"Boy, where the hell have you been!?"
Aerys's sudden roar echoed through the chamber. He lifted his head, revealing purple eyes gleaming with paranoia and rage.
He was furious.
The shout made old Pycelle flinch. Varys's smile tightened.
Everyone knew the Mad King was dangerous.
Now that danger was aimed at his favorite son.
"The Riverlands, Father," Daeron said calmly.
Aerys breathed heavily. "Where?"
Daeron stepped past the crossed swords blocking his path, his voice absolutely certain. "The Riverlands. Following your command, I chastised House Blackwood and won recognition from both families."
He approached the isolated Iron Throne, his movements measured but steady.
Meeting his father's suspicious gaze, he continued: "Even now, the Riverlands sings Your Grace's praises. They speak of your wisdom and justice, longing for the honor of your presence."
Complete and utter horseshit, delivered with a straight face.
But some people believed it.
"Really?" Aerys hesitated, doubt creeping in.
Daeron nodded confidently. "Lord Tytos himself was so moved by your decree that he kept me at Raventree for two months as his honored guest. He only let me leave when he learned you'd summoned me repeatedly."
"Ha ha ha!" Aerys laughed heartily.
Yes. That's exactly how it should be. I am the King!
Seeing his father appeased, Daeron relaxed slightly, feeling a twinge of... emptiness.
He understood Aerys's psychology perfectly. There'd never been any real danger.
He'd been managing his father this way since childhood.
Sure, some might say it was wrong to manipulate someone who was already... unstable.
But psychology taught that communication was the most important bridge between people.
By mastering that communication, he'd maintained his father's affection for ten solid years.
Making the best of a bad situation, patching the biggest holes he could.
After his laughter subsided, Aerys seemed energized. He beckoned his second son closer to hear the full story.
Daeron didn't hesitate, climbing the Iron Throne's twisted steps.
Passing the Kingsguard stationed there, he nodded politely. "Thank you for your service, Ser Barristan."
"My duty, Your Highness." The knight's expression didn't change.
Daeron nodded approvingly.
Barristan Selmy—"Barristan the Bold"—a living legend on par with the great Kingsguard of old like Ser Aemon the Dragonknight.
His status spoke for itself. Of the three Kingsguard present, Lord Commander Ser Gerold was relegated to the base of the throne, while Barristan alone stood on its steps, personally guarding the king who trusted no one else.
In terms of martial skill, he was among the finest warriors on the continent.
Combined with his honor and loyalty, he had no equal.
People like that elevated everyone around them—even kings.
"Father, let me tell you..."
Daeron's voice was warm as he settled onto the top step, spinning beautiful fabrications to soothe his father's frayed nerves.
At a crucial moment, he took Aerys's long-nailed hand and offered to help him look presentable.
Absorbed in the story, Aerys allowed it.
Daeron trimmed his father's overgrown nails, filing them smooth. He gathered the king's long hair and tied it back neatly, straightening the gold dragon crown that had slipped askew.
Finally, he tilted his father's chin up and trimmed the scraggly beard.
Everything proceeded calmly, as if it were routine.
The boy worked efficiently, finishing quickly.
"Even having seen it before, I find it miraculous every time."
Varys leaned toward the dozing Pycelle, elbowing him gently.
Pycelle startled awake, mumbling groggily: "Ah? Yes, yes, I support granting the prince a fief."
Varys's eyes narrowed, his smile fading.
What a master of playing the fool.
Ignoring the political maneuvering between the Small Council members, the three Kingsguard stood silent watch, occasionally stealing glances at their now-presentable king.
Aerys actually looked quite good when properly groomed.
One only had to look at Prince Daeron's handsome features, or his siblings' beauty, to imagine what the king had looked like in his youth.
Now, with Aerys calmer, no longer tense, he reclined against the Iron Throne with one hand draped over a blade-edged armrest, the other supporting his sharp jawline.
He was handsome, with penetrating eyes that radiated the natural authority of power.
Crowned and dressed in purple royal robes, his tall frame displayed the dignity such garments deserved.
If not for his pallor from rarely leaving the Red Keep, and the gauntness from frequent fasting, he would cut an impressive royal figure.
The young Aerys had been exactly that impressive.
Not just handsome, but decisive and generous—beloved by the nobility.
But with age came jealousy and mediocrity.
Especially after the Defiance of Duskendale in 276 AC, when Lord Denys Darklyn imprisoned him in a dungeon for six months of humiliation and torture.
No one had rescued him.
Denys threatened to execute the king if anyone attacked, so no one dared.
Hand Tywin had led the rescue force.
Lord Tywin besieged the town for half a year, then decided that whether Denys released his prisoner or not, he would storm Duskendale.
Denys could kill the captive king if he wished. Tywin would level the town to its foundations.
Aerys had been abandoned.
Even by his own son Rhaegar.
When Rhaegar learned of his father's imprisonment, he never showed his face, as if he didn't care whether his father lived or died.
Fortunately, things hadn't reached the worst outcome.
The night before Tywin's assault, Ser Barristan had stepped forward, begging for one night to attempt a solo rescue.
Tywin agreed.
That night, Barristan proved both his prowess and his loyalty.
Alone, he'd cut a bloody path out of Duskendale with the rescued king, accomplishing the impossible.
That was why Aerys now trusted only Barristan for personal protection.
Daeron felt a pang of helplessness.
He'd only watched the show, which hadn't covered his father's history in detail. He'd had no foreknowledge to warn anyone.
Before Duskendale, Aerys had actually been a decent father in Daeron's memory.
According to the old septas in the court, even in his youth Aerys had shown signs of volatility and capriciousness.
But after his children were born—especially after Daeron's birth—he'd mellowed considerably.
Who could have guessed one traumatic event would not only undo all that progress, but make the madness worse?
"Enough. Go rest now."
Aerys waved him away.
Daeron didn't forget his objective. He stood but didn't move.
Aerys's expression hardened again, his tone almost mocking. "I'll give you a holding on the Blackwater Rush. Your grandfather left it for you."
Walking out of the throne room, Daeron allowed himself a quiet smile of satisfaction.
He nearly collided with someone coming the other way.
Tywin Lannister was in his early forties, with thick golden hair and pale green eyes. His tall, lean frame radiated power—a sleeping lion.
"The Riverlands matter resolved satisfactorily?"
Tywin stopped, his voice deep and resonant.
Daeron looked straight ahead and walked past without a word.
The awkward silence hung heavy.
Tywin watched him go, not bothering to pursue the slight, and continued toward the throne room.
From a distance, Daeron could still hear that distinctive voice asking if the king was still present, requesting an audience to discuss matters of state.
That evening, the Tower of the Hand.
The room was modest in size but richly appointed. Tanned deer hides decorated the walls, bearskin rugs covered the floors, and agate goblets sat on solid wood tables.
Firelight from the hearth cast two tall shadows.
Tywin's hands rested on his chair's armrests. "The Riverlands matter resolved satisfactorily?"
"Yes."
"No resentment from House Tully or House Bracken?"
"Lord Hoster Tully resents the Crown, but lacks the spine for open defiance."
Tywin chuckled, clearly pleased. "Good. You handled it better than I expected."
The firelight revealed who sat across from him.
Daeron.
"You're too kind, my lord. Without your guidance, it wouldn't have been nearly so smooth." Daeron shook his head, his manner completely different from that afternoon.
He'd become a student of his family's future greatest enemy.
Daeron understood the situation perfectly. He was here to learn.
Tywin's ambitions were obvious, but his crimes against House Targaryen hadn't happened yet.
Which meant there was no irreconcilable conflict between them. Yet.
Communication was key to everything.
In his past life, Daeron had been an ordinary graduate student who'd never faced the harsh realities of the working world.
Even after awakening his memories, he was just a prince living in the royal court.
An average twentysomething combined with an average eleven-year-old didn't create someone who could play at the political table.
He needed a teacher.
Looking across the Seven Kingdoms, the finest political mind sat before him.
Tywin Lannister.
Daeron's strategy was crystal clear: to defeat him, first observe him, then learn from him, then surpass him.
Study how he approached problems. Learn how he solved them. Analyze the pros and cons of his decisions.
In simpler terms: think as he thinks, see as he sees.
Eventually, become him. Then surpass him.
That was the path to revolution.
If communication failed and Tywin wouldn't abandon his ambitions...
Well, then Daeron would have the skills to defeat him.
This recent Riverlands affair had been a perfect example. Tywin had advised him that the real issue wasn't the feuding houses themselves, but House Tully's failure to govern.
Daeron had grasped it immediately.
Leveraging power dynamics, praising publicly while criticizing privately, winning hearts and minds...
A smooth combination that caught everyone off-guard. He'd not only resolved the situation and brought all three houses to heel, but done it so well even his father couldn't find fault.
"Boy, false modesty is just another form of arrogance."
Tywin's smile vanished, his tone stern. "Remind me—who actually solved this problem?"
Daeron's lips quirked. "I did."
"Exactly."
Tywin studied his hidden pupil with approval. "Pour me some wine, boy. I'm going to brief you on your new holding."
A student who couldn't be acknowledged publicly wasn't really one of your own.
But a student with a legitimate claim to the Iron Throne? An eligible, unmarried, handsome prince?
That changed everything.