"You little brat—where have you been!?"
Aerys suddenly roared, his violet eyes flashing with madness and fury.
The outburst was enough to send Grand Maester Pycelle trembling and make Varys's faint smile freeze in place.
Everyone knew it — the "Mad King" was dangerous.
And now his madness was aimed at his favorite son.
"The Riverlands, Father," Daeron answered calmly.
Aerys's breath came heavy. "Where exactly?"
Daeron brushed past the two drawn swords blocking his way and said clearly, "The Riverlands. By your command, I chastised House Blackwood and earned the respect of both the Blackwoods and the Brackens."
He stepped forward toward the Iron Throne — slow, measured, but fearless.
Meeting his father's burning gaze, he added, "Now the Riverlands sing of your mercy and justice, Father. They long to see the face of their gracious king."
It was shameless flattery — and flawless delivery.
But Aerys believed it.
"Really?" he muttered, almost doubting himself.
Daeron nodded earnestly. "Even Lord Tytos Blackwood spoke of Your Majesty's wisdom with deep admiration. He insisted I stay as his guest for months longer — I had to remind him that the King's summons cannot be ignored."
Aerys burst out laughing. "Ha! Of course! I am the King!"
Seeing the madness pacified, Daeron exhaled quietly.
He'd learned long ago that the only way to manage his father's moods was through careful words — a kind of manipulation wrapped in filial piety. From childhood, he'd talked his father down from bouts of anger time and again.
As the saying goes: communication builds bridges. And Daeron, being both patient and clever, had built a strong one across the storm of Aerys's mind.
When the king finally relaxed, he waved Daeron closer for details.
Daeron didn't hesitate. He stepped up the twisted, blade-forged steps of the Iron Throne. As he passed the guards, he nodded politely. "Thank you for your service, Ser Barristan."
The silver-haired knight inclined his head. "A king's guard does his duty, Your Grace."
Barristan the Bold — a living legend. His courage rivaled Ser Ryam Redwyne and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight before him. Among the seven white cloaks, even Lord Commander Gerold Hightower deferred to him when it came to the King's personal safety.
Daeron spoke softly as he reached the throne's final step. He spun a gentle tale — one that made Aerys smile again, guiding him through words and gestures into momentary peace.
"May I tend to you, Father?" Daeron asked.
Aerys nodded, entranced.
Daeron carefully trimmed his father's long nails, filed the edges, tied up his disheveled hair, and straightened the golden crown. Gently, he even trimmed the unkempt beard under his chin.
He moved with practiced ease. It wasn't the first time he'd done this.
Down below, Varys nudged the drowsy Pycelle with an elbow. "Remarkable, isn't it?" he murmured.
Pycelle mumbled awake, squinting. "Ah—yes, yes, I wholly support giving the prince a small estate…"
Varys's polite smile didn't reach his eyes.
Sharp old fox, he thought. Knows when to play dumb.
The three Kingsguard watched in silence. Occasionally they stole glances upward — at the freshly groomed king who, for once, looked almost regal again.
Aerys Targaryen had once been handsome and decisive — tall, strong, striking in royal purple and gold. He had possessed a natural authority that drew respect.
But years of isolation, paranoia, and fasting had hollowed him out. His pallid face and gaunt frame stole any hint of vitality.
Still, for a moment, Daeron restored a glimmer of his former majesty.
"Enough. You may go," Aerys said at last, voice calmer now.
Daeron didn't move. "Father, about the grant you promised…"
The king smirked faintly. "You'll have a fief along the Blackwater Rush. It was your grandfather's gift to you."
Daeron left the throne room, barely suppressing the grin tugging at his lips. A fief — land of his own. Exactly what he needed.
Halfway down the hall, he came face-to-face with Tywin Lannister.
The Lord of Casterly Rock, just past forty, was as imposing as rumor said — tall, lean, with golden hair and pale green eyes that carried the weight of command.
"The matter in the Riverlands — resolved?" Tywin asked in a low, steady tone.
Daeron said nothing, brushing past him without pause.
For a moment, the air between them went still.
Tywin merely turned his head slightly, ignoring the slight, and continued toward the throne room.
From behind, Daeron could still hear that iron voice announce, "Is His Grace fit to receive me? I have matters of state to discuss."
That night, inside the Tower of the Hand —
The office was modest in size but lavishly furnished. Deer hides hung on the walls, a bearskin rug covered the floor, and carved tables gleamed under the firelight.
Two silhouettes flickered within the hearth's glow.
Tywin leaned back in his chair, watching the young man before him. "So," he said, "the Riverlands dispute was settled?"
"Yes," Daeron replied evenly.
"And the Tullys or the Brackens — any resentment?"
"Lord Hoster Tully resents the crown," Daeron said, "but he lacks the courage to act on it."
Tywin smiled thinly. "Good. Better than I expected."
The fire threw light across the table, illuminating Daeron's face.
This time, he wasn't the polite, distant prince — he was a student facing his teacher.
"Your praise is too generous," he said. "Without your guidance, I wouldn't have succeeded."
Yes — Tywin Lannister, his future enemy, was now his mentor.
Daeron knew exactly what he was doing.
He needed to learn. To watch. To understand.
Tywin's ambition was obvious, but rebellion hadn't yet taken shape. For now, there was no reason they couldn't cooperate.
A graduate student in his past life, Daeron had no real-world experience. Awakening here as a teenage prince didn't suddenly make him a political master.
He needed a teacher — and the most brilliant political mind in the Seven Kingdoms sat across from him.
To defeat Tywin one day, he would first have to become Tywin.
Observe. Imitate. Analyze.
Think as he thinks, reason as he reasons — and eventually, surpass him.
That was Daeron's personal philosophy of reform.
If persuasion failed, he would need the strength to confront him.
This first success — settling the feud between Blackwood and Bracken — had been Tywin's test. Tywin had told him directly: the key wasn't the two families themselves but the passive inaction of House Tully.
Daeron had built on that advice, maneuvering perfectly — flattering the right people, shaming others subtly, creating peace without leaving openings for complaint.
Even Aerys had found no fault.
"Boy," Tywin said sharply, breaking the silence, "too much humility borders on arrogance."
He leaned forward, eyes glinting. "Remind me — who solved this mess?"
Daeron's lips curved. "I did."
"Good."
Tywin's expression softened into the faintest approval. "Pour me a cup of wine."
As Daeron obeyed, Tywin continued, "We'll discuss your new holdings. You'll find them interesting."
To the public, the prince wasn't his pupil. Not yet.
But behind closed doors — the Hand of the King had just taken the King's clever son under his wing.
And that could change everything.