The great doors of the council chamber swung wide with their familiar groan, a sound like the complaint of some old beast being roused from slumber. The scrape of bootheels upon stone followed, deliberate and unhurried, echoing in a way that seemed to lend each step the gravity of omen.
Whatever informal murmurings had filled the chamber moments before stilled at once. Courtiers straightened, quills stilled, even the fire in the braziers seemed to crackle more quietly, as if mindful of who approached.
King Viserys I Targaryen entered first, a crown heavy upon his brow and his pale hair flowing loose around his shoulders. He was a man of eight-and-twenty years, but already the cares of rule clung to him like leaden chains. Sleepless nights had drawn shadows beneath his eyes, and a faint twitch of doubt haunted his smile, yet there was warmth in him still, enough to make men love him even when they questioned his judgment. He was no conqueror, nor a tyrant, nor a saint—merely a man striving to be a good king in a realm where good often proved not enough.
Behind him came Ser Otto Hightower, tall and spare in his sober grey, his pale green eyes cold and measuring. The Hand carried his authority like a sword—subtle, gleaming, and always sharp enough to draw blood should the moment require. His footsteps were precise, calculated, each one placed with the careful deliberation of a man who understood that power lay not in grand gestures but in the accumulation of small advantages.
Last was Ser Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, white cloak trailing behind him like the wings of some patient vulture. His hand rested idly on his sword hilt, a gesture as natural to him as breathing. The old knight had long ago mastered the art of seeing everything whilst seeming to notice nothing, his weathered face a mask of professional indifference that revealed nothing of the sharp mind beneath.
"My lords, my lady," Viserys said as he lowered himself into the carved oaken chair at the head of the table. His voice was warm, almost conversational, yet it carried across the chamber with the easy authority of one accustomed to command. The chair itself was a masterwork of craftsmanship, its arms carved with dragons whose eyes seemed to follow those who sat opposite the king. "I trust the morning finds you prepared for an eventful day."
He glanced around the table, his eyes lingering with fondness on his daughter—Rhaenyra, bright as the morning sun, attending her duties with the poise of one thrice her age. She sat straight-backed in her chair, violet eyes alert and intelligent, already scanning the documents before each council member with the keen interest of one born to rule. Her silver-gold hair caught the light from the tall windows, and when she smiled at her father's attention, it was with genuine warmth tempered by the gravity she had learned to wear like armor.
His gaze shifted then to his younger brother, where pride warred with the anxious protectiveness of a father watching a son attempt his first tilt. Daemon lounged in his chair with that infuriating ease that made him seem perpetually on the verge of some prank—or ambush, his own violet eyes dancing with barely contained mischief as he toyed with the pommel of Dark Sister.
"But before Lord Otto marshals us into the usual business of grievances and grain counts," the king continued, leaning back with a half-smile that transformed his careworn features, "and some poor man petitioning for a pig to be declared his wife's dowry—yes, Lyman, I remember last week's petition—I would hear of more cheerful matters."
A ripple of quiet laughter moved through the chamber. Even Otto's stern features softened slightly, though his pale eyes remained watchful, calculating.
Viserys turned to Lyman Beesbury, Master of Coin, who was already rustling his parchments like a septon shuffling through holy writ. The elderly lord's fingers moved with the precision of a lifetime spent counting coppers and dragons, each document arranged with meticulous care. "Lord Beesbury, how fare our preparations for the tourney? Tell me my Dornish wine is secure, lest I be forced to ride to Sunspear myself and explain to Princess Martell why her vineyards have been conscripted for the Crown's pleasure."
Beesbury rose with a stiffness that belied his years but spoke with the clarity of a man accustomed to being obeyed. His robes, while fine, bore the subtle marks of ink stains and long hours bent over ledgers—the badges of his office worn with pride. "Your Grace, the preparations proceed most magnificently. The great pavilions stand proud upon the tourney grounds, stitched with the colors of every house of note. The Baratheon yellow and black waves beside the Lannister crimson and gold, the Stark grey and white provides noble contrast to the Tyrell green and gold."
He paused, consulting a scroll with the reverence of a maester reading prophecy. "I saw to it that the banners of House Baratheon and House Lannister were arranged so their hues did not offend the eye when viewed together—Lord Lannister's pavilion commands the eastern rise, while Lord Baratheon's sits upon the western slope, with sufficient distance that neither lord need wake to the sight of the other's colors greeting the dawn. A small matter, perhaps, but harmony of color lends harmony to spirit, and harmony of spirit prevents... unfortunate incidents during festivities where wine flows freely and old grudges surface."
Viserys chuckled, a warm sound that seemed to chase some of the shadows from his features. He leaned forward, fingers drumming against the polished wood of the table in a rhythm that spoke of nervous energy barely contained. "Aye, leave it to you, Lyman, to find diplomacy in the placement of tents. Though I confess, the image of Lord Lannister and Lord Baratheon coming to blows over the positioning of their pavilions has a certain... theatrical appeal. Daemon would enjoy that immensely."
"Your Grace does me great honor," Daemon interjected smoothly, not bothering to hide his grin. "Though I would hardly limit myself to enjoying such a spectacle. The odds alone would make for fascinating wagers."
"Precisely why we ensure such incidents do not occur," Beesbury replied with the patient tone of a man who had spent decades managing the realm's purse strings and the pride of its lords in equal measure. "It is the nature of coin, Your Grace—even in color and ceremony, balance must be struck, or the whole collapses. A tourney that begins with lords feuding over precedence ends with empty coffers and bloodied ground."
"That is very like you, my lord," the king said fondly, though a touch of mischief lit his violet eyes like flames behind colored glass. "You speak of tent placement as though arranging a battlefield. Yet tell me plainly: will I have my Dornish wine, or must I make do with Arbor gold and sullenly pretend it pleases me as much? Lord Redwyne's vintage is fine enough, but there are times when only the fire of Dorne will suffice."
Beesbury's weathered features grew grave, and he consulted another scroll with the solemnity of a priest preparing last rites. "The wine has been secured, Your Grace, though at considerable expense. The merchants of Dorne drove a hard bargain, knowing well Your Grace's... particular appreciation for their product. Master Qyburn of Sunspear's trading house proved especially... creative in his negotiations."
He cleared his throat delicately. "The man had the audacity to suggest that Dornish wine was worth its weight in gold, and when I protested, he produced scales and began weighing casks against actual coin. We reached an... accommodation, though one that will require creative accounting in the coming months. We have casks enough to see even the greediest lord swimming in good cheer before the first lance splinters, though I must add, with the utmost respect, that the treasury will feel this particular indulgence for some time to come."
"Worth every copper," Viserys said at once, his voice carrying the decisive ring of hammered steel. He lifted his hand in a dismissive wave, smiling as though the matter were no more weighty than a game of cyvasse. "A realm that forgets how to celebrate is a realm already half in its grave, Lyman. Let the smallfolk drink their fill, let the lords boast and swagger in their cups, let the ladies wear silks they cannot afford and jewels that catch the light like captured stars, and let them all remember who rules them from the Wall to the Summer Sea. That, my good Beesbury, is coin well spent—an investment in the very soul of the realm."
The Master of Coin inclined his head, though his lips pursed like a man tasting something sour. His fingers traced the edge of his ledger with the careful precision of long habit. "As Your Grace says. Still, I must confess to sleepless nights when the ledgers refuse to balance themselves. Numbers, Your Grace, are less forgiving than men—they will not be charmed by royal smiles or cowed by dragon's fire. They simply... are. And they remember everything."
Viserys laughed, a warm, almost boyish sound that seemed to fill the chamber with light. "Would that it were otherwise! I'd rather argue with a dozen lords than with your sums, Lyman. At least the lords may be flattered or bribed or shamed into sense—appeal to their pride, their purses, or their fears, and eventually reason prevails. Numbers..." He wagged a finger at the parchment with mock severity. "Numbers are cruel little things. They will not budge, no matter how prettily one speaks to them or how royal the voice making the plea."
"Nor should they," Beesbury replied, his tone patient but firm, like a tutor correcting a favored pupil who persists in making the same charming error. "Elsewise the realm falls into ruin, Your Grace. Your forebears built this throne upon dragons and fire, upon conquest and the strength of their will, but it is sustained day by day with ink and coin and honest accounting. Even Aegon the Conqueror, for all his might and majesty, required tax collectors. Even Balerion the Black Dread could not mint gold from thin air or conjure grain from empty fields."
Otto Hightower gave a faint cough, as if to recall them both to matters more sober, but Viserys only grinned and leaned back in his chair, the carved dragons seeming to approve of his mirth. "There you have it, my lords. My Hand speaks of law and justice and the weighty matters of state, my Master of Coin of sums and ledgers and the cold realities of rule, and all the while I dream of tilts and feasts and good red meat roasted on a spit, of knights in shining mail and ladies fair as morning stars. Gods be good, one would think kingship a dreary business were it not for such moments of levity."
Beesbury's lined face softened, just for a heartbeat, revealing the genuine affection beneath his careful disapproval. "Your Grace, it is not dreary to those of us who serve you—it is an honor beyond measure. Only... demanding. And demand, as I have learned in my years, is but another word for duty wearing fine clothes and speaking with a courtly tongue."
The king's expression shifted then, the merriment dimming into something gentler, more vulnerable. His fingers stilled against the table, and for a moment he seemed less a king than simply a husband and a man carrying burdens too heavy for any mortal frame. "Aye, and I am grateful for it beyond words, Lyman. But remember: tomorrow we celebrate, and gods willing, we shall have even greater cause for celebration. Should my queen bring forth a healthy son, we shall feast until the wine runs out and the bards lose their voices from singing our joy."
The mention of Queen Aemma's pregnancy drew a hush over the chamber like a silk veil settling over flame. The very air seemed to hold its breath, and every face turned toward the king with that mixture of hope and fear that attended royal births. Viserys's smile returned, faint but sincere, and for that instant he seemed to shed years of care, becoming once again the young prince who had won his throne through gentleness rather than conquest. "Her health remains our first concern, always. All else—the tourney, the wine, the coin, even the crown upon my head—may wait upon her safe delivery and the realm's newest dragon."
The silence stretched, filled with the weight of unspoken prayers and the knowledge that kingdoms had risen and fallen on the success or failure of such moments. Then Viserys stirred, seeming to shake off the melancholy that threatened to settle over him like morning fog.
His gaze shifted toward his brother with a lightness born of long familiarity—an ease that came only from sharing both laughter and loss, triumph and disappointment. He leaned forward slightly, resting one hand on the table, the violet of his eyes catching the candlelight like molten glass shot through with silver. "And Daemon," he said, voice laced with that gentle patience only kings can afford their younger, more reckless siblings, "how fare the Gold Cloaks in maintaining the King's Peace during these... festive preparations? I trust the influx of visitors has not left the streets in chaos, or do I need to prepare explanations for why half the visiting lords have been arrested before the first trumpet sounds?"
Daemon reclined with that infuriating ease that made him seem perpetually on the verge of some prank—or ambush. His chair creaked softly as he shifted, one leg thrown over its arm in casual disregard for royal protocol. His green-flecked violet eyes glimmered with amusement, as though the very notion of concern for order struck him as quaint. "Brother," he said, tilting his head back with a theatrical sigh, "I think you give our lads too little credit. The Gold Cloaks are professional, disciplined, efficient in their duties... and occasionally heroic when the situation demands bold action and it suits my purposes to allow such displays."
Viserys raised an eyebrow, his expression a carefully balanced mixture of skepticism and fond exasperation. "Occasionally heroic," he echoed, his tone threaded with the faintest hint of incredulity. "That particular phrasing fills me with such confidence, brother. Is that meant to reassure me, or to warn me of something you've failed to mention in your reports?"
Daemon's grin widened, all teeth and mischief, like a wolf contemplating a particularly fat sheep. "Both," he admitted cheerfully, spreading his hands in mock innocence. "Every tourney brings out the usual rabble, you understand—cutpurses with more ambition than skill, confidence artists spinning tales of noble birth, sellswords with more pride than sense and purses lighter than their swords. They see a crowd of nobility as nothing more than a rich hunting ground for their... creative enterprises."
He leaned forward suddenly, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow carried to every corner of the chamber. "I caught one fellow just last week trying to pass himself off as a knight of some minor house—House Butterwell of the Riverlands, if you can believe such audacity. The man was brandishing a sword that had clearly seen more rust than battle, wearing mail that fit him like a sack, and asking for coin in exchange for tales of his valor at... what battle was it? Ah yes, the War of the Ninepenny Kings. The poor fool couldn't have been more than twenty summers old."
Several council members chuckled quietly at this, and even Otto's stern features twitched with what might have been amusement.
Viserys allowed a small smile to grace his features, shaking his head in that particular way that suggested equal parts affection and despair. "And I suppose you let him go, on account of his... creativity and theatrical flair? You always did appreciate a good performance, even when mounted by fools and charlatans."
"On the contrary," Daemon said with an elegant shrug, his smile taking on a decidedly predatory cast. "I reminded him, quite politely, that his presence would be much more appreciated in the city dungeons than anywhere else in the capital. I even offered to escort him personally, which seemed to inspire a sudden crisis of memory regarding his true name and station. He proved remarkably eager to depart the city once his... confusion was cleared up."
The king exhaled through his nose, that subtle blend of exasperation and amusement that seemed to settle over him like a familiar cloak whenever his brother's particular brand of justice was discussed. "Your diplomatic skills remain as sharp as ever, though I suspect the city dungeons do not benefit from your... colorful compliments and creative approaches to law enforcement."
Daemon's grin faltered just a fraction, enough to reveal the gleam of genuine pride beneath his words. "Nonsense, brother. They benefit greatly from my attention. It is, after all, not every day that such establishments are graced with visits from royalty, even if those visits are conducted... vicariously, through my good offices and the excellent work of the Gold Cloaks."
Viserys's violet eyes softened, though the trace of weariness was barely masked by the faint curl of a smile. "And tonight, ever the vigilant commander, you plan another of your nocturnal inspections? I trust you'll ensure the city remains... manageable for tomorrow's festivities?"
Daemon sat upright then, posture suddenly precise, tone crisp, the playful lilt gone for just a heartbeat and replaced by the steel of a man who had fought as much in alleyways and taverns as on battlefields. "Indeed, Your Grace. I'll take a final patrol through the city once this council concludes—Flea Bottom, the Street of Steel, the fish markets where tempers run as hot as the forges. Best to sniff out trouble while it's still manageable than to deal with a riot sparked by some fool settling an old grudge dramatically, in full view of the assembled nobility."
His expression grew more serious, though the dangerous glint never left his eyes. "The lads will have their hands full tomorrow—knights arriving drunk, lords' retainers picking fights over precedence, merchants hawking everything from 'dragon's teeth' to 'Valyrian silk' that's obviously from Lys. Without proper oversight tonight, the city might not burn, but it could certainly... smolder in ways that would reflect poorly on the Crown's ability to maintain order."
Viserys nodded slowly, satisfaction visibly softening the tension from his shoulders. "Excellent," he said, the word carrying the weight of genuine relief. "Your diligence in such matters has been... invaluable, Daemon. It comforts me to know that someone in this city understands that prevention serves better than reaction, that wisdom lies in seeing the storm before it breaks rather than cleaning up after the lightning strikes."
Daemon's grin returned instantly, brighter and sharper than before, the sparkle of mischief never far from his gaze. "Then I suppose that makes me the wise man in this arrangement, brother. For you, as always, can remain the clever one—calculating, cautious, admired by smallfolk and lords alike... and occasionally tortured by the endless complexities and contradictions of royal duty."
Viserys allowed a small, rueful smile, that particular blend of pride and exasperation unique to their relationship. "You have a gift for words, Daemon. Sometimes I fear I shall have to crown you poet laureate alongside your martial exploits. 'Prince Daemon the Wise,' has a certain ring to it, don't you think?"
"Ah, but then who would guard the streets while I wax poetic about the beauty of law and order?" Daemon replied, tilting his head with that dangerous amusement dancing in his eyes. "Somebody must keep the city from tearing itself apart while its king's brother entertains the court with verses about duty and honor and the proper placement of pavilions."
A faint laugh escaped Viserys's lips, fleeting but genuine, before the king's expression returned to that careful composure which made him both approachable and formidable in the same moment. "Very well then," he said, fingers beginning to drum lightly upon the table once more, "let us hope your patrol finds no reason to exercise... excessive creativity in maintaining order. Tomorrow, we celebrate. Tonight, we trust that peace and good sense will prevail."
Daemon inclined his head with mock solemnity, though his eyes sparkled with unrepentant mischief. "Order is my middle name, Your Grace. Only my reputation for chaos and creative problem-solving tends to precede it wherever I go."
Viserys's eyes narrowed just enough to suggest a mixture of disbelief and fond exasperation. "I shall take your word for it, brother... though I rather doubt the city's inhabitants will share your confidence in that particular assessment."
The chamber seemed to cool by several degrees as Otto Hightower cleared his throat with deliberate precision, the sound cutting through the warm atmosphere like a blade through silk. The Hand's pale eyes glinted beneath the shadow of his brow, carrying the subtle menace of a man who could turn any conversation to his advantage without ever appearing rude or overly aggressive. "Your Grace," he said, his voice carrying that particular cadence of polite authority that had served him so well over the years, "while the tourney preparations are indeed... admirable in their scope and attention to detail,"—he allowed the faintest pause, savoring the word like fine wine—"we must turn our attention to matters of more immediate urgency. The letter from Pentos requires a response, and continued delay serves neither the Crown's interests nor those of our... potential allies across the Narrow Sea."
The words fell over the chamber like a sudden shadow cast by storm clouds. Courtiers shifted in their seats with barely audible rustlings of silk and leather, quills halted mid-sketch over parchments, and the flickering firelight seemed to dim in recognition of the transition from the pleasures of ceremony to the cold necessities of statecraft.
Viserys's violet eyes narrowed slightly, the careful neutrality of a king who had learned through bitter experience the dangers of hasty judgment settling across his features like armor. "Ah," he said softly, almost to himself, the single syllable carrying weights of implication, "the Pentoshi proposal. Pray remind me, Lord Otto, what specific terms they have offered in their... correspondence. My recollection grows somewhat vague on the details... something concerning a proposed alliance against certain... piratical elements operating in the Stepstones?"
Otto rose from his chair with deliberate ceremony, his robes folding with the meticulous precision of a man who knew exactly how to command attention without seeming to dominate the proceedings. From the deep folds of his sleeve he produced a roll of parchment, sealed with Pentos's intricate wax—a flourish of golden ribbons and elaborate knots that spoke eloquently of wealth, power, and the subtle intimidation that came with both. He broke the seal with slow, theatrical precision, letting the soft crack of wax punctuate the gravity of the moment like a bell tolling the hour.
"Indeed, Your Grace," Otto replied, unrolling the parchment with the reverence due to a document that might reshape the realm's foreign policy. The script revealed itself to be precise enough to make a septon's heart ache with envy, each letter formed with the careful elegance of a master scribe. "Prince-Magister Norbo of Pentos writes of what he terms 'unprecedented coordination among piratical elements,' threatening, and I quote, 'the fundamental stability of legitimate commerce throughout the Narrow Sea and beyond.'"
He paused, letting his pale gaze sweep the council table, measuring reactions with the practiced eye of a man who had spent decades reading the subtle language of politics. "The Prince-Magister proposes a formal alliance between Pentos and the Iron Throne: military cooperation, shared intelligence regarding maritime threats, coordinated patrols of the trade routes—all backed, naturally, by Pentoshi gold and the promise of preferential trading agreements. What remains implicit, though hardly unstated, is that failure to address this situation in a timely manner might force Pentos to seek... alternative arrangements with other interested parties."
Princess Rhaenys, who had been listening with the focused attention of a dragon contemplating prey, leaned forward slightly, her violet gaze sharp as polished obsidian. The light from the tall windows caught the silver-gold of her hair, lending her an almost ethereal quality that somehow made her words carry additional weight. "Other interested parties," she repeated, her tone carefully measured but edged with steel. "I assume we are speaking of the Triarchy themselves? Pentos would rather sail with pirates than endure their depredations unchecked? That seems... shortsighted, even for merchants."
Otto inclined his head slightly, his expression remaining diplomatically neutral though his eyes glittered with what might have been disapproval. "A reasonable interpretation of the diplomatic nuances, Princess. Though one might question the urgency of the matter—pirates have plagued those waters for generations, and rarely has the Iron Throne seen cause for formal military intervention in what are, essentially, foreign waters with foreign concerns."
Rhaenys's lips curved into what could charitably be called a smile, though it carried all the warmth of winter wind off the Wall. "Have they indeed?" she asked softly, but her tone carried the unmistakable weight of command, enough that several seasoned councilors straightened in their chairs. "My understanding, drawn from my lord husband's reports and the intelligence we've received from various... knowledgeable sources, suggests that recent piratical activity represents a notable escalation in both scope and sophistication."
She rose from her chair with fluid grace, every movement purposeful and controlled, approaching the great map that dominated the far wall of the chamber. The ancient chart, painted on stretched leather and reinforced with silver wire, showed the known world from Westeros to the furthest reaches of Essos. Candlelight danced across her features as she moved, highlighting the sharp intelligence in her eyes and the determined set of her jaw. Her fingers traced the major trade routes through the Stepstones with the precision of a scholar who had studied every current and harbor.
"The Crabfeeder and his associates do not strike randomly or opportunistically," she said, her voice carrying easily through the chamber despite its conversational tone. "They do not merely plunder whatever lies conveniently at hand like common pirates of old. No—they target specific routes, carefully chosen cargo, particular trading relationships. This demonstrates strategy, planning, intelligence gathering. This is economic warfare, not simple piracy."
Her hand swept outward in a graceful arc, encompassing the painted representations of Lys, Myr, Tyrosh, and the far reaches of the Narrow Sea. "When Pentoshi merchants can no longer rely on trade routes that have remained stable for centuries, when Lysene silk and Myrish glass suddenly become rarities in King's Landing markets because the cost of transport has doubled overnight... that is not merely a private inconvenience for foreign merchants. That is a direct threat to the economic stability of our own realm."
Otto's lips pressed together in a thin line of displeasure, though his voice remained smooth and carefully modulated when he replied. "With all due respect, Princess, individual difficulties in foreign trade hardly justify the Crown committing itself to military adventurism in waters far from our shores. Surely House Velaryon's considerable naval resources provide sufficient protection for whatever trade is truly essential to the realm's well-being?"
The implication hung in the air like smoke from a poorly tended fire—that the princess might be conflating her house's commercial interests with the realm's strategic needs.
Rhaenys pivoted to face the Hand directly, her violet eyes narrowing to points of focused intensity, a dangerous curve touching her lips like the edge of a blade catching light. "Adequate protection, Lord Otto? Are you perhaps suggesting that the Crown's responsibility extends only as far as convenience dictates? That threats to the realm's prosperity can be safely delegated to individual noble houses while the Iron Throne remains... decorously uninvolved and politically pristine?"
Otto spread his hands in a gesture of placating civility, palms up, though the faintest glint of steel flickered in his pale gaze. "I suggest only, Princess, that we carefully distinguish between matters of legitimate royal obligation and commercial interests that may be aligned with... private ambitions. Not every complaint from merchants, however loudly voiced, necessarily warrants the deployment of warships and the commitment of royal resources."
A ripple of tension ran through the council chamber at this thinly veiled accusation. Hushed murmurs arose from the courtiers—some of curiosity, others of unease, still others of barely concealed excitement at witnessing such a direct confrontation. The implication, though couched in diplomatic language, was crystal clear: that House Velaryon, in pressing their concerns about piracy, might be motivated as much by profit and prestige as by genuine loyalty to crown and realm.
It was at this moment that Daemon Targaryen's expression underwent a subtle but unmistakable transformation. The casual amusement he had worn like a well-tailored cloak throughout the morning's proceedings snapped away, replaced by something far more predatory and infinitely more dangerous. His violet eyes, flecked with green like deep water shot through with poison, gleamed with the sort of light that had a well-documented habit of leaving men either completely charmed, utterly terrified, or permanently removed from the game of politics entirely.
"Private commercial interests," he murmured, letting each word roll off his tongue with the polite venom of a gentleman contemplating violence, "how... precise in your phrasing, Lord Otto. What a curious choice of words, given the rather interesting timing of certain correspondence I received just yesterday evening."
From inside his black leather doublet, Daemon produced two sealed letters with deliberate, theatrical care, placing them on the polished surface of the council table as though they were loaded crossbow bolts. The chamber seemed to hold its collective breath, every eye fixed on the innocuous-looking parchments that suddenly seemed to pulse with dangerous potential.
"Lords Redwyne and Manderly," he announced, his voice smooth as Dornish silk but sharp as Valyrian steel, "felt compelled to write me directly, bypassing the usual channels of communication. Complaints, observations, urgent appeals... and explicit demands for immediate action from the Crown."
Otto's pale eyes flickered toward the letters with the wariness of a man who had suddenly realized he might be walking through a field of buried dragon eggs. The slightest narrowing of his gaze betrayed the warning sirens now clanging frantically in his political instincts. "And these... coincidental communiqués from lords who rarely involve themselves in maritime matters," he said, his voice maintaining its smooth diplomatic cadence, "what, pray tell, do they contain that requires such... dramatic presentation?"
Daemon's grin was all teeth and absolutely no warmth, like a wolf that had just caught the scent of wounded prey. "Complaints," he said, savoring the word like a man tasting fine wine, "specific, thorough, meticulously documented complaints about systematic piratical activity. Affecting their shipping routes, their trade relationships, their ability to maintain profitable commerce... their very livelihoods. And these, mind you, are lords who have seldom shown even a passing affection for House Velaryon or their maritime concerns."
He picked up the first letter with deliberate theatrical flair, unrolling it as though revealing a treasure map that would lead to buried gold—or buried reputations. "Lord Robert Redwyne—whose expertise in maritime commerce is, I believe, beyond question—writes of what he terms 'systematic predation against Arbor wine shipments, resulting in significant financial losses and growing difficulty in securing maritime insurance.' It seems his merchants are now forced to hire armed escorts whose costs exceed the value of the wine they're protecting. Quite the profit margin, wouldn't you say?"
He paused, letting the implications settle like sediment in a wine cup, before continuing. "Lord Redwyne goes on to detail three specific incidents in the past month alone—ships carrying vintage wines bound for King's Landing, Oldtown, and Lannisport, each attacked with what he describes as 'suspicious precision' regarding cargo manifests and sailing schedules. One might almost think someone was providing detailed intelligence to these... entrepreneurial pirates."
The second letter received equal ceremonial treatment, and Daemon's smile deepened with each word he read. "Lord Desmond Manderly—whose White Harbor serves as one of the North's primary trading ports, as we all know—expresses 'grave and immediate concern for the safety of grain shipments' originating from his docks. He notes that recent attacks have claimed no fewer than three vessels in as many months, ships carrying enough grain to feed thousands for weeks."
Daemon's voice dropped to a more serious register, though the dangerous glint never left his eyes. "To be entirely frank, Your Grace, this represents far more than mere commercial inconvenience. This constitutes strategic economic warfare, executed with a precision that suggests detailed knowledge of the Crown's supply chains, shipping schedules, and perhaps... even more sensitive information."
King Viserys straightened in his chair, his fingers beginning to tap against the polished wood of the council table with the sort of sudden intensity that suggested genuine alarm breaking through his usual diplomatic composure. "Ships carrying provisions destined for King's Landing? Grain shipments meant to supply the capital itself?" His voice carried both disbelief and the sharp edge of worry that came when a king realized his people's welfare was at stake. "And these attacks... you describe them as coordinated, systematic?"
"Not merely coordinated, Your Grace," Daemon confirmed, his smile sharpening to a razor's edge, "but strategically planned with a level of sophistication that would do credit to a military campaign. These are not random acts of theft or opportunistic piracy. Someone is deliberately targeting the Crown's supply lines with the clear intent of disrupting the realm's economic stability. This suggests not only detailed intelligence gathering but also a coordinated effort that extends far beyond what any mere band of pirates could accomplish."
His gaze locked onto Otto Hightower with predatory intensity, violet eyes boring into the Hand's pale ones like arrows finding their mark. "Still inclined to dismiss this as merely a 'Velaryon problem,' Lord Hand? Because from where I sit, this looks remarkably like a deliberate attack on the realm's food security, the capital's ability to maintain its population, and the Crown's capacity to govern effectively. And that, I believe, falls rather squarely within your purview as Hand of the King."
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there