"I am dead against it!"
Tywin shot to his feet, voice like a whip crack. No way in the Seven Hells was he letting some brand-new system gut the old order.
He was a beneficiary of the old system.
Daeron's "reforms" looked harmless on paper—no direct rule over the Stormlands—but they would lock the entire region under the crown tighter than any new Lord Paramount ever could.
Give it twenty years and the Stormlands would be nothing but a second Crownlands.
Daeron didn't even blink.
Opposition noted.
Rejected.
"Master of the Kingswood… Warden of the Kingsroad…" Aerys muttered, turning the new offices over in his limited political brain.
On the surface it strengthened the crown.
A Master of the Kingswood could patrol the royal forest, stable the royal horses, and smash poachers whenever he felt like it.
A Warden of the Kingsroad could watch every lord in the Stormlands. The second anyone even thought about treason, the Iron Throne could act directly through its own officials—no middleman Lord Paramount skimming the take.
Aerys's eyes lit up. He slammed the table. "Brilliant!"
Way better than handing Storm's End to some random lord and giving away hard-won land.
Tywin looked ready to murder someone.
The rest of the Small Council might be called a pack of scheming idiots, but they weren't stupid. Their minds worked fast.
Lord Staunton jumped in first. "Impossible. The Seven Kingdoms have always been ruled by dukes and their vassals. There is no precedent for the crown appointing officials to oversee an entire kingdom!"
Daeron fired back instantly. "The king grants duchies. The king can grant warden-ships. What's the difference?"
Staunton opened his mouth… and closed it. No answer.
The other councillors lowered their heads, suddenly very interested in the grain of the table.
At its core, Daeron was right.
But the new system ripped power away from the dukes and handed it straight back to the Iron Throne.
The old rule—"my vassal's vassal is not my vassal"—was dead.
Now it was "my vassal's vassal is still my vassal."
It shattered the entire noble hierarchy.
"Prince, think carefully," Lord Corlton tried, voice shaky.
Daeron didn't even glance at him.
The council had split: Tywin against it, everyone else silent.
No supporters.
Aerys, after thinking for half a minute, actually grinned. "Even if we create these offices, the appointments must come through me! I will turn the Stormlands into the Iron Throne's strongest fortress!"
Bang!
Daeron slammed both palms on the table so hard the wine cups jumped.
"These reforms will happen. I will personally carry them out. Anyone who opposes me today is opposing me directly!"
His voice rang like steel on steel.
Aerys flinched. For one clear second the madness left his eyes—he actually looked sober.
Tywin's face went white. For the first time he felt the shift: his former student no longer needed him.
Daeron had land, titles, armies, and three battle-ready dragons.
No one in this room could control him anymore.
"Gulp…"
Corlton swallowed loudly, trying to play peacemaker. "Prince, let's not be hasty. We can discuss—"
"I'm done discussing. You're not worth the time."
Daeron didn't waste another breath. "I have already chosen the three office-holders. Their names will be submitted to this council later.
Remember—I am Warden of the Realm. In wartime, every army answers to me.
I will not hear another word of opposition."
Aerys's face twisted like he'd bitten a lemon. If his mind hadn't been unusually clear today, he would already be screaming.
A naked threat.
His own son had just climbed onto the throne and pissed on the king's head.
Tywin didn't look any happier. Being publicly overruled and threatened by a thirteen-year-old while the boy quoted his own supreme military authority? That was humiliation.
The councillors did a complete 180.
Lord Staunton suddenly found the floor fascinating.
Corlton gave an awkward, polite smile, terrified of ending up on the prince's list.
"I support it," Lord Luthor said after a long pause, raising his hand.
He was a Crownlands lord and one of the old Valyrian families that had benefited most from the dragons' return. As long as the Iron Throne stayed strong, House Velaryon had no reason to fight.
Varys quietly lifted his hand too—just enough to be counted, no more.
Maester Aemon frowned, looked at the twitching Aerys, then at the rising Daeron, and spoke softly. "The Stormlands are in ruins. Even if the new system is imperfect, it can stabilize the region faster than the old one."
He had decades of wisdom. He might not know the phrase "centralization," but he understood Daeron wanted to expand the Crownlands and strengthen royal power.
Translation: Punch the softest target first.
If the Stormlands accepted the reforms—great. If the lords rioted, the crown could crush them with dragons. Either way, no catastrophe.
With that, every councillor except the king and the Hand voted yes (or abstained).
"Excellent. Then it's settled," Olenna said cheerfully, raising her cup to clink with Daeron's.
Daeron didn't touch his. He stood and walked out without a word.
The Queen of Thorns wasn't supporting the reforms—she was supporting the loot she expected to carve out of the Stormlands. The second Daeron gave her the lands he'd promised, she would happily team up with Tywin to sabotage everything.
This "impulsive" power grab was actually his first open collision with his father's royal authority and the entire noble class.
If the new system took root in the Stormlands, that region would become his unbreakable base. He would finally be a fully independent political-military force—no longer stuck waiting for his father's throne while begging other dukes for support.
He had dragons, but he still lacked loyal ground troops. His own princely fief needed years to develop.
The Stormlands were already ripe fruit.
And that was exactly what his father the king—and the two greatest noble houses represented by Tywin and Olenna—never wanted to see.
A prince with dragons, a claim to the throne, and an entire kingdom under his personal control?
He wouldn't be begging for the Iron Throne anymore.
The Iron Throne would simply land under his ass.
"I will use every ounce of power I have to push these reforms through and remake the Stormlands," Daeron thought, eyes on the long game.
Anyone who tried to stop him was declaring war.
Dorne – Water Gardens
Rhaegar sat on the open balcony overlooking the elegant fountains. Below, Dornish noble children splashed and laughed in the pools.
A fierce little four-year-old girl—Princess Arianne—chased after the older kids. She couldn't keep up, but the second they stopped to play she snuck in and punched one square in the back.
Splash.
The bigger boy tumbled into the water.
"Heh. Arianne's causing trouble again," Prince Doran said from his wheeled chair, smiling fondly at his daughter's vicious little ambush.
The future Princess of Dorne needed that kind of fire.
Once the guards fished the crying boy out, the two men got down to business.
Doran studied his tall, handsome good-brother and spoke with quiet displeasure. "You know why I haven't seen you these past few days? I've been trying to understand why you abandoned my sister Elia to run off with another woman."
"I need her," Rhaegar answered honestly.
The words landed like a slap.
"You came to Sunspear because you want House Martell's support," Doran said flatly. "On what grounds? You betrayed my sister."
Rhaegar had prepared for this. "I have never abandoned Elia. I still love her. She is my wife and that will never change."
Doran's brow furrowed. "So the other woman is… your mistress?"
He refused to believe the Prince of Dragonstone—hailed as the realm's future savior—had suddenly become ruled by his cock.
Rhaegar shook his head. "Lyanna is not a mistress. I intend to restore the old Targaryen custom of taking more than one wife. I will give both women their proper place."
Doran stared at him for a long moment, then let out a slow breath.
"Fair enough. But if you want Dorne's swords, you will have to give us something in return."
He laid out his terms clearly.
Rhaegar would publicly name Rhaenys his heir. Any future sons by Elia could replace her only if Doran agreed.
Dorne practiced equal inheritance, but Doran wasn't asking Rhaegar to copy that. He knew Targaryen tradition favored male heirs—especially after the Dance of the Dragons.
"If I take the Iron Throne," Rhaegar promised, "I will make the succession crystal clear."
Doran accepted the bargain.
Since Rhaegar was willing to give Elia her due, they could talk rewards.
House Martell had married Elia to him to bind their blood to the Iron Throne.
Rhaegar's flight with Lyanna had nearly destroyed that alliance.
Now the prince had come in person to salvage it—especially now that dragons had returned and House Targaryen was rising again.
Doran wasn't about to refuse.
The only question was how much Rhaegar was willing to give up in exchange for Dornish spears, support for his polygamous marriage, and help seizing the throne.
This was going to be a very expensive long-term investment.