I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter 96: Tea, Plots, and a King's Dilemma
Daeron Targaryen's perspective.
The Red Keep was still in the early morning. The kind of silence that settles only after a war has ended. The kind that follows bloodshed and noise, where peace feels unnatural but not unwelcome.
Daeron sat at a small table by the open window of his solar, the breeze off Blackwater Bay gently stirring the crimson curtains. A teapot steamed between him and his grandmother, the aroma of mint and honey wafting between them. The clatter of cutlery and servants' footsteps in distant corridors was faint, background noise to the conversation that had not yet begun.
Rhaella sipped her tea with calm grace. She wore a dark blue gown with a silver clasp at her throat shaped like a dragon in flight. Years of exile had not dulled her poise. In fact, Daeron thought, she wore her return to power like a second skin—familiar, quiet, and composed.
"How are you adjusting?" Daeron asked at last, watching her over the rim of his teacup.
Rhaella set her cup down with a soft clink. "I'm doing just fine," she answered, with the faintest smile.
Daeron smiled back, but his mind remained elsewhere. He tried not to show it—but the slight narrowing of Rhaella's eyes told him he'd failed.
"What's bothering you?" she asked, her voice calm but firm.
Daeron blinked. She has learned to read me too quickly.
He took a slow sip of his tea to stall. "Littlefinger fled the city on ship before we took the city." he said finally.
Rhaella's brow rose slightly. "Why would he flee?"
"Because he's been stealing from the crown for years," Daeron replied. "And he knew I wouldn't show him any mercy."
Rhaella nodded thoughtfully. "Do we know where he's gone?"
"The Vale, most likely," Daeron said. "Or one of the Free Cities, if he's smart."
Rhaella folded her hands in her lap. "Is this about the crown's debt? Were you hoping to squeeze the gold out of him?"
Daeron nodded. "That was the idea. But there's no cause for worry. The crown owed the Lannisters nearly three million dragons. That debt died with Tywin. As for the rest—after seizing Littlefinger's brothels, warehouses, and trade contracts in King's Landing, we'll have enough coin to manage payments for the next few years."
"Then that's not what's truly troubling you," Rhaella said.
Daeron exhaled and leaned back in his chair.
"It's Renly."
"Ah," Rhaella said, with a knowing look.
"The obvious answer is to execute him," Daeron said quietly. "That's what a king is expected to do with usurpers. But Renly's not like Stannis. He's charming. The Stormlords like him. He's married to Margaery Tyrell and is close with her brother. Just cutting off his head might satisfy the letter of justice, but it would spark discontent in the Reach and the Stormlands."
"And if you don't punish him properly," Rhaella said, "you'll look weak. And there is nothing more dangerous for the crown and the realm than a weak king."
Daeron nodded grimly. "Exactly."
The chamber went quiet again. The wind picked up. Far below, in the outer courtyard, he could hear the clatter of weapons—Ser Arthur drilling the new recruits.
Then Rhaella smiled.
It was not a warm smile. It was the kind of smile that made Daeron sit up straighter.
"I might have an answer for this," she said, her voice smooth as silk but sharp beneath it.
Daeron's eyes narrowed. "I'm listening."
Rhaella set her teacup down and folded her hands atop her lap, her rings catching the light.
"You can't execute him. But you also can't let him walk away untouched. So you let the court deal with him."
Daeron arched an eyebrow. "How?"
"We make sure that what you found in Renly's chamber is no longer a secret," Rhaella said, her voice calm and deliberate. "We let it slip, subtly, carefully—but openly enough. That Renly Baratheon and Loras Tyrell are more than King and Kingsguard. That they are much more that."
Daeron frowned, unsure he'd heard her correctly. "You want to… spread it?"
"Not officially," Rhaella clarified, as though they were discussing dinner seating. "Let the gossipers do what they do best. A knowing whisper at court spreads faster than wildfire."
Daeron leaned back, uncertain. "But—what does that accomplish?"
Rhaella smiled again, this time with a cold kind of confidence. "No Lord of the realm will kneel to a man they call a sword swallower behind closed doors. No proud bannerman would raise his banners for Renly on the battlefield again if they believe he cannot provide an heir. Even the Faith of the Seven—no matter how much they pretend to love peace—would rather choose a dragon-riding heretic who worships trees over a king whose very manhood is questioned."
Daeron shifted in his chair. "That feels… underhanded."
"Yes," Rhaella said softly. "It is."
She met his eyes.
"And that is the way of the court, Daeron. You don't destroy your enemies only on the battlefield. You destroy them here. With secrets. With shame. With the weight of what people believe, not what they know. You plant the seed of doubt and let it rot the tree from within. That is how you protect your reign without turning King's Landing into another graveyard."
Daeron looked away for a moment, letting her words settle. He felt the weight of them more than he wanted to admit. She was right. The battlefield might win wars—but this... this is how kings kept their thrones.
The crown on his head suddenly felt heavier.
"That crown doesn't come without sacrifice," Rhaella said, reading the conflict on his face. "You either destroy your enemies cleanly with the sword, or you destroy their ability to fight you at all. The first is honorable. The second is effective. The second keeps the realm intact."
Daeron turned quiet. He looked down at his tea, now going cold.
Is this what it means to be king?
He let out a slow breath, steadying himself. Then he nodded, once.
"Do it."
Rhaella gave a single satisfied nod and reached for her tea again.
The game of thrones had already begun.