Three days later, every lord in the realm—including those from Winterfell and Dorne—had arrived in King’s Landing.
The Great Council to confirm the heir was about to begin.
Viserys called Daemon to his side.
“Any results?”
Daemon shook his head.
“Forgive me, brother. I found nothing.”
In truth, Daemon had considered planting false evidence in Otto’s rooms during the search, but Baelon had stopped him.
The reason was simple: no unnecessary complications right now.
Otto was an old fox who might find a way to turn things around.
There were no eternal secrets under the sun.
There would be other chances to kill Otto.
There was no need to rush.
Besides, a man who had already lost the Handship was no longer worth the risk.
Viserys seemed to have expected this answer.
He gave Daemon a long, meaningful look.
“You did well. Keep it up from now on.”
Daemon’s expression tightened for a moment.
He changed the subject.
“I was thinking of giving command of the City Watch to Harwin Strong of House Strong. What do you think?”
Viserys hesitated.
“I don’t know Lyonel’s son well. You should ask Baelon what he thinks.”
He added, “Also tell him that Lyman Beesbury has approved the funds for Ignir’s new home. Construction will begin once the Great Council ends.”
“The lockdown on the Red Keep can be lifted in two days. The Great Council starts then. We can’t keep the castle sealed any longer.”
Daemon nodded respectfully.
Before leaving, he remembered Baelon’s earlier advice and turned back.
“Brother, I’ve already begun taking over the Hand’s duties. With the entire realm focused on the Great Council, nothing major has happened.”
“You’ve been working too hard. Rest for these next two days before the council begins. If anything comes up, I’ll let you know.”
Viserys looked at his brother—the same brother who finally seemed to care about him—and leaned back in his chair with quiet satisfaction.
“My brother, thank you for your concern. I will. And remember to be gentle with the members of the Small Council.”
Daemon nodded and left the king’s chambers, heading straight for Baelon’s rooms.
When he entered, Baelon was stroking Ignir’s head.
“Uncle Daemon, I’m guessing you came to thank me?”
Daemon looked at the small boy who spoke like a grown man and gave a short laugh.
“I did come to thank you—for mending my relationship with my brother and for getting me the power of the Hand.”
“But that’s not why I’m here. Your father wants your opinion on who should command the Gold Cloaks. He really does trust you.”
Baelon smirked.
“Because I’ve never been wrong, have I?”
Daemon studied the boy sprawled lazily against the pillows and decided to pour cold water on his mood.
“What if I told you your father might already suspect we framed Otto?”
Baelon raised an eyebrow.
“Uncle, you didn’t actually think our plan was flawless, did you?”
“The plan worked because of how much Father loves me and my sister—not because we were clever. My father is the king. He may be too gentle sometimes, but he’s far from a fool.”
“Once he calmed down, it would have been easy for him to see through it. I’m not surprised at all.”
“But what does it matter? Otto is still gone. We got what we wanted. And Father still loves me. That’s enough.”
Daemon looked at the boy who spoke with such calm certainty and felt, for the first time, as though a child had just looked down on him.
“Stop gloating, kid. Tell me what you think about the City Watch commander.”
“Uncle Daemon, it can be anyone you trust. Preferably someone who has no other backing.”
“Because at the end of the day, the Gold Cloaks still belong to you. The new commander is just a figurehead.”
Daemon stared at him in surprise.
“You trust me that much? You’re not worried I’ll try to take your sister’s throne?”
Baelon smiled.
“You won’t. You’re my uncle. Of course I trust you.”
What he didn’t say aloud was, Besides, your son will sit the Iron Throne eventually.
What does it matter who takes it in the meantime?
Daemon’s smile deepened.
He was clearly pleased by the trust.
Pride had always been one of his greatest weaknesses—he craved recognition from those he respected.
“All right. I’ll listen to you. I was originally going to give it to Harwin Strong. It would have tied House Strong to us.”
“But after what you just said, maybe it’s better to keep real power in our own hands.”
“Harwin Strong?” Baelon frowned.
“Lyonel’s son. Is he really that impressive?”
“Tall, strong, a fine fighter, and good-natured. I like him.”
Baelon’s expression turned serious at once.
“Uncle, the royal family doesn’t need friends. Only subordinates. Only tools to be used.”
“The more powerful a house is, the more we should squeeze every bit of value from it—never give it extra leverage in the game of power.”
“The commander of the Gold Cloaks can be anyone. Just not Harwin Strong.”
Daemon stood frozen for a long moment, as if something had finally clicked into place.
After thinking it over, he let out a short laugh.
“So that’s what my brother meant when he told me to ‘keep doing this.’ No wonder he sent me to ask your opinion.”
“Kid, from now on, whenever I’m not sure about something, I’ll come ask you.”
“Happy to serve the Hand of the King.”
Daemon laughed loudly.
“You little bastard. One more piece of good news—Ignir’s new home has been approved. Construction starts after the Great Council.”
“Stay here and rest. I’ve got work to do.”
Two days later, on the sixth day of the sixth month in the year 108 After Conquest, the Great Council to confirm the heir was held in the throne room of the Red Keep.
Lords from every corner of the realm gathered and lined up to swear fealty to the Realm’s Delight—Rhaenyra.
But before the council even began, Viserys did something no one expected.
He had Ser Criston Cole wheel Baelon forward until the boy sat directly in front of the Iron Throne.
Under Baelon’s surprised gaze, Viserys spoke in a clear, carrying voice.
“My lords, since I took the throne in the year 103 After Conquest, many of you have urged me to name an heir.”
“I waited. I waited for my eldest son, Baelon, to stand on his own. But the Seven gave him remarkable wisdom and took his health in return.”
“Therefore, today I name my eldest daughter, Rhaenyra Targaryen, as my heir.”
“I know many of you question this decision and question the order of succession. Let me be clear: the king has the right to choose his own heir.”
“Of course, out of respect for tradition, I also promise this: if my son Baelon Targaryen regains his health before Rhaenyra ascends the throne, the position of heir will still be his.”
In the crowd, Alicent’s face turned ashen.
Her breathing grew quick and shallow.
She was clearly furious that Viserys had never once mentioned her son Aegon’s name.
But the expressions of the other lords eased considerably.
The king’s compromise had satisfied them.
No one raised further objections.
One by one, the lords stepped forward, knelt before Rhaenyra, and swore their fealty to the Princess of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne.