The Small Council chamber in the Red Keep felt heavier than usual this morning. Pale autumn sunlight slanted through the tall arched windows, carving bright stripes across the long oak table, but it did nothing to cut the thick, sour tension in the air. Twelve high-backed chairs now ringed the table—more than the usual number—because the debate over Daemon Blackfyre's fief had dragged on for three straight days since the royal party returned from Dragonstone.
King Jaehaerys sat at the head, silver beard resting on his chest, one wrinkled hand pressed to his temple as if the arguing was drilling straight into his skull. His ivory-capped scepter leaned against the chair like a tired old man.
Lyonel Strong broke the short silence first. The big bald Master of Ships wore his deep-blue sea-anchor robes, knuckles white where they gripped the arms of his chair. "Bloodstone is out of the question," he said, voice low but firm. "The Stepstones are still raw from the war. There's barely a proper dock left standing, let alone a keep fit for Princess Gael. She's the Winter Child, not some salt-crusted sailor's wife. And Your Grace already ruled in the very first council after the victory: most of the islands go straight to the Iron Throne, with the rest under joint fleet governance. Naming Daemon Prince of Bloodstone and Warden of the Stepstones would tear that agreement apart and set every lord in Westeros against him."
He didn't need to spell out the rest. Bloodstone was the heart of the Stepstones. Granting it to Daemon would turn Corlys's provisional governor's seat into a joke, slice into the tax revenue every house had been promised, and make the young prince a lightning rod for every jealous banner in the realm.
Otto Hightower gave a quiet cough. The Master of Laws sat in his immaculate dark-green velvet, the burning-tower sigil on his collar catching the light. He adjusted his robe with deliberate calm, eyes sweeping the table. "Lyonel speaks sense, yet Bloodstone is not the only flawed choice. Crackclaw Point may be richer in land, but it lies inside the Crownlands—right next to King's Landing." He paused, letting the words settle. "Last year, before the great tourney, the strongest lord there—Bernarr Brune of Crackhall—knelt to Prince Daemon in open court at the Blackwater docks and called him liege in front of half the city. If we grant him that land and the right to colonize it, half the peninsula will fly his black-dragon banner inside three years. A prince's seat too close to the capital risks overlapping power, tax disputes, and private levies crossing into the Crownlands. We all remember what happened when Maegor and the Uncrowned clashed over the same ground."
Otto's voice stayed even, almost reasonable, but the warning was unmistakable: too much land, too close, too many loyal swords already sworn to the boy. It would make Daemon untouchable after Jaehaerys and Baelon were gone—and that was the last thing Otto wanted for his friend Viserys's future.
Viserys tried to smooth it over, silver robes shifting as he leaned forward, face already flushed with discomfort. "What about Summerhall, then? The land is fertile, large enough for a proper princely seat, and it sits between the Stormlands and the Reach. It's only near Dorne, but Daemon has The Cannibal, loyal men, and Boremund Baratheon's full backing. The Dornish wouldn't dare test him."
Otto shook his head, fingertip tapping the Summerhall map with quiet insistence. "Summerhall lies on the border marches, right at the end of the Boneway. Every year the crown would have to pour tens of thousands of gold dragons into new castles, garrisons, and supply lines just to hold it. The joint fleet's war debts are still unpaid, and the Reach is already short three-tenths of its grain tax after the Tyrell troubles last year. Where exactly would that money come from, Your Grace?"
Vaegon Targaryen sighed from his plain gray maester's robes, chain links clinking as he flipped through the heavy Seven Kingdoms Fiefdoms tome on the table. "According to the old records, a prince's seat should be far from the capital, away from the borders, and self-sufficient. Bloodstone lacks self-sufficiency. Crackclaw is too close to the throne. Summerhall sits on the border. All three have flaws." He closed the book with a soft thud and looked up, voice dry as dust. "But Daemon's deeds can't be ignored. Are we really going to hand him a patch of dirt smaller than a lord's holding and expect him to smile about it? Or shall we just send him and Gael back to the Citadel with me so he can become a maester instead?"
Grand Maester Arryn coughed weakly from the far corner, voice thin as paper. "Perhaps the crown could… allocate some funds from the royal treasury to help improve whatever land is chosen…"
The heavy curtain at the door rustled. Ser Ryam Redwyne stepped in wearing the white cloak of the Kingsguard, hand resting on his sword hilt. He gave the bickering lords a flat, impatient look, then took his silent post directly behind the king.
Vaegon's assistant, Maester Bernard, fidgeted with his quill, ink still staining his fingers. "Why not just let Daemon pick?" he muttered, loud enough for the whole table to hear. "He's the one who has to live there. Save us all this endless bickering."
Martyn Tyrell sat beside Lyman Beesbury, quietly pressing his arm to keep the former Master of Coin silent. Lyman's wife, Lady Joslyn, watched from the shadows with a clear "don't get involved" stare.
Tymond Lannister and Corlys Velaryon exchanged a quick glance across the table and said nothing. Tymond's gold lion ring spun slowly on his finger—his deal with Viserys was already set. Corlys's silver-blue robes stayed perfectly still; he was still provisional governor of the Stepstones and had no desire to lose the post to a Targaryen prince.
King Jaehaerys finally lowered his hand from his temple, voice tired but carrying the weight of fifty years of rule. "Where is Daemon? The man whose lands we are fighting over—why is he not yet here?"
Footsteps sounded outside. The curtain swept aside.
Daemon Blackfyre stepped in wearing simple black riding leathers, collar open, a dragon-glass bead turning idly between his fingers. A few red-rose thorns still clung to the deep-crimson cloak draped over one shoulder.
"What's all the noise?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe with an easy grin, grass stem between his teeth. "I could hear you from the garden. Louder than Caraxes when he's hungry."
The entire chamber went still. Every eye fixed on the black dragon who had just walked in, calm as if he'd only come for breakfast.
The three maps on the table—Bloodstone's broken battlements, Crackclaw's wild hills, Summerhall's border lines—lay waiting like three different futures.
And in the slanting morning light of the Red Keep, the air pulled tight once more.