Once the money side was settled, the rest of the meeting went smoothly.
Davos and Lord Owen took charge of recruiting and supplying the new Constabulary Knights. Corlton, Mace, and Alliser got the job of running the King's Landing census, building public toilets, and cleaning the streets.
When the council ended, Lord Staunton stayed behind and cornered Daeron.
"Prince, the census and the toilets I can handle," he said, voice shaky. "But telling the smallfolk they can't shit in the street or dump their chamber pots wherever they like? I can't do that."
Daeron frowned. "That's exactly why we're building the toilets—so they have somewhere proper to go."
Staunton looked like he might cry. "Prince, you know what the smallfolk are like. Fifty-five thousand people packed into the city, most of them still pissing and shitting in the alleys. It's always been that way. Enforce it and they'll riot. They'll throw shit at me in the street."
Daeron stared at him. "You're telling me you can't do your job?"
Staunton stammered, "It's… it's unprecedented, my prince."
Daeron slammed his hand on the table. "If you can't enforce basic sanitation, why the hell are you Master of Laws?"
He leaned in. "I'm paying for fifty large public toilets out of the royal purse. We start with one street as a test. Once people see it works, we roll it out city-wide. Alliser will give you Gold Cloaks to back you up. Anyone who refuses gets fined or whipped. Simple."
Staunton's eyes darted around, already picturing the nickname "Shit Minister" sticking to him for life.
Daeron's voice dropped. "If you can't handle it, hand in your resignation right now. But when I review your record, I hope I don't find any bribery or crooked judgments. Because if I do, I'll enforce the law myself."
Staunton went pale. "I… I can do it, Prince! I'll make it work!"
Daeron waved him off. "Then get out."
Half a month later the King's Landing renovation plan was quietly rolling forward.
Mace Tyrell surprised everyone. As Master of Works the fat lord attacked the job with terrifying energy. In just fifteen days he built ten large public toilets near the Red Keep. The nobles living nearby started using them first.
Alliser hired teams of street sweepers and night-soil collectors. The waste was carted across the river to Rosby, composted, and would be spread on the fields next spring.
Every day the city looked a little cleaner. The stink in the poorer quarters eased. Daeron walked the streets himself and felt both pride and bone-deep exhaustion.
In his private solar—sunlit, simple, facing the bay—Daeron sat at his desk finishing a letter to Prince Rhaeton of Pentos.
The two had become regular pen pals, trading ideas on governance and alliance. Daeron sealed the parchment with a small smile. "Friends help each other," he muttered. Then he added under his breath, "And right now I need fish."
East coast of the Crownlands.
The iridium fishing rod sang as Daeron cranked the reel. A fat, half-meter halibut slapped onto the sand. He had already caught half a dozen prime specimens—each one thick with life force.
Caraxes lay coiled nearby, molten-gold eyes half-lidded. The red dragon opened his jaws and breathed a precise jet of flame, roasting the fish where they lay. Then he scooped the whole pile into his mouth in one satisfied gulp.
Vitality surged through the dragon's body. Caraxes stretched his long neck, rumbling with pleasure, and settled down beside his rider like an oversized cat.
Daeron cast again. "Eat up, big guy. Grow fast."
While Westeros licked its wounds after the war, Pentos was on edge.
The streets were half-empty. Ships in the harbor had dropped by more than half. Triarchy pirates now held Bloodstone in the Stepstones and were stripping the islands for gems and recruits. Trade routes across the Summer Sea were bleeding.
In the Prince's palace, Rhaeton read Daeron's latest letter and sighed. The Regent Prince was busy reforming King's Landing and couldn't visit anytime soon.
Rhaeton turned to his steward. "Send the Yi Ti healer we bought. Queen Rhaella is due any day—tell him the Iron Throne needs his skills. Pack the best special gems too. Knights will need them."
He paused, then added with a grim smile, "If that's not enough, I'll throw in my new Lysene girl. Whatever it takes to keep the dragons friendly."
Back in King's Landing, deep in the Red Keep dungeons.
Barristan held a torch high as he and Daeron walked the damp corridor. They stopped outside the cell holding Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon.
Robert looked up, eyes burning with hate. Eddard was feverish, the wound in his back seeping through dirty bandages.
Daeron stepped inside. "I came to talk."
Robert spat, "Come to gloat before you kill us?"
Daeron ignored him and looked at Eddard. "Lyanna gave birth to your nephew. She has childbed fever. Rhaegar took her to Lys for a healer. I don't know more than that."
Eddard closed his eyes in pain.
Daeron continued, voice even. "I plan to name Roose Bolton Duke of the Dreadfort. Any thoughts?"
Eddard said nothing. His silence spoke volumes.
Daeron studied the two men a moment longer, then turned to leave.
One would atone through service.
The other would face justice.
He already knew which was which.