With Randyll's investiture finished, the council wrapped up.
Daeron made the announcement right there in the hall: Gulltown and White Harbor were now folded into the Crownlands, and the entire Vale fell under direct Iron Throne rule.
The lords looked surprised, but nobody raised a real objection. The North and the Vale had rebelled and lost. Harsh terms were expected. Carving out the ports and putting the Vale under royal oversight was a little unusual, sure, but with Daeron's dragons and personal prestige nobody was stupid enough to argue.
11:30 a.m.
Tower of the Hand.
Daeron knocked, Barristan and Jaime flanking him in their white cloaks.
"Come in."
Tywin sat ramrod-straight at his desk, halfway through a simple lunch—beans stewed with tomatoes, white bread, a link of sausage, and a glass of golden Arbor wine.
"Appetite looks good," Daeron said, impressed.
Most people in Westeros ate two meals a day. Tywin was treating himself.
"I eat well when I'm in a good mood," Tywin replied. He wiped his hands, took a sip of wine to clear his palate, then waved the servant away.
Once the table was clear, Daeron sat across from him. "What's got you smiling?"
Tywin didn't bother hiding it. "You carved the Dornish Marches out of the Reach and made Randyll Tarly a duke. Olenna Tyrell's face turned purple. I enjoyed that."
Daeron raised an eyebrow. "That's it?"
Tywin's smile faded into something sharper. "It was a clever move. You showed the realm the Iron Throne rewards merit and punishes disloyalty, and you trimmed the Reach down to size. Good for expanding the Crownlands."
Of course he was also genuinely amused that the Queen of Thorns had been forced to swallow the loss.
"What do you think of Randyll Tarly?" Daeron asked, testing the waters.
Tywin gave a measured nod. "He's a born soldier—disciplined, decisive. Sending him to the Marches to watch Dorne and keep the Tyrells in check is perfect. But if you expect him to handle high politics…"
He let the sentence hang and gave a short, dry laugh.
Daeron understood. Randyll was rigid. A perfect border warden, terrible at court games.
"He won't be staying in King's Landing long anyway," Daeron said. "He'll head back to Horn Hill soon. Lord Mathis Rowan and the rest of the Reach host will march south too. That leaves the capital a lot quieter."
Tywin leaned back. "If you want to absorb the Riverlands and Stormlands, you'll need to open the major roads first, calm the lords in all three regions, then pick the right moment to make the annexation official."
It was solid advice—and a subtle reminder. Even with the titles of Prince of Storm's End and Governor of the Trident, governing two kingdoms and actually swallowing them were two different things. Tywin hadn't been consulted about carving out the Marches, and that stung.
Daeron gestured. Jaime stepped in carrying a bottle of ancient-fruit wine they'd prepared earlier.
"I bought this on the eastern continent for a small fortune," Daeron said, setting the bottle down. "Haven't even tasted it yet."
The wine glowed a pale, ethereal blue inside the bottle, like liquid moonlight.
Tywin's interest sharpened. "Special-crop wine? Rare."
He had Jaime fetch three glasses, uncorked the bottle himself, and poured a finger into each. The moment the cork came out, a clean, intoxicating fruit aroma filled the room.
Tywin raised his glass. "To the new order."
They drank.
The effect hit fast.
Daeron felt his life force surge—vitality spinning like a whirlwind inside his chest. The Life Seed kept it from spiraling out of control, but it was still intense.
Jaime's eyes widened. His own life force, which had been stuck on the edge of forming a seed for years, suddenly roared to life. He downed the rest of his glass in one gulp, face flushed.
"Prince, I… I need to see Ser Gerold right away," he muttered, already turning for the door.
Daeron waved him off. "Go."
Jaime nearly tripped over his own feet on the way out—drunk on vitality, not wine.
Tywin, surprisingly, stayed perfectly steady. He closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them again. A faint melancholy settled over him. He was thinking of Joanna.
"You're not drunk?" Daeron asked, curious.
Tywin shook his head. "No. Just… remembering better days." He corked the bottle carefully and tucked it into the bottom drawer of his bedside chest like it was something precious.
Daeron let it go. Clearly the wine affected people with trained life force far more than ordinary men. Good to know.
They moved on to business.
"If you're serious about absorbing the Riverlands and Stormlands, King's Landing needs fixing first," Tywin said. "The city is overcrowded. Fifty thousand extra mouths from the two kingdoms will choke it. We need to disperse the population."
Daeron nodded. "Rosby can take some. I'm already expanding Dairy Town on my own lands. We can build two more settlements along the Blackwater to spread the load."
Tywin frowned slightly—building new towns for commoners seemed excessive—but he didn't argue. Instead he laid out his own plan for clearing excess population, cleaning the streets, and tightening control.
Daeron listened, then added casually, "I also plan to reorganize the Small Council. Might add one or two new seats."
Tywin's expression didn't change. "We can discuss it properly once the council is full."
He already knew one seat had been promised to Mace. Adding more would mean reshuffling the table, but he couldn't object yet.
Daeron smiled. "We're agreed, then."
Tywin nodded and went back to explaining how to clean up the city's filth—something he had wanted to do for years if only Aerys weren't such a useless king.
The two men talked for a long time, the ancient-fruit wine sitting untouched in its drawer, waiting for the next quiet moment.