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Lucerys's brow furrowed. He realized he'd gone too far.
In the heat of the moment he'd let his mouth run and dragged the king's hand-picked advisor into it.
Daeron's gaze cut straight through him. "I didn't realize Lord Tyrion's size was such an offense to you."
"I'm not a lord, Your Grace," Tyrion muttered, head down, correcting the title out of habit.
In noble company there were only two real forms of address that mattered: "Ser" for knights, and "Lord" for actual landed lords. Tyrion was neither. Even sitting on the Small Council, the title "Lord" didn't technically belong to him.
Varys raised an eyebrow from his seat, hands tucked in his sleeves, clearly enjoying the show. Strictly speaking, he didn't qualify for "Lord" either.
"Lift your head, Tyrion."
Daeron's voice was steady. "In my Small Council, if the others get to use a certain form of address, then so do you. Your birth and lack of lands don't change that."
Tyrion slowly raised his head. A warm rush moved through his chest and some of the color came back to his face.
Being publicly humiliated like that, especially in front of his father and the king, had been brutal. He still had a lot of growing to do.
"Lord Lucerys," Daeron continued, "today isn't really about you. It's about something I want everyone in this room to understand."
He pointed at Lucerys without any trace of humor. "Tyrion is my Small Council minister. His talent and loyalty are real. He's not some backdoor appointee who got here by kissing the right ass."
Lord Mace's head jerked up. He felt the jab.
Daeron kept going. "You can mock his height, his looks, or his vices if you want. Those came from the gods. But you don't get to question his ability or humiliate him in front of the entire council. He's my man. He has my protection."
The words landed hard. Tyrion's eyes went wide. He took an involuntary step forward.
That last line—"He's my man. He has my protection"—hit him like an arrow straight into the softest, most unprotected part of him. For a second it felt like fire was trying to burn him alive.
In that moment the lean figure sitting at the head of the table looked ten feet tall to Tyrion. Like a true dragon.
Varys's playful expression faded into something more serious. In any age, a king who could say those words out loud earned real respect.
"Your Grace, I apologize for my rudeness," Lucerys said after a beat. He gave Tyrion a small, proper bow—more than a dwarf usually received from a great lord.
Tyrion blinked, surprised, and shifted half a step aside.
Lucerys straightened up again, the old arrogance sliding back into place. "But I still can't accept what Lord Tywin said earlier."
Tywin's eyes narrowed.
Lucerys pressed on. "House Velaryon commands one of the strongest fleets in the realm. My family has fought for the Iron Throne in the Stepstones and the three cities. We stood with House Targaryen again and brought back some of old Valyria's glory. We won't accept being insulted like common clerks."
His voice carried the weight of breaking waves.
Even Daeron had to give him a second look. Forget the actual merits for a moment—the man knew how to turn an argument into something that sounded almost noble.
Tywin wasn't impressed. "House Velaryon has merit. So does everyone else at this table. Or did you think you were the only one who bled?"
He started counting on his fingers.
"Tyrion slipped into Myr and helped Governor Tristan break the hardliners. Lord Mace called the Reach to war and his bannermen fought like wolves. Lord Corlton stayed here in King's Landing, doing exactly the 'paper-pushing and talking' you sneered at, keeping the entire supply line for the army running on his own."
Every single account. Tywin remembered them all.
Lucerys's jaw tightened. He saw the trap closing.
Tywin didn't let up. "So tell me, should they all start acting like they're the king's equals too? Should they start throwing their weight around in this chamber because they think they earned it?"
"The only one who seems to think he can stand equal with the king," Lucerys shot back, "is sitting right across from me."
Tywin's voice dropped into something cold and final. "Then let me remind you who actually holds the office of Hand. Who the king cannot do without."
Lucerys opened his mouth again, furious.
"Both of you. Shut up."
Daeron's voice cut through the room like a blade. He was done watching.
Lucerys closed his mouth immediately and put on his most loyal expression.
Daeron continued. "As the Hand said, sea transport goes to the Redwyne fleet. The main fighting in the Disputed Lands doesn't need the royal fleet right now."
He paused, then looked straight at Lucerys. "But the Orange Coast along the Summer Sea is going to become a major landing point for anyone still trying to smuggle supplies to the old Triarchy remnants. I want you to take the royal fleet, seal that coast, sink anything that tries to run supplies or weapons through, and search every merchant ship coming out of the Summer Sea into the Narrow Sea."
It wasn't the glorious command Lucerys wanted, but it was steady work with constant opportunities for glory as long as the war lasted.
Lucerys's scowl eased. "As you command, Your Grace."
Daeron turned to Tywin. "And you, my lord. The Long Summer is brutal, but you need to learn how to cool down when it's necessary. I still need your help running this court."
The words were polite on the surface. The warning underneath was clear.
Tywin read the room and answered without hesitation. "Of course, Your Grace."
Everyone at the table understood what had just happened. The king had sided with House Velaryon on the fleet issue and hadn't even bothered to correct Lucerys when he kept calling it the "Velaryon fleet" instead of the royal fleet.
That was a dangerous political signal.
For the growing power of House Lannister, it carried a very clear threat.
After the meeting broke up, Daeron didn't go anywhere. He stayed in the council chamber and pulled out reports from the three cities, waiting.
A knock came at the door.
Ser Barristan's voice. "Your Grace, the Hand requests an audience."
"Send him in."
Tywin entered, walking with the same steady, unshaken stride as always. The earlier shouting match hadn't touched him outwardly.
"Sit," Daeron said.
Tywin took his seat and studied the king for a long moment before speaking.
"House Velaryon has committed too many offenses. They treat the royal fleet as their personal property and clearly have ambitions beyond their station. Why haven't you moved against them, Your Grace?"
Daeron kept flipping through the reports without answering.
It was obvious. He was deliberately giving the Velaryons room to grow.
Tywin's voice hardened. "Do you doubt House Lannister's loyalty? Or has Lord Lucerys been feeding you sweet lies?"
Still no answer.
Tywin leaned forward. "House Velaryon was once at the height of its power. Don't forget how they rose… and how they fell."
He laid out the history in cold detail. Corlys Velaryon's nine voyages. His marriage to Rhaenys Targaryen. How House Velaryon briefly became something close to a second dragonlord house. How the Targaryens had needed the "Rogue Prince" Daemon just to keep up appearances for over a decade.
Then came the Dance. Velaryon backed the wrong side, lost every dragonrider they had, and collapsed.
Tywin's meaning was clear: Don't repeat the mistake of letting another house grow too close to the throne.
Daeron finally looked up. "House Velaryon is playing the same old role. What role are you and House Lannister playing, then?"
Tywin's eyes went dark.
Daeron smiled thinly. "If Velaryon is repeating history, then who's taking the place of House Hightower?"
Tywin took a slow breath. "Cersei is still unmarried. She's twenty-three. In the prime of her life."
He met Daeron's gaze without blinking.
"Let me handle the pressure from the other great houses. Make her your second wife. From that day on, House Targaryen and House Lannister will be one blood. One family."
Daeron raised an eyebrow. "You want me to take another wife just to buy more Lannister support?"
He wasn't particularly interested in Cersei. And right now the Lannisters needed the crown far more than the crown needed them.
But he had clearly underestimated how far Tywin was willing to go.
Tywin didn't flinch. "Marry Cersei and one of your sons with her will inherit Casterly Rock. He will become the new Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West."
Daeron stared at him.
This old man had lost his mind.
"You're offering me Casterly Rock?" he asked slowly. "You won't even give it to Tyrion, but you'll hand it to a grandson you haven't even met yet?"
"I'm not senile enough to joke about the succession of Casterly Rock," Tywin said coldly. "Well? You take Cersei. I give you the Rock. What do you say?"
Daeron leaned back. "There's no such thing as a free lunch, my lord. What's the real price?"
Tywin didn't hesitate. "Just like the agreement Viserys the First made with House Velaryon. The son who inherits Casterly Rock will take the Lannister name on the day he becomes lord."
Daeron let out a short, humorless laugh. "So the blood stays pure and the name stays Lannister, but you still get Targaryen dragons in the line. Clever."
He shook his head. "The old agreement was different, my lord. Rhaenyra's children only got to keep the Targaryen name if they were chosen as heir. The rest stayed Velaryon."
Tywin's eyes were steady. "And in your case, only one son needs to change his name when he comes of age. The others remain Targaryen. The crown still comes out ahead."
Daeron studied the old lion for a long moment.
"You're really willing to gamble the future of House Lannister on this?"
Tywin didn't look away. "I'm willing to gamble everything on it."