Tyrion carried his plate out of the hall and handed it off to a guard before slipping away. He needed to find his father. The Lysene governors had sent over their tax ledgers, and someone had to go through them. Ports, slave trade, crafts, farming, fishing, and long-distance shipping—Lys had serious money moving through it. The Iron Throne needed to understand exactly what it was taking over.
Sandor Clegane found him in the corridor. The big man's face was as sour as ever. "The Hand wants you."
"What for?"
Sandor didn't bother answering. He just turned and started walking. Tyrion sighed and followed.
When they reached the room, Tywin's cold voice came from inside. "Come in."
Tyrion pushed the door open and walked in with his usual swagger, trying to hide how uneasy he felt. Tywin took one look at him and saw straight through it.
"Over here. Look at these."
Tywin pushed a stack of finished ledgers across the table. Tyrion picked one up and flipped through it, surprised. "You've already gone through the port taxes? You work fast."
Tywin ignored the comment and tapped the ledger. "This is only half a year of revenue from one port in Lys. Millions of gold dragons. Do you understand what that means?"
Tyrion tried for humor. "That Lys is rich?"
Tywin stared at him until the joke died. "It means these Free Cities know how to gather wealth. One city already produces this kind of money. And the king wants to hand three of them to his own brothers. You don't see the problem with that?"
Tyrion kept his voice careful. "He's only confirmed Rhaegar as Prince of Lys so far. He hasn't announced anything about Myr or Tyrosh yet."
Tywin's green eyes were sharp. "One prince already exists. Do you really think the other two won't follow?"
Tyrion had no good answer. He knew exactly what Daeron was planning. He also knew Tywin had already spoken to the king about it and been turned down.
Tywin leaned forward. "I want you to use your position on the Small Council to talk the king out of this. Creating three royal princes with that kind of power is reckless. It will tear the realm apart eventually."
Tyrion stayed quiet for a moment, then nodded once and left the room without another word.
Outside, he did go looking for Daeron, but only dropped a few careful hints before making an excuse about inspecting the Perfume Garden and slipping away. He had no interest in getting caught between the king and the Hand on something this big.
Daeron watched him go and smiled faintly. He already knew Tywin had spoken to his son. It was obvious.
He understood Tywin's position completely. On the surface, Tywin was making a legitimate political argument. The Targaryens had learned the hard way what happened when too much power was handed to royal branches. The Dance had nearly destroyed the family. Handing three wealthy, independent cities to his brothers looked like the same mistake waiting to happen again.
But underneath the reasonable words, Daeron could feel the real reason. Tywin's power had reached its peak. As Hand, he stood above almost everyone. The only houses that could even pretend to challenge him were the Tyrells, the Velaryons, and the Martells—and two of those were already out of favor. Now Daeron was planning to create three new princes with wealth and status that could rival entire kingdoms. Princes who would answer only to the crown, not to Tywin.
Of course the old lion hated it.
Still, Daeron needed capable people to run the new cities while he finished the eastern campaign. His brothers were the most trustworthy option he had. He wasn't going to hand them empty titles and then tie their hands with someone else's Hand watching their every move.
That afternoon he went to see Tywin in person.
Tywin was wiping his mouth with a cloth when Daeron walked in. "Apologies, Your Grace. I've already finished lunch."
Daeron raised an eyebrow at the formal tone but didn't comment on it. "I've already eaten, Hand."
Tywin's expression shifted slightly at the title. He gestured to a chair. "Please sit."
Daeron dropped into the seat. "Tyrion said you're still against creating the princes."
"I am," Tywin said without hesitation. "Have you already forgotten what the Dance cost this family?"
Daeron met his eyes. "I need people I can trust to hold these cities. If I can't trust my own brothers, who am I supposed to trust?"
Tywin was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "If you insist on doing this, then at the very least Myr and Tyrosh should have their own Hands. Men who can limit the princes' power and report directly to the Iron Throne."
Daeron didn't answer right away. He already knew who he wanted in those positions. But he wasn't going to hand Tywin that information yet.
Tywin continued. "The men chosen for those roles will need to be strong enough to stand against royal blood. Weak men will be useless."
Daeron leaned back in the chair. "I'll think about it."
He would think about it. But he already knew the answer. His brothers were going to rule those cities. And they were going to rule them with real power, not as puppets. If Tywin didn't like it, that was his problem.
For now, the old lion still needed to be useful. Daeron would keep him close until the campaign was finished. After that, things could change.
He stood up. "We'll talk more later."
Tywin gave a short nod, but his eyes stayed cold. The conversation wasn't over. Not even close.