"Your Grace, I beg you, do not accede to these preposterous demands. They are nothing but knives garbed in diplomacy," Otto voiced his agitation immediately. Grandfather's countenance had changed; he retreated deep into thought, ignoring the Hightower entirely.
"Were these absolute terms, or watered down by you and Vaegon?" Jaehaerys asked.
"They initially wanted six hundred thousand. We negotiated it down to the current amount. Daemon's sentence was originally for a full year; that, too, was lowered. The Princeps even offered to polish Daemon's reputation as an upstanding Dragonlord who has shown repentance for his acts and is now aiding in their restoration efforts. He also vowed that no harm will come to him during his stay. I did not think we would get better terms than these, so I accepted." Father answered, his face rigid with exhaustion.
Otto, who had clearly wanted to argue further, stopped. He stepped back, swallowing his protests.
Father's words earlier had sounded like a complete surrender of authority. Yet, as he laid out the details of their true demands, I could not help but see this as a victory. A part of me wondered if we could have simply overwhelmed this Empire with our dragons, but the price in blood and ash did not seem reasonable against this unknown threat. Ultimately, they had promised not to harm Daemon, which was all I truly cared about. Barring his immediate return home, this was likely the best possible outcome for his rash actions. A mountain of gold changing hands was hardly an issue. The treasury had more than enough to pay for this ransom dressed up as reparations.
Grandfather fell silent. He stared down at Father from amidst the jagged fangs of the throne. The crackle of the braziers was the only sound daring to intrude upon the Great Hall. Finally, the King offered a slow, deliberate nod.
"Leave us," he commanded. His gaze shifted toward the base of the dais. "Ser Ryam. Otto."
The Lord Commander stepped back instantly. Otto lingered for a fraction of a second.
"I must weigh these terms fully," the King rasped. The steel of the throne grating in protest as he shifted his posture. "But tentatively, we shall follow the Crown Prince's lead. He has looked this Emperor in the eye. We have not. Otto, prepare the decree. Instruct the master of coin to ready the sum of three hundred and fifty thousand Swarnas."
Otto's jaw tightened. I watched a muscle feather beneath his cheek. He despised yielding to a foreign power, especially one that had treated a Targaryen so callously. Yet he was a creature of duty. He swallowed his protests and offered a rigid bow.
"As Your Grace commands."
Otto turned on his heel, his boots ringing sharply against the stone. Ser Ryam fell into step beside him, his white cloak settling over his armour. We waited in the vast silence until the guards outside hauled the heavy doors shut, sealing us within.
The King braced his hands against the twisted armrests and pushed himself upwards. A sharp breath hissed through his teeth as a wayward pommel caught the edge of his tunic.
Father moved immediately. He scaled the iron steps two at a time, catching grandfather by the elbow before he could lose his footing.
The sight tightened my chest. The Conqueror's seat was brutal and unforgiving entirely unsuited for a man entering his twilight years. Father guided him down the jagged descent with practised care, his own exhaustion pushed aside to bear the King's frailty.
"Let us go to my solar," grandfather murmured once his boots touched the level carpets. He leaned heavily against Father's side, turning away from the mountain of swords.
Uncle Vaegon clutched his maester's chain and scurried forward to follow them. I fell into step behind my uncle, leaving the empty expanse of the Great Hall behind. My mind raced. We had bought Daemon's life with a king's ransom, but I needed to know exactly what kind of monster we had bought it from.
…
The air inside the King's solar hit me with a wall of dry heat the moment the guards shut the oak doors behind us. A fire roared in the hearth, feeding greedily on thick logs of pine. The room smelled of melting beeswax, dust, and ancient vellum. Heavy tapestries depicting the Conquest hung upon the stone walls, muting the howl of the wind whipping off the bay. It was a space built for isolation and serenity.
Grandfather moved toward the polished oak table dominating the centre of the room. He sank into a high-backed armchair facing the hearth. The leather creaked sharply under his frail weight. Father took the seat immediately to his right. He looked entirely drained, resting his forearms upon the wood and rubbing a soot-stained hand across his face. Uncle Vaegon claimed the chair to the King's left, pulling his grey robes tight as if the roaring fire provided no warmth at all.
I pulled out the chair furthest from Grandfather, settling at the opposite curve of the table. The physical distance mirrored my place in this hierarchy. I was the heir's son, present by blood but unproven in the fires of this conflict.
A tense silence stretched across the room. The crackle of the burning pine filled the void. Grandfather stared into the flames for a long time, his breathing shallow but remarkably steady.
Then, he turned his piercing purple eyes toward his older son.
"Now, Baelon," the King spoke, his voice stripping away the raspy frailty he had worn for the court. "Tell me the truth of these negotiations."
The words struck me like a physical blow. My breath caught in my throat. I stared at my grandfather, my mind reeling. I had believed the surrender of gold and pride was the ultimate cost of Daemon's freedom. To hear the King imply it was a fabrication—or merely a fraction of the reality—sent a fresh wave of dread pooling in my stomach.
I clamped my jaw shut. Questions burned upon my tongue, demanding to know what worse fate my brother had suffered, but I swallowed them down. I remained entirely still, gripping the armrests of my chair, and waited patiently for Father to reveal the secrets he had brought back from Essos.