279 AC
Daemon Pov
As I strode into the chambers of the Small Council, the air thickened with the weight of tension. The lords and men of influence—the so-called rulers of Westeros—sat at the round table, their faces impassive but their eyes betraying the nerves gnawing at them. They all knew why I was here, though none dared to voice it.
The Master of Whispers, Lord Adrian Celtigar, his thin lips twitching with discomfort, darted his gaze around the room. Lord Qarlton Chelsted, the Master of Coin, fumbled with a parchment, trying to keep a veneer of calm. Lord Lucerys Velaryon, the Master of Ships, wore a mask of regal dignity, though his fingers tapped a restless rhythm on the table. Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stood stalwart but wary, while Grand Maester Pycelle's beady eyes followed me with open contempt, his rotund body shifting uneasily in his seat. Lastly, the Master of Laws, Lord Symond Staunton, was sweating under his robes, already sensing the storm about to befall them all.
As I entered the chamber, the scraping of chairs echoed as they rose from their seats. They had been expecting the king. They had not expected me.
I made no pleasantries as I approached the table, walking past them all with deliberate steps, each one sounding like a drumbeat of doom. When I reached the head of the table—where only the king was permitted to sit—I paused, then lowered myself into the chair. Silence fell over the room like a shroud.
Their eyes widened, disbelief mingling with the unspoken question: Does he dare?
The first to speak was, predictably, Grand Maester Pycelle, his voice oozing with false politeness. "My prince," he began, his hands wringing nervously in his lap, "only the king is permitted to sit—"
I cut him off with a glare that could wither iron. "The king regrets to inform you that he will not be joining this meeting," I said, each word measured, a threat lurking beneath the surface, "due to his ill health."
Pycelle squirmed under my gaze, and I took a cruel satisfaction in watching him falter. "As Hand of the King," I continued smoothly, "the duty of ruling the Seven Kingdoms falls upon my shoulders."
The rest of them sat down quietly, save for Pycelle, who hovered awkwardly for a moment before lowering his corpulent form into his chair, clearly uncertain if he should speak again.
I reached for the flagon of wine at my side, pouring myself a cup. The deep red liquid swirled as I took a slow sip, savoring the silence and the apprehension that hung in the room. "Send them in," I commanded.
The door to the council chamber swung open, and in walked my allies—Oberyn Martell, with his sharp, predatory grin, Stannis Baratheon, a silent tower of unyielding resolve, and Lady Olenna Tyrell, who carried herself with a regality that made the lords present look like children by comparison.
"I would like you all to meet your new council members," I announced, and I almost laughed at the shock that rippled across the faces of those seated. The old guard looked as though I had just thrown a wolf into a sheep pen.
"The Small Council can only have seven members," Lord Adrian Celtigar, ever the stickler for protocol, piped up, his voice tremulous but determined. The man was a mouse trying to act like a lion.
I turned to face him, a smile creeping across my face—cold, predatory. "You are correct, Lord Adrian." My tone was as sharp as a Valyrian steel blade. "Which is why I have decided to cleanse this council of its filth."
The blood drained from Celtigar's face as my words sank in. I rose from my seat with calculated slowness and began walking around the table, my eyes fixed on him. "Lord Adrian Celtigar, the Crown thanks you for your loyal service." The words were pure venom, and without hesitation, I ripped the pin of the Master of Whispers from his chest.
"You cannot do this!" Celtigar shouted, his voice high-pitched with disbelief and indignation. "I have done nothing wrong to deserve this!"
"You served faithfully," I acknowledged, my tone mocking, "but you were a complete moron, my lord."
His mouth opened and closed, struggling for words, but I did not give him the chance to respond. "The Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms ran away with my betrothed," I hissed, stepping closer to him, "and you had no idea where he was for three whole moons." My voice grew colder with each word. "I do not need incompetence. I need results."
I gestured toward the door. "Leave. Now."
His face twisted with humiliation and rage, but he dared not defy me. Shaking with barely controlled anger, Celtigar rose from his seat and stormed out of the room, his shoulders hunched in defeat.
Lady Olenna sat in his vacated chair without so much as a glance in his direction. She belonged there, and everyone knew it. "You are too kind, my prince," she said dryly, her eyes glittering with amusement at the spectacle.
I turned my gaze next to Lord Symond Staunton, the Master of Laws, who was already trembling. He tried to speak, his voice quavering. "My prince, I have carried out my duties justly—"
"Justly?" I interrupted, my voice dangerously quiet. "My brother was sent to the Black Cells by my father to repent for his sins, yet it seems he's living a life of luxury there, with every care being taken of him. Is this your idea of justice, Lord Symond?"
The man's eyes darted around the room, searching for help but finding none. "I—I had no knowledge of such—"
"You are not worthy of such a title," I said coldly, stepping toward him. Without hesitation, I tore the pin of the Master of Laws from his chest and turned toward Stannis. "Stannis, my friend," I said, my voice warmer, "you have served me faithfully as Commander of the City Watch. Your dedication to duty is unmatched. Therefore, I name you Master of Laws, so that you might carry out your duties amiably."
Stannis, ever the stoic, merely nodded, but I saw the faintest glimmer of surprise in his cold blue eyes. "You honor me, prince," he said simply, bowing his head.
Symond Staunton slunk out of the room like a beaten dog, his face pale and drawn.
Now, only one remained. My eyes settled on Lord Qarlton Chelsted, the Master of Coin—a cowardly man who had always followed the wind wherever it blew. His eyes widened with fear as I approached him.
"Back when I was building my trading fleet, I needed the Crown's gold to make it happen," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "Yet you, in all your supposed wisdom, constantly advised the king not to invest in my venture. Instead, you bent your knee to the lions," I spat, referring to Tywin Lannister, whose influence had poisoned the council for far too long.
"I always gave the king sound counsel, my prince," Chelsted stammered, his voice cracking under the weight of his fear.
I loomed over him, my shadow casting him in darkness. "You forget, my lord," I said slowly, "I am not just the prince—I am the Hand of the King."
He swallowed hard, his hands trembling as he unpinned the badge of the Master of Coin from his chest. Without another word, I snatched it from him and handed it to Oberyn Martell.
"Do not look so surprised, Oberyn," I said with a smile. "You earned a chain of economics in the Citadel. You are more worthy of this title than that man ever was."
Oberyn smirked as he accepted the pin, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "I'll do my best to keep the Crown's coffers full, my prince," he said, his voice full of charm.
Lord Qarlton Chelsted, too, slunk from the room in disgrace, leaving behind only the echoes of his cowardice.
I returned to my seat at the head of the table, casting my gaze over the newly formed council. "This council is no longer filled with shit," I said, my voice filled with cold satisfaction. "It is a council worthy of ruling the Seven Kingdoms."
"And now the Hour of the Golden Dragon has dawned", I said with my arms spread wide.
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I made my way towards the dungeons of the Red Keep, the cold stone corridors echoing with each step as Barristan trailed behind me, followed by ten of my most loyal men. The air grew thicker, damper, as we descended deeper into the bowels of the castle. My fury was boiling just beneath the surface, like the dragons of old beneath Dragonstone, waiting to be unleashed. Each step brought me closer to the source of my humiliation—my brother.
The guards stationed at the entrance of the second level stood more rigid than usual, their hands tightening around the hilts of their swords as they saw me approach. No doubt they had heard of my temper, and who could blame them? My anger was a flame that consumed all in its path. But they were not my concern.
We reached the part of the dungeons reserved for highborn prisoners, and there they were—three knights of the Kingsguard, dressed in their pristine white cloaks, their armor shining even in the dim light. Ser Oswell, Ser Jonothor, and Ser Lewyn. All bowed their heads in respect as I approached, though their eyes flicked nervously between each other, likely unsure of what was to come.
I spared them only a glance before turning to the cell in front of me. It was no ordinary cell. The thick iron bars were still there, but inside was not the cold, desolate pit that I had imagined. No, this was something else entirely—a gilded cage.
Rhaegar sat comfortably within, his back leaning against a cushioned chair, a table before him laden with books. His silver hair fell carelessly over his brow as he read, looking more like a scholar in a library than a prisoner in a dungeon. Beside him, on the floor, lay his harp, the very same instrument he had strummed when he won the hearts of the realm—and humiliated me in the process. He wore a simple white shirt and black trousers, his appearance casual, almost as if he were at ease in this prison of his own making.
My blood boiled at the sight.
I turned sharply to the knights of the Kingsguard, my voice laced with fury. "Why is he imprisoned so lavishly? Every need of his catered to. I thought the king had given strict orders."
Ser Oswell shifted nervously, his hand gripping the pommel of his sword. "My lord, the Queen —"
"Don't you dare!" I roared, cutting him off. "He is a piece of shit"
Before I could continue, Rhaegar's soft voice cut through the tension. "Brother, do not take your anger out on them. They are only following orders." His voice was calm, too calm, as he closed the book in his hands and stood up. The melancholic look in his violet eyes was unmistakable, though it only stirred my anger further. How dare he? How dare he look at me like that, as if he had been wronged?
"You," I hissed, taking a step closer to the bars. "You've made a fool out of me, brother. And yet here you sit, in luxury, as if nothing has changed."
Rhaegar held my gaze, unflinching. "It had to be done, Daemon. The prophecy—"
"Prophecy?" I laughed bitterly, throwing my head back as the sound echoed off the stone walls. "Prophecy, you say? I thought by burning that bloody scroll when we were children, I could free you from this madness. But it seems I was wrong. You are still the same fool, Rhaegar."
His face paled, genuine shock flashing in his eyes for the first time. "You… you burned it?"
"Yes," I spat, the memory of that day flooding back to me. "I burned that cursed piece of parchment, hoping it would force you to grow a spine. But no, you're still chasing ghosts."
"How could you…" he whispered, the hurt in his voice almost laughable. As if I were the villain in this story.
I stepped closer, gripping the bars of the cell until my knuckles turned white. "How could I? How could you? You ran off with my betrothed, and now the whole realm laughs behind my back. I am the fool, the cuckold, thanks to you."
"Daemon," Rhaegar began, his tone pleading, but it was too late. My rage had already consumed me.
"Open his cell," I ordered coldly, not even looking at the Kingsguard. They hesitated, exchanging uneasy glances, clearly afraid of what I might do. But I was not some wild beast, not yet. I unsheathed Dark Sister, its blade gleaming in the dim light, and tossed it to one of the knights. "If you think I will gut him like a dog, think again."
Reluctantly, they nodded, and the jailer approached with the keys, fumbling as he unlocked the cell door. As it swung open, I stepped inside, and the door slammed shut behind me.
Rhaegar did not move. He stood there, watching me with that same sorrowful look. "Daemon," he began, but I cut him off with a snarl.
"Do not speak. I do not care for your excuses or your prophecies. You humiliated me, and for that, you will pay."
He sighed, and for a moment, there was something like regret in his eyes. But then it was gone, replaced by the same placid acceptance he always wore, as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders alone.
"I know you are angry, brother, and with good reason," Rhaegar said softly. "But what I did, I did for the good of the realm."
"For the good of the realm?" I laughed bitterly again, pacing around him like a predator circling its prey. "You speak of the realm, but all you've done is destroy it. Your 'destiny' will be bringing nothing but war, death, and ruin."
He flinched at that, but he didn't argue. Instead, he bowed his head slightly, almost as if he were accepting his punishment. "It had to be done," he murmured, and I felt my rage flare even hotter.
I stopped in front of him, my hands shaking with the force of my anger. "You made a fool out of me," I repeated, my voice dangerously low. "You ran away with my betrothed, and now the whole realm laughs at me."
Rhaegar didn't look up, but I could see the tension in his jaw. "I did what I thought was right."
"Right?" I spat, my voice rising. "And what of my rights? What of my pride? You stripped me of everything, Rhaegar, and for what? A prophecy?"
He didn't answer. He couldn't. There was nothing he could say that would quench the fire burning inside me.
"Daemon," came a voice from the cell opposite. I turned to see Ser Arthur Dayne, his eyes filled with concern. "Do not do this. He is still your brother."
I ignored him, turning back to Rhaegar. I wanted to hit him, to make him feel the pain I had carried for so long, but I stopped myself. Beating him would not quench my thirst for retribution.
"No," I said, my voice cold and calculating. "No, beating you will not be enough. I will make you understand how it feels to be humiliated."
I stepped away from him, my mind racing with a plan so cruel, so perfect, it made my heart race. I walked toward Arthur Dayne's cell and motioned for my men to follow. "Hold him down," I ordered.
They hesitated for a moment, unsure of what I intended, but they obeyed. They swarmed into the cell, and despite his skill as a swordsman, Ser Arthur was no match for them without his blade. They forced him to his knees, and I stepped closer, staring down into his defiant violet eyes.
"Your sister came to me, you know," I said softly, watching as his expression shifted from confusion to fury. "She begged me not to punish you."
His hands clenched into fists, his whole body trembling with barely contained rage. "You lie."
I grinned, a cruel, twisted smile. "I told her I would forgive you… if she gave me her maidenhead."
Arthur's face went pale, and his entire body shook with rage. But he was helpless, trapped, just as I had been.
"She was a good fuck," I said, the lie slipping easily from my lips as I watched him break.
It was all I needed. I turned away, feeling some small satisfaction as I left the cell. Rhaegar stood there, watching me, that melancholic look replaced by something darker.
"Your trial will be held tomorrow, brother," I said, my voice empty of emotion. Then, without another word, I turned and left the dungeons, the sound of Arthur's curses echoing behind me.
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Tywin Pov
The sun was setting, casting long shadows over King's Landing as I made my way towards the Great Sept of Baelor. The towering structure loomed ahead, its white marble walls gleaming faintly in the dying light. Outside the sept, a hundred gold cloaks stood at attention, their pikes raised, unmoving like statues. As I approached, a man clad in gilded armor stepped forward, his cloak adorned with the sigil of House Targaryen—a golden dragon.
"Only Lord Tywin Lannister is permitted inside," he said, his voice carrying a weight of authority, though it lacked conviction.
Ser Ilyn Payne, ever silent, moved a step closer to my side, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. My men, though well-trained, tensed at the motion, awaiting a signal from me. But I gave none. I merely offered a curt nod in response, my expression betraying nothing, as was my habit. The doors to the sept swung open with a groan, and I entered without another word.
Inside, the air was cooler, though heavy with the scent of incense and burning candles. The entrance hall gave way to the cavernous expanse of the sept proper. Seven broad aisles stretched out beneath the towering dome, the light filtering through the high windows and hanging crystals, casting fragmented rainbows across the stone floor. It was an impressive structure, built to inspire awe in the faithful. To me, it was merely a monument to foolishness.
In the center of the sept stood a marble bier, still and empty for now. The benches lining the aisles were deserted, save for the High Septon and another figure—Daemon. Even from a distance, I could see the beads of sweat dotting the High Septon's brow, his face pale and trembling. He was as gluttonous and corrupt as any tavern wench, unfit to wear the vestments of his office. Daemon stood beside him, his dark eyes fixed on the man as they exchanged hushed words.
As I approached, the conversation ceased. The High Septon's gaze flicked to me, then away, as if he feared to meet my eyes. Without a word, he scurried off, his swollen body moving with surprising haste for a man of his size. I paid him no mind. He was a tool, nothing more.
My attention was on Daemon now, and as I closed the distance between us.
He stood in front of the statue of the Father, his head tilted upward as if seeking some divine judgment. The rays of light that filtered through the stained-glass windows fell across his face, sharpening his features, casting his expression in shadow. Even from a distance, I could see the storm of emotions in his eyes—rage, disappointment, and something else… betrayal.
"Daemon," I said, my voice cutting through the silence of the sept like a blade. My son turned slowly, his eyes burning with fury. His lips curled in disdain, the kind of look I hadn't seen directed at me since he was a boy, willful and defiant.
"Lord Tywin," he spat the words, the formality an insult in itself. "I suppose you've come to explain yourself, to offer your excuses."
Daemon had always been quick to anger, quick to let his emotions drive his actions. It was a flaw, one I had tried to temper over the years, but there was still much of his mother in him. This was no time for sentiment. He needed to see reason.
"I have no need for excuses," I replied coldly. "I am here to discuss what has been done. You will listen."
He let out a bitter laugh, taking a step forward, his fists clenched. "Listen? To what? Your schemes? Your betrayals? You've made me a laughing stock across the Seven Kingdoms."
His voice echoed in the hollow chamber, the venom unmistakable. I remained still, unmoved by his outburst. He had always been volatile, but emotions were a weakness. He would see that in time, though perhaps not today.
"This is no betrayal," I said calmly, "but a necessary move. Sacrifices must be made, Daemon, and one must accept their duty."
"Don't speak to me of duty," he snapped, his face twisting in anger. "Save your talk of sacrifice, Lord Tywin." His tone was mocking, a deliberate barb. "We both know you had a hand in my brother's escape—him and my betrothed. Or should I say, your daughter?"
A moment passed between us, heavy with unsaid words. The mention of Cersei hung in the air like poison. He knew where to strike, and strike deep. I studied him carefully, weighing every word before I spoke.
"Yes, I did what was necessary," I said evenly. "Your brother's actions were rash, but Cersei—my daughter—belongs where she will serve best. Sacrifices were required, Daemon, to secure our family's future. It is our blood that must sit on the throne."
He laughed again, though there was no humor in it. His face contorted with rage, his voice low and dangerous. "Sacrifices? You speak of sacrifices as if you understand the word. You sacrificed me, my honor, my future." He stepped closer, the anger flaring in his eyes. "Do you even know what you've done? You've dragged my name through the mud, made a fool of me in front of every lord and lady in the realm."
I let him speak, his words lashing out like the wild strikes of a blade, untrained, unfocused. His anger blinded him, and he would not see the larger picture, not yet.
"I had intended to annul the betrothal in time," he continued, pacing now, unable to stand still in his fury. "I would have made the king break it, spared Cersei the pain of this marriage, of me. But you—" He stopped, his eyes locking with mine, full of bitter accusation. "You couldn't wait. You had to act, had to force her into this now."
"She is a Lannister," I said firmly. "And she will do her duty."
His expression darkened further. "Duty?" he spat. "She is barely thirteen years old, and you've thrown her to the wolves. You've endangered her life for the sake of your ambitions. Look at what happened to Aemma Arryn the first wife of King Viserys I."
I felt my own anger stir, rising from the depths of my carefully maintained calm. "She is strong," I said, my voice hardening. "Stronger than you know. She will bear this burden as she was born to do. It is her duty."
"And what makes you so certain she won't lose the child she carries?" His words were sharp, cutting deep as he glared at me, a glint of something darker in his eyes. "What makes you think the babe in her womb will survive, Tywin? What then?"
I clenched my jaw, suppressing the heat of my growing fury. "You would not dare," I said, my voice colder than the stones beneath us.
Daemon's eyes narrowed, challenging. "You think I wouldn't? I could send my brother to the Wall and your precious daughter to the Faith to become a septa. How would that suit your grand schemes, Father?"
The word "father" came out with such contempt that it might as well have been a curse.
"You will do nothing of the sort," I said, my tone as cold and final as the grave. "You will uphold your end, as I uphold mine."
A moment of silence passed between us, the weight of it pressing down like the very stones of the sept. The tension hung in the air, heavy and palpable. We stared at one another, neither willing to break first.
Daemon's lips twisted into a cruel smile. "And what will you do, Father? Will you sing 'The Rains of Castamere' now? Or have you forgotten the Fires of Duskendale".
"We both know how this ends," I said, my voice low, deliberate. "You will not defy me, Daemon. Not when your own survival depends on it."
For a long moment, he said nothing. His eyes, stormy with barely contained rage, searched mine as though he was trying to unearth some deeper truth, something he could use against me. Then, with a final sneer twisting his lips, he turned his back on me, facing the towering statue of the Father once more.
"I will never hurt Cersei," he murmured, his voice softening, a rare glimpse of humanity breaking through the icy exterior. "You should know that."
The words seemed almost a confession, yet there was no trace of warmth. He wasn't asking for forgiveness, nor was he pleading for understanding. It was simply a fact, spoken like a man who had already made his peace with his decisions.
"A child should not be held responsible for the sins of the father," he continued, his voice quiet, almost reflective. "But I have neither forgiven nor forgotten this slight, Lord Tywin."
The words hit like a whip crack, his voice as cold and sharp as Valyrian steel. "The crown cannot be made to look weak."
For a brief moment, I regarded him in silence. He was wrong, of course. Aerys' days were numbered, the slow poison Pycelle had been administering to the fool of a king was weakening him, breaking him down bit by bit. Soon enough, Aerys would be nothing more than a walking corpse, a puppet of his own madness, until his body finally gave out.
Daemon's prideful words would matter little then.
But before I could speak, Daemon's lips curled into a thin smile, one that sent a ripple of unease through me. There was something dangerous in his eyes, something more calculating than the wild temper he had displayed moments ago.
"I also needed to inform you—your rat is dead," Daemon said, almost casually, as though the words themselves were of no consequence.
I narrowed my gaze, unsure of his meaning. "What rat?"
"Pycelle," he said, his tone laced with a cruel edge. "It may seem that we now require a new Grand Maester, as Pycelle died of a burst heart just an hour ago."
The words hung in the air, heavy and laden with implications. My body grew still. Pycelle was dead? My mind raced, struggling to process the implications. How had this happened without my knowledge? It was impossible for Daemon to act this swiftly, to strike so precisely at my spy within the court, but the smirk on his face told me otherwise.
Daemon's smirk widened as he saw the realization dawning on me. "It appears your eyes and ears within the Red Keep have been cut out, Father. It's been an hour since his death, so no wonder you didn't know what had happened."
His amusement was thinly veiled as he watched my reaction, his tone growing mockingly contemplative. "Of course, the Maesters will write that Pycelle was a good man. Loyal. A faithful servant of the realm. But we both know the truth, don't we?" His voice dropped, as if sharing a private joke. "He was a cunt, wasn't he? A coward, working under you to slowly poison the king."
My lips tightened into a thin line, my thoughts racing. Pycelle's death was a significant blow. The old Maester had been useful, malleable, a tool in my hands. He had served well, quietly administering doses of poison to Aerys, weakening him, ensuring his grip on the throne would slip. And now… he was dead.
I wanted to lash out, but I reined in my anger, the cold steel of control hardening around my mind. Daemon had struck at the heart of my plans, but I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me unsettled. He was dangerous, yes, but there were always other pieces on the board.
Still, a part of me couldn't help but feel a flicker of pride at the cunning he had displayed. It was ruthless, efficient, calculated—traits I had spent years trying to instill in him. Yet, there was also a part of me that simmered with anger. This was an open defiance, a clear challenge to my authority.
"I still need Aerys alive," Daemon continued, his voice hard and commanding. "And I will not tolerate any more interference from you or anyone else. The king's survival is necessary, for now."
I held his gaze, my anger barely contained beneath a mask of cold indifference. "You overestimate your position, Daemon. You do not decide what is necessary."
"And you underestimate me, Lord Tywin," Daemon replied, his tone biting. "I've already outmaneuvered you once. Do not think I would not do it again."
For the briefest moment, the tension between us was palpable, crackling like lightning in the air. We stood in the shadow of the Father's statue, two lions locked in a battle of wills. It was a contest of pride, of legacy, of blood. But there could only be one victor.
Daemon turned away, his eyes darkening with a new resolve. "Rhaegar and Cersei will be punished," he said, his voice low and menacing. "They will be exiled to Dragonstone for the foreseeable future. They will remain there, under strict guard, and they will not leave without the crown's express permission."
"And Rhaegar," Daemon continued, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes, "will be given an additional punishment. One he will carry out tomorrow."
I stiffened, my mind racing as I considered the possibilities. "What punishment?" I demanded.
Daemon smiled, a cruel twist to his lips. "Do not worry, Lord Tywin. It is not as harsh as one might expect. I still need him alive, after all." He paused, savoring the moment. "But he will not go unscathed. The realm must see that even a prince can be brought low."
I clenched my fists, forcing myself to remain calm. This was a game of power, of manipulation, and I could not afford to lose control. Daemon was testing me, pushing the boundaries of my influence, trying to prove that he could act without my consent. He was playing a dangerous game, one that could easily spiral out of control.
"Now, onto the debt you owe me," Daemon said, his voice cold and cutting, the echo of it bouncing off the towering stone walls of the sept. "For the loss of face that you've caused."
His words were deliberate, each one sinking like a knife into my pride. Then he looked at me, eyes dark with calculation. "I want three million gold dragons."
Shock rippled through me. I kept my face composed, but even I could not fully suppress the slight widening of my eyes. The demand was absurd, outrageous.
"One million for betraying my trust," he began, counting on his fingers with a cruel smile. "Another million for attempting to kill the king." He paused, savoring my reaction. "And the last million—for the dowry for the marriage between the Crown Prince and your daughter."
I clenched my jaw, fighting the urge to lash out.
"Your demands are unreasonable," I said, my voice a measured growl, betraying the fury I was holding at bay. "Three million dragons? You overreach."
Daemon's grin widened, sharklike. "Oh, it's far from unreasonable, Father," he spat the word like venom, mocking the title he had long since abandoned. "You caused me to lose face. You dishonored me by plotting behind my back. The cost of repairing that honour is three million gold dragons, nothing less."
He stood there, resolute, as if daring me to refuse. The power struggle between us had shifted dangerously. His youth and ambition were a volatile mix, but I had faced greater challenges, bested more dangerous foes. I would not be cowed by my own son.
"And," Daemon continued, his tone turning almost gleeful, "House Lannister will not be granted a seat on the Small Council for the foreseeable future."
Still, I remained silent, my expression carefully neutral, weighing my options.
"Do not look at me like that," Daemon said, his voice a mocking sneer. "You do not have any friends in the capital, Father. Not anymore. The rest of the great lords despise you, resenting the influence you wielded while you were the king's Hand. Tell me, how many of them will think to help you now?"
I knew he was right, to some extent. The great lords of Westeros had always envied my power, whispering behind my back, calling me "the King in all but name." They detested me for my competence, my control. The Red Keep had become a viper's nest in my absence, and I had allowed it.
"We both know where the true power lies," Daemon said, his voice sharp as a dagger. "After what your rat did to the king, it will take him considerable time to recover."
His words echoed through the chamber, each one dripping with arrogance. He stood before me, smug, as if he had already secured victory. I stared at him, my jaw tightening. This boy thought he could challenge me, outmaneuver me—me, Tywin Lannister? He was gravely mistaken.
"You assume too much," I said coldly, my voice steady and cutting through the air like steel. "What assurances can you give me that the king won't remove Rhaegar from the line of succession? That my grandson will not be cast aside, cut from the very lineage you claim to protect?"
At that, Daemon threw his head back and laughed—a cruel, mocking sound that reverberated in the emptiness of the sept. His laughter grated on me, but I held my composure, watching him with the icy control that had brought men to their knees time and again.
When his laughter finally subsided, he leveled his gaze at me, his lips curling into a smirk. "A grandson, my lord?" he sneered. "You should worry about having a grandson in the first place before you speak of lines of succession."
The implication hit me like a blow, though I showed no sign of it.
But his words held a deeper menace, one I could not ignore.
Before I could respond, Daemon's voice dropped, becoming a dangerous whisper. "Do not worry. Aerys will do as I say. After all, I need Rhaegar for the future." His eyes glinted with something dark, something far more insidious than simple ambition.
It was in that moment that I realized Daemon wasn't merely positioning himself to control the throne—he was shaping the future of the realm, crafting his own twisted vision of what was to come.
"Very well," I said, my voice measured, betraying none of the fury simmering beneath the surface. "I will pay the three million gold dragons."
Daemon's eyes lit up with triumph, his smirk widening as he took in what he believed was his victory. He truly thought he had bested me, that his ridiculous demands had left me no choice but to bow to his will.
But I knew better. This was merely a momentary setback, a concession to placate him. Three million gold dragons was nothing compared to the wealth and power that House Lannister commanded.
I had not raised a son to surpass me. I had raised a son to serve my legacy, to further the interests of House Lannister, not to undermine them. If Daemon thought he could outmaneuver me, he was sorely mistaken.
Although in my heart I was proud of the man he had become.