood."
Grand Maester Allar stiffened as the King turned toward him.
"The Citadel shall no longer assign maesters to every noble house by default."
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"You cannot."
"I can," King Jaehaerys said softly, "and I have."
The chamber froze.
"From this day forward, any lord who wants a maester may request one. If a house does not want to employ a maester, they shall provide timely reports instead of relying on maesters."
Allar went sheet-white.
I added quickly:
"If any lord fails to provide accurate accounting, the Iron Throne will monitor that house directly until it can."
The Reach envoys looked moments from collapse.
Oldtown's grip… broken.
Shock rippled through the chamber. Even Septon Barth looked pale.
I stepped forward too quickly, too desperately.
"Your Grace," I said, bowing, "House Hightower had no involvement in these matters. To punish Oldtown for the crimes of a few corrupt vassals."
King Jaehaerys's eyes turned toward me, those violet eyes promising violence and cold as frostbite.
I pressed on, gently, carefully.
"Your Majesty, the Reach is vast. Influential. Deeply rooted in the Faith. To strike so harshly, to defy them, could destabilize the peace you have worked your life to build."
A plea. And a warning.
Thinly veiled.
Prince Baelon stepped forward before the King could answer.
As Master of Laws, his voice carried legal authority like a blade.
"Father," Baelon said, "you are within your rights to do all of this. But the crimes involved septons. Men of the Faith. How do you intend to deal with them? The Faith may claim jurisdiction."
A reasonable question, but one laced with danger.
Prince Daemon stood rigid beside him, fire simmering beneath his skin.
King Jaehaerys answered without hesitation.
"I am King of the Seven Kingdoms. Of the Andals, the First Men, and the Rhoynar. I am not King of the Faith."
I inhaled sharply.
"Your Grace," I said, voice strained, "you cannot turn against the Faith. Your own Faith. You even have a septon as your Hand. To defy the Seven is to."
King Jaehaerys cut me off with a look that silenced men far mightier.
"The Faith of the Seven is not what I practice."
The chamber froze.
Queen Alysanne looked down, not surprised, merely accepting.
King Jaehaerys continued:
"The Seven Kingdoms are secular. My people may worship as they please. Old gods, new gods, drowned gods, burning gods, so long as they harm none with their beliefs."
He turned slightly toward Queen Alysanne.
"I allowed my wife to choose her faith. I allowed my children, and my grandchildren, to choose theirs."
He fixed me with an unblinking stare.
"I will not permit the Faith to command my crown."
I bowed my head very slowly, but my knuckles were white.
King Jaehaerys's expression did not soften.
"As for Septon Barth, he was appointed Hand to mend ties after the Faith broke the King's Peace during my father's rule, which led to civil war in my House between my uncle and elder brother. He was appointed because he is competent, nothing more."
Septon Barth inclined his head with grave respect.
Then King Jaehaerys turned toward Lord Beesbury, Master of Coin.
"Lord Beesbury, you will conduct a full accounting of all Crown revenues, harbor ledgers, guild permits, septon-managed funds, and any taxes we receive from the lords. I want a full accounting to find if I am being cheated."
Beesbury swallowed hard.
"You will pull any man you need for this task. Any ledger. Any seal. You will report directly to me."
He leaned in.
"And you will remember that you work for your King, not anyone else."
Beesbury went pale to the lips.
The Reach envoys looked ready to faint. Even Barth seemed shaken.
The silence was thick.
Impossible. Unbreachable.
Until Prince Daemon stepped forward, breaking it like steel through glass.
"His Grace," Daemon said, voice ringing with authority, "Jaehaerys Targaryen, rider of Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, has given his orders. It is the duty of the Small Council to enact the King's will. Not question him."
The envoys flinched. My jaw tightened. Septon Barth lowered his quill in quiet acknowledgement. Lord Beesbury looked as if he might faint.
Queen Alysanne exhaled, not relief, but acceptance.
And King Jaehaerys, the Old King, slowly sat back down.
Calm. Certain. Unmoved.
"Then it is decided," he said.
And with those words, judgment was sealed.
Let it not be said Old Jaehaerys was not a dragon.