Two days later, Myr was quiet again.
With help from Tristan and the surviving governors, the city had settled into an uneasy peace. Daeron knew the real work was just starting—claims, rewards, and making sure the people didn't hate their new rulers.
Tywin Lannister sailed in from Tyrosh to attend the war council. Where the king was, that was the council.
---
The hall was quiet when Tywin walked in.
He wore polished armor and a red cloak, helm tucked under one arm like he'd just stepped off a battlefield. He moved with the calm confidence of a man who expected the room to bend around him.
Tyrion, perched on a low stool, went very still.
Daeron noticed.
"Your Grace," Tywin said, voice crisp. He gave a small nod that was barely a bow.
Daeron smiled thinly. "Bring Lord Tywin a chair."
A guard started forward.
"No need," Tywin cut in. His eyes landed on his son. "Tyrion. Fetch your father a chair. Show some respect."
Tyrion's face went blank. He started to stand.
"Sit down," Daeron said.
The words were quiet, but they landed like iron.
Tywin turned his gaze on the king. "Your Grace, I only asked my son to—"
"You asked a minister of the Iron Throne to fetch you a chair in my presence," Daeron interrupted. "That's not happening. The only person who gives orders to my council is me."
The room went still.
Tyrion froze halfway off the stool, eyes wide.
Tywin stared at Daeron for a long moment. Then his mouth curved in something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Very well," he said smoothly. "I'll be sure to tell the family how highly the king values my son's service."
He sat when Staunton brought the chair anyway, looking perfectly at ease.
Daeron let it pass. For now.
"Lord Tarly," he said, turning to business. "Let's hear the list of men who earned rewards in Myr."
Randyll Tarly stepped forward and handed over a parchment. Daeron read it, then passed it to Tywin.
The names were the usual mix of Reach, North, and Vale lords who'd fought well—Randyll himself, Paxter Redwyne, Eddard Stark, Jorah Mormont, Thoros of Myr, and others.
Tywin slid his own list across the table without being asked.
"Tyrosh," he said.
Daeron scanned it. Tywin and Lucerys Velaryon at the top, followed by Kevan, Addam Marbrand, and several other Lannister bannermen.
Typical.
"I've decided," Daeron said, "to grant lands in the Disputed Lands to the Tyrells, Redwynes, Starks, Hightowers, Royces, and several others who fought hard. Including Jorah Mormont and a few of your own men, Lord Tywin."
Tywin's jaw tightened. "You're giving fertile land in the Disputed Lands to the Starks and Royces? Men who rebelled against the crown?"
"I am," Daeron said flatly. "They'll put down roots here. Help hold what we've taken. I need strong houses with something to lose."
Tywin didn't like it. Daeron could see it in the way his fingers drummed once on the arm of the chair. But he didn't argue.
Not yet.
Daeron leaned back. "There's one more thing. Tyrion's service in both Tyrosh and Myr has been exceptional. I'm naming him Minister of Justice."
Staunton's head snapped up. "Your Grace—then what am I?"
Daeron looked at him. "You're going back to Casterly Rock to move chairs."
The old man went red.
Tyrion sat very still on his little stool, staring at the floor like he was afraid the moment would vanish if he looked up.
Tywin said nothing.
But his eyes stayed on his son a little too long.