Tyrion headed out the door grinning like a kid who'd just been handed the keys to the wine cellar.
Daeron set his work aside and let his mind drift back over the meeting with Tywin earlier that day. Lately they'd kept things strictly proper—king and Hand, discussing the realm's business like civilized men. But every single time the conversation wrapped up, Tywin gave him that look. The one that said, clear as day: Marry Cersei. Marry Cersei. Marry Cersei.
Daeron's head was starting to hurt.
A man like him—free-spirited, allergic to chains—hadn't even brought Shiera to King's Landing for the sake of keeping the royal house steady. He'd turned down Ashara Dayne too. So why the hell would he saddle himself with Cersei just to make that old lion happy? Even if Tywin threw Casterly Rock in as a dowry, Daeron wasn't biting. Not now.
"Rhaegar's actually showing some backbone for once," Daeron muttered. He flicked his wrist and a letter appeared in his hand.
It had come from Rhaegar the moment he reached the Smoking Sea—handed off to Victarion to send back to King's Landing. Victarion himself had pulled out of New Ghis and was now sailing the Iron Fleet along the outer edges of the Smoking Sea. Two reasons: New Ghis had exploded into riots and kicked the ironborn out, and Victarion was following direct orders to scout the Smoking Sea's situation. The ironborn hated the place, so they were cooperating with Rhaegar for now—staying on the perimeter, keeping watch.
Rhaegar clearly didn't want anyone sneaking up on his ass again.
"He's already inside the Smoking Sea," Daeron said under his breath, impressed despite himself.
Rhaegar could be an idiot. Selfish as hell. But the man had guts. The Smoking Sea was a cursed graveyard to most sailors, yet he'd sailed straight back in without hesitation.
"You and I working together, brother—who could possibly stop us?"
Daeron allowed himself a half-smile. To be fair, Rhaegar made an excellent lightning rod.
The letter said the haze over the Smoking Sea had thinned noticeably. The cursed waters had shrunk a little. City-states all over Essos were sending scouting fleets.
"Is the Valyrian Peninsula actually coming back?" Daeron wondered aloud.
He read the rest. Rhaegar mentioned Drogon flying east, but the details were basically the same as what Lucerys had already reported. No confirmation whether the black dragon had actually entered the Smoking Sea.
"Enough of that. Time to go harvest."
Daeron stood, stretched, and headed for Dragon-Tongue Farm like he did every day. King by day, farmer by habit. It kept him sane.
He'd found the selling box at the desert oasis—could buy starfruit seeds, trade for ladders, the usual. But he still hadn't located any ancient spots or real artifacts. No sewer entrance either. King's Landing's sewers were a nightmare of backed-up shit and rotting corpses anyway. Mace had crews cleaning every couple of months and it still stank to the heavens. Daeron wasn't going down there.
Reality and the panel were never going to match up perfectly. He accepted it with a small sigh of regret. He liked collecting things. He really wanted that Starfruit and the Return Scepter the sewer merchant supposedly sold.
"Aunt Genna!"
Tyrion practically bounced out the Dragon Gate at the head of a small escort, personally going to meet his aunt and her family.
"Giggle, giggle—my little Tyrion, you're still so tiny!"
Lady Genna covered her mouth and laughed. Tywin's sister wasn't young anymore, but two sons had rounded her out in all the right ways. Her neckline was fighting a losing battle against the full, pale swell of her chest. She looked like one big, soft, tempting treat.
"Aunt Genna, your figure's looking even better than last time."
Tyrion grinned up at her.
Genna laughed harder and waved a hand. "Give me a couple more years and I'll pop out two more boys. Then you won't be complimenting me like that."
Tyrion walked beside her. "Don't worry. You'll always look young and perfect to me."
"Thank you, sweetheart." Genna's smile softened, then she asked casually, "Where's your father? Still treating you like shit?"
"He's busy. You know how it is—Hand of the King, everything on his shoulders."
Tyrion didn't answer the second part.
Genna understood immediately and shook her head. "Your father's too damn hard on you. You were born this way—blame him and Joanna. Cousins marrying cousins, what did they expect?"
"Pinning it all on you isn't fair."
Tyrion felt cold sweat prickle down his back. That kind of talk on a public street could get a person in serious trouble.
"Don't look so scared. Your father talks tough, but he feels guilty toward me. He won't touch his poor little sister who married beneath her."
Genna said it like she was discussing the weather. She had a boldness most men never managed.
Warmth bloomed in Tyrion's chest. That was why he liked her. Only she ever said he was innocent.
They walked on. Genna pulled a bunch of grapes from her pocket, popped a few into her mouth, and asked, "Jaime still playing Kingsguard?"
"Yeah. He seems to enjoy the costume."
"Then he's really not coming back for Casterly Rock?"
"Who knows."
Tyrion had no answer for that one.
Genna slowed her steps. She glanced around, made sure no one was close, then bent down so her voice was low. "If your father had any sense, the second Jaime refused to come around, he'd name you heir to Casterly Rock. You listening?"
As she leaned over, her generous chest threatened to spill right out of her dress. Tyrion took a quick step back.
But the words hit him like a hammer. Name him heir?
"He won't."
Tyrion said it fast, absolutely certain.
Genna's face went serious. "Listen to me. I'm not joking. I watched Jaime nurse at Joanna's breast. Watched him grow up. He smiles like Gerion, fights like Tygett, and there's even a little Kevan in him—otherwise he never would've taken the white cloak."
"But?"
Genna nodded once, firm. "But you are Tywin's son. Not him."
Tyrion stared at her, mouth open.
Genna straightened and smoothed her skirts like she hadn't just dropped a bomb. "I told your father that once. He didn't speak to me for half a year afterward."
"Men are stubborn fools. Even the smartest ones."
"You—what are you saying?"
Tyrion's brain had gone completely blank.
"Nothing, sweetheart." Genna changed the subject smoothly. "I heard the king made you Minister of Justice. That's a serious position."
"Yes. His Grace values me."
Tyrion answered on autopilot.
Genna nodded, pleased. "Do well. Of all your father's children, you're the one with real promise. One day you'll take his place."
Lannister Hand, version two.
Tyrion gave a weak laugh. His mind was still spinning on those earlier words. You are Tywin's son. Not him.
He told himself it just meant Jaime was too much knight and not enough politician. That had to be it.
Back in the Red Keep, Daeron and Tywin were buried in ledgers from the three cities.
"I shouldn't have let Tyrion leave on time," Daeron muttered. "He should still be here helping."
Tywin didn't look up. "He's lazy by nature. The moment he heard Genna was coming, he probably sprinted out the door to greet her instead of doing any real work."
Daeron shot him a sideways glance. Sometimes he genuinely wondered if Tyrion was even Tywin's son. Even if the man disliked the boy, did he have to shit-talk his own child every chance he got?
A knock. Varys entered, face grave.
"Your Grace. Urgent news."
Daeron glanced at Tywin—close enough to an insider. "What is it?"
"It concerns Volantis," Varys said carefully. "Reliable sources say someone there is shipping a dragon egg out of the city. Left from Volon Therys. Destination: Qohor."