Fall 27th, Clear Skies, Saturday, 10:30 AM.
King's Landing.
Daeron stood in the Council Chamber, gazing out at the Dragonpit, which was being rebuilt stone by stone.
In his designs, the Dragonpit was a colossal domed structure with great arched openings at the front and rear, abandoning the original bronze doors. The dome itself was incomplete, left open at the apex.
This way, the dragons could fly out from the top at any moment.
"Prince, the cost of rebuilding the Dragonpit is exorbitant."
Lord Staunton finally ceased his rambling and turned to corner Daeron.
Daeron was speechless. He tried to deflect. "My Lord, you really should discuss this with the other ministers. I'm only here as an observer."
The Commander of the City Watch had the right to attend the Small Council when summoned. But Daeron was merely sitting in for his father.
Or rather, he had been ordered to attend by his teacher, Tywin, and practically dragged there by the other ministers.
Staunton was stubborn. "Rebuilding the Dragonpit was your proposal. You ought to be involved."
Daeron didn't want to beat up an old man, so he resigned himself to sitting down.
Tywin, presiding over the meeting, looked at his uncooperative student and suddenly asked, "I hear your recruitment for the Dragon's Guard isn't going smoothly?"
Daeron paused, then answered honestly. "It's manageable. Just a shortage of suitable recruits."
It had been nearly half a month since the trip to Harrenhal. The Dragon's Guard had grown to one hundred and seventy-eight men.
To reach this number, he had combed through the dragonseeds and those of Valyrian descent on Driftmark, and even poached some younger sons from the noble houses of the Crownlands.
He hadn't touched Dragonstone yet.
While Dragonstone had a fair number of dragonseeds, the atmosphere on the island was poor, and their loyalty was questionable. Plus, it was Rhaegar's fief; there was nothing left for him to glean from there.
"Good."
Tywin offered a curt assessment before revealing his intent. "My brother, Gerion Lannister, is preparing to sail across the Narrow Sea."
"Young men are restless; they always want to carve out a world of their own."
"When he reaches Lys or Volantis, he can recruit a company of Valyrians for you."
"Thank you," Daeron said.
The sudden gesture of goodwill caught him off guard.
Tywin returned to his stern demeanor, addressing the matter at hand. "The Dragonpit is already a massive expense. With the upcoming development of the Prince's own lands, the treasury is running a deficit."
The ministers nodded in unison.
Seeing no objections, Tywin looked directly at the Master of Coin. "Lord Chelsted, what are your thoughts?"
"My Lord Hand, perhaps we could appropriately increase the port tariffs," Qarlton Chelsted suggested hesitantly.
As Master of Coin, raising taxes was his instinctive reaction.
Tywin pondered for a moment, then nodded. "Lannisport will support a tax hike, but how will you persuade the other lords?"
"Well..."
Chelsted was momentarily stumped.
Westeros was relatively backward, and major ports were few and far between. The lords who controlled those ports were not people he could easily offend.
Tywin glanced at him and spoke flatly. "Start with the Crownlands. Those minor houses wouldn't dare disobey."
Daeron watched silently.
This wasn't a good idea. The Crownlands were House Targaryen's base of power, and those minor houses were loyal. Raising taxes rashly would damage their reputation.
Someone stepped in to smooth things over.
Varys, sitting like a soft, powdered lump, spoke up. "News from this morning. Lord Leyton of Oldtown has dispatched his eldest son, Ser Baelor, to petition the Iron Throne. He is on his way as we speak."
As he spoke, he looked at Daeron with an inscrutable expression.
Daeron kept his face impassive. "Lord Varys, is there something on my face?"
"You jest, my Prince."
Varys wouldn't dare offend him, but he offered his advice. "Ser Baelor is famously reasonable. If we communicate with him properly, Lord Leyton should agree to a modest increase in tariffs."
"A sound plan," Tywin nodded slightly.
Chelsted and Lucerys Velaryon also stated they would persuade Gulltown and Claw Isle to increase their tax payments for the year.
As for the other ports, there was truly nothing to be done.
---
Meeting Adjourned.
Daeron was about to leave when he was approached by two groups.
One group was from Maidenpool—Lord Mooton had come to collect his brother, Myles. Daeron decided to meet with them later.
The other group came from the far North, men clad in black cloaks: the Night's Watch.
A recruiting officer raised his hand in salute, his voice grave. "Prince, we thank you for your support of the Night's Watch. The Lord Commander has sent us to collect the eight hundred and ninety criminals you arrested."
"Walk with me."
Since it was his first time meeting men of the Watch, Daeron instructed Ser Jon, "Call Davos. He's had dealings with the Night's Watch before."
---
12:10 PM.
The conversation ended.
As Daeron watched the Night's Watch depart with their new recruits, he felt a mix of emotions.
He had asked about the state of the Watch, and the answer was far from ideal.
Since the reign of his grandfather, Jaehaerys II, the Iron Throne's support for the Night's Watch had been negligible.
The Watch now relied almost entirely on Winterfell for aid. Their numbers had dwindled to fewer than two thousand, and several castles along the Wall had been abandoned and sealed shut.
"Every organization has its rot," Davos said, noticing the Prince's distraction.
He had once smuggled goods for the Watch at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and had seen with his own eyes brothers selling supplies to the wildlings beyond the Wall.
It had shocked him greatly.
Though it hadn't stopped him from smuggling, it did lead him to discover a certain unique crop—the very crop that had eventually brought him into Daeron's service.
Daeron shook his head. "The rot is a minor issue. I worry only that when Winter comes, the Night's Watch won't be able to hold the line."
In the stories, the Night's Watch was brave and honorable, yet still plagued by scum that nearly tore the order apart.
The current Lord Commander wasn't yet the "Old Bear," Jeor Mormont, and whether Jon Snow would ever exist was another matter entirely.
If the White Walkers returned, the situation would be dire.
Davos didn't understand the deeper implications, but he offered practical advice. "If you fear for their plight, why not send them some supplies?"
"That is all I can do for now," Daeron accepted.
The purge of King's Landing had given the Night's Watch a massive infusion of manpower. Sending additional supplies might help them regain some strength.
"Do it in the name of the Iron Throne," Daeron added.
He had asked after his great-great-uncle, Maester Aemon, and learned that the old man was doing well. He was healthy, eating and sleeping fine. He spent his days in the library, offering answers or medical treatment whenever the brothers of Castle Black had need.
"The Citadel hasn't decided on a Grand Maester yet," Daeron mused to himself. "I'll find a chance to visit the Wall after the Tourney at Harrenhal."
By then, the dragons should be larger. Even if the Three-Eyed Crow had tricks up his sleeve, he wouldn't be able to touch him.
---
The Tower of the Hand.
Crash!
Tywin was in a fury, hurling his wine goblet across the room. "You insolent boy! I sent you to Riverrun to deliver a letter, and you come back empty-handed!?"
Jaime dodged the goblet, looking a little frightened.
Tywin roared, "Lord Hoster wrote to me saying his daughter has locked herself in her room crying, all because you left without a word!"
Half a month ago, when his eldest son had taken it upon himself to return to King's Landing, Tywin had sensed something was wrong.
Today, a raven from Riverrun arrived, and his son's little scheme could no longer be hidden.
"Father, listen to me," Jaime pleaded his innocence. "That Tully girl didn't care for me at all, just as I didn't care for her."
Tywin demanded, "Then why is she crying?"
Jaime scratched his head, bewildered. "Who doesn't cry? The first thing a babe does when it's born is cry."
Tywin's vision went black for a second. He nearly fainted.
How in the Seven Hells had he fathered such a fool?