The next day, the king's study was unusually crowded.
Aerys was not sitting at his desk. Instead, he paced irritably around the room.
The hem of his purple robe swept across the floor, stirring up fine dust.
Besides Leon, there were three other people in the room:
The Master of Coin, Earl Qarlton Chelsted, a man in his fifties with a sallow complexion, his thinning hair meticulously combed and his finger joints thickened from years of working an abacus.
At that moment, he stood with his head lowered, holding a thick ledger, tiny beads of sweat seeping from his forehead.
Grand Maester Pycelle, whose Citadel chain hung almost to his belly, his graying beard neatly trimmed, though the dark circles beneath his eyes showed he had not slept well in a long time.
And the Master of Whisperers, Varys, who stood quietly in the shadows of a bookcase, his hands folded before his silk robe, wearing that unchanging, inscrutable smile.
"...So you're saying the royal treasury is empty again?" Aerys stopped pacing, his voice like a blade scraping stone.
Earl Qarlton's Adam's apple bobbed. "Your Grace, it isn't 'empty again.' It is... running a persistent deficit. Last year's repairs to the east wing of the Red Keep went eight thousand gold dragons over budget. Those... ancient books and collectibles you purchased from Lys cost fifty thousand, and..."
"I don't want to hear numbers!" Aerys suddenly shrieked, snatching a dragon model from the desk and hurling it at the wall.
The wooden dragon struck the stone wall and broke into pieces. "I want to know when we can scrape together enough to fund the fleet to Volantis! Steffon is dead, but his mission must continue! The dragon eggs are still waiting on that continent!"
The room fell deathly silent.
"The Crown currently owes more than three hundred thousand gold dragons, Your Grace."
Chelsted's voice was barely audible. "The Iron Bank of Braavos has sent three demands for payment. The tone of the last one was... quite forceful."
"Forceful?" Aerys laughed, a giggling sound that made everyone's skin crawl. "Tell them that once House Targaryen has dragons again, we can repay our debts with dragonfire! Principal and interest, burned to ashes and returned to them."
Grand Maester Pycelle could not help speaking. "Your Grace, threats like that will only make the situation more..."
"Shut up!" Aerys turned on him. "All of you, maesters, treasury officials, and those spiders hiding in the shadows..."
He glanced at Varys. "You're all holding me back. You fear dragons, you fear flames, you fear anything that could make the Targaryens great again!"
"Now! Get out and find a way!"
They filed out with angry curses following them, while Leon, waiting outside, quietly watched it all.
After they had left one after another.
"Good day, Earl Qarlton."
Chelsted looked up and saw a small figure approaching.
Pale purple eyes, hair streaked platinum and gold, that excessively beautiful face...
Tywin's dwarf son.
He remembered someone mentioning at the Small Council that the king had recently taken a great liking to the boy and made him his study companion.
Leon inclined his head slightly, his etiquette impeccable. "Sorry for the interruption. I've been studying comparative taxation systems, and I have a few questions... Might I ask for your guidance, my lord?"
Chelsted's throat went dry.
He glanced around. The two of them were alone in the corridor now.
"What... questions?" His voice remained fairly steady.
"I was wondering," Leon said softly, as though discussing an academic question, "if a tax-farming system has five layers of middlemen, each taking thirty percent, how much can possibly remain by the time it reaches the treasury?
And if... someone could devise a way for taxes to reach it directly, while bringing every party involved greater returns than they receive now..."
He raised his head, his pale purple eyes meeting Chelsted's. "Would anyone support such a proposal?"
Earl Qarlton's palms were sweating.
There was no childish innocence in those eyes, only an almost ruthless clarity.
"Greater returns?" he repeated, lowering his voice as far as it would go.
Leon took a small sample of black ore flecked with white from his sleeve. "A specialty of the Westerlands. Pearl-glaze ore. Mixed into pottery clay, it produces porcelain with a unique luster. Highgarden has already verified the formula.
If a lord with connections in both King's Landing and Essos handled distribution, a conservative estimate of annual profits would be... at least five thousand gold dragons.
And that lord would only need to invest some initial funds to stock the goods, as well as... lend his support in votes on certain minor matters."
Chelsted stared at the ore.
He had spent thirty years navigating King's Landing and immediately understood everything left unsaid.
"What do you want?" he asked bluntly.
"Direct tax collection rights over thirty-seven farms in the Wendwater basin of the Kingswood," Leon said. "Appointment as a royal special tax collector for a term of two years. I need to build docks and warehouses there to improve the efficiency of transporting grain taxes."
"His Grace won't readily grant tax rights in the Kingswood, even over a small area."
"Which is why I need your support." Leon put away the ore. "At the Small Council, you need only say that revenue leakage in the Wendwater region is severe, and a new approach is worth trying. Also... I happen to know that the Iron Bank of Braavos's representatives have been very displeased with the Crown's debts lately.
If tax revenue in a certain region showed a marked increase, serving as 'proof of effective reform,' perhaps it could help buy you some... breathing room."
Earl Qarlton remained silent for a full minute.
He was calculating.
The Wendwater's meager taxes would amount to only a few hundred gold dragons even if collected in full, nowhere near the prospects of the porcelain business.
Besides, if this boy really could increase tax revenue, it would indeed silence the Iron Bank for a while.
As for those petty nobles who farmed the taxes? Who cared? He could always appease them with a few other small favors.
"Is Lord Tywin behind this...?"
"I was the one who approached you about this, my lord."
"The distribution rights to the pearl glaze," Chelsted drew a deep breath, "I want sixty percent."
"Fifty-fifty." Leon did not yield an inch. "But I can guarantee that you won't need to pay a penny in advance for the goods. The Westerlands will supply the first shipment."
Another stretch of silence followed.
"Agreed!"
Three days later, in the Small Council chamber.
Seven people sat around the long table, the air filled with the scent of old parchment and anxiety.
Aerys II sat at the head, his fingers tapping nervously on the armrest.
He seemed somewhat more "lucid" today. At least he had not suddenly burst into laughter or tears halfway through the meeting.
Tywin Lannister sat to the king's right, dressed entirely in black, the Hand's badge on his chest.
But there was something different about his gaze today.
Several times, he looked toward the two small figures in the corner of the observers' seats, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly.
Why were the two children here?
Aerys suddenly spoke. "I want Little Leon and the Imp to attend the Small Council as my attendant pages. I need them beside me to take notes and answer my questions afterward."
Tywin tried to object. "Your Grace, the Small Council is not a maester's tower..."
"I decide!" Aerys interrupted, his eyes turning dangerous. "Tywin, you're always trying to hide them away. But I need their eyes, their minds. They'll sit in the corner without speaking, only listening. What is wrong with that?"
Tywin fell silent. He knew better than to argue further.
But the look he gave Leon was far more complicated than usual...
Surprise, wariness, and a trace of almost invisible... concern.
This boy had already reached the king's side without his knowledge.
And the king's favor was wildfire.
Varys sat in the shadows, his silk robe silent.
His gaze moved back and forth along the table.
From Aerys's twitching fingers to Tywin's taut jaw, to Earl Qarlton's trembling lips, before finally settling on the two small figures in the observers' seats.
His fingers moved gently inside his sleeves, as though counting.
Every word, every glance, every slight shift of the body was a thread for weaving his web.
Grand Maester Pycelle was dozing.
The Master of Ships, Lucerys Velaryon, stared at Leon and Tyrion with a frown.
Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, occasionally swept his gaze over the observers' seats with professional vigilance.
The Master of Coin, Qarlton Chelsted, was delivering his report, his voice as dry as dead leaves rubbing together:
"...Therefore, the Crown's current monthly deficit is approximately two thousand gold dragons. The Iron Bank's representatives have issued an ultimatum. If they see no concrete repayment plan before the next full moon, they will disclose the amount of the debt and may... cease extending credit to all Crown-related trade."
Aerys's face twisted. "Those Braavosi bastards! They've forgotten who-!"
"Your Grace." Tywin's voice cut in, as level as a sheet of ice. "The problem is that we do owe them money. And where is that money to come from?"
An awkward silence followed.
Then a clear voice came from the observers' seats:
"Perhaps... we could start by reducing leakage?"
Everyone turned to Leon. He rose, small in stature but standing straight.
Aerys's eyes lit up. "Little Leon? Do you have an idea?"
Tywin's face remained cold, but his hand tightened slightly beneath the table.
He looked at Aerys, then at Leon.
When had this boy prepared this? Why hadn't he known?
"Forgive the interruption, Your Grace," the Master of Ships, Lucerys Velaryon, said with a frown. "This is the Small Council. I do not understand why two seven-year-old children are permitted to speak here."
"I want them here!" Aerys glared fiercely at Lucerys. "They listen when I speak. They're more useful than you lot! Little Leon, continue."
Leon bowed slightly. "I noticed something while studying documents on taxation, Your Grace."
He walked to the long table and spread out a chart he had drawn himself. "As royal taxes pass from local areas to the treasury, the average rate of leakage exceeds forty percent.
In certain regions that employ multiple layers of tax farming, such as the Wendwater basin near the Kingswood, that rate reaches as high as seventy percent."
He pointed to the figures on the chart. "Based on land yields and population, the thirty-seven farms along the Wendwater should generate approximately eight hundred gold dragons in annual taxes. Actual collections over the past three years averaged only one hundred and twenty. Where did the difference go?
Five layers of tax farmers, each taking thirty percent, leave the farmers with tax bills three times the original amount... so they either flee or conceal their yields."
Earl Qarlton gave a timely cough. "This... is indeed a problem. I have heard something of the situation in the Wendwater region myself."
Tywin stared at his son, his gaze unfathomable.
He was recalculating: when this boy had learned all this, whether he and Chelsted had been in contact without his knowledge, and how deep these waters would drag him.
"Do you have a solution?" Aerys leaned forward, his interest fully caught.
"A pilot reform," Leon said. "Abolish the layers of tax farming in the Wendwater region. Have the Crown directly appoint a tax collector, establish independent accounts, and send taxes straight to the treasury.
At the same time, this tax collector would have the authority to build docks and warehouses locally, transporting grain taxes directly to King's Landing by water and reducing overland losses and middlemen's exactions."
He paused, then supplied the crucial figure. "According to my calculations, this system could recover at least five hundred gold dragons in actual taxes for the Crown in its first year.
That is four times the current collection. And as the farmers' burden eases and yields recover, annual tax revenue could exceed seven hundred gold dragons after three years."
Quiet gasps sounded around the chamber.
Grand Maester Pycelle woke and adjusted his spectacles. "But... the tax farmers are all minor local nobles. Abolishing their privileges will cause discontent.
If they band together to defy orders, or even collude with bandits to create disorder, the Crown will have to send troops to suppress them. Who will bear that cost?"
Leon was prepared. "That is why it would only be a pilot. A very small area, just thirty-seven farms. If it succeeds, it can be expanded; if it fails, the impact will be limited. And-"
He looked at Earl Qarlton.
Earl Qarlton drew a deep breath and picked up the thread. "And if we can show the Iron Bank the results of reform and increased tax revenue in one region, we may be able to secure more lenient repayment terms.
The Wendwater... would indeed be a suitable testing ground."
Lucerys Velaryon spoke again. "Your Grace, I still believe this is far too hasty. A proposal put forward by a dwar... child. If word gets out, what will the Seven Kingdoms think of the Crown? That we let children administer our taxes?"
"I don't care what the Seven Kingdoms think!" Aerys shrieked. "I only care where the money comes from! You, Lucerys, how much tax do you collect from Driftmark every year? How much have you paid into the treasury?"
Lucerys's face flushed red, and he shut his mouth.
Varys clapped softly, his voice smooth as silk. "An interesting idea. For a child to see so clearly into the failings of our finances and offer a practical solution... truly astonishing."
His gaze shifted subtly among the king's ministers before finally resting on Tywin's face for a moment.
There was no amusement in that look, only an unfathomably deep appraisal.
Lord Tywin, do you know what your son is doing?
Tywin understood the meaning of that look.
He remained silent for a moment before finally speaking, his voice as level as ever. "Who will serve as this tax collector?"
Everyone's gaze focused on Leon once more.
Aerys suddenly laughed, a laugh mingling madness and lucidity. "Little Leon, of course! He proposed the plan, so he'll carry it out! Besides... I need him to stay near King's Landing and keep helping me study those ancient books."
Leon dropped to one knee. "I am honored by Your Grace's trust. I have only two small requests. First, a two-year term to ensure continuity in the reforms. Second, permission and initial funding to build local docks and warehouses. The funding can be deducted from the first year's taxes."
Aerys waved a hand. "Granted! Pycelle, draft the decree! Effective immediately, Leon Lannister shall serve as royal special tax collector for the thirty-seven farms in the Wendwater basin, for a term of two years, with the authority to build the necessary facilities there!"
Tywin's expression did not change in the slightest.
But Leon caught the emotion that flashed through his eyes-
Certainly not approval, nor pride, but something more complicated, deeper than surprise and heavier than wariness.
His father was recalculating his value.
Perhaps he was worried, too.
Worried that Leon had already taken a step beyond his control.
After the meeting, Tywin paused as he passed Leon.
But he said nothing.
He merely gave Leon a look, then continued walking.
In that look was a trace of almost negligible... acknowledgment.
But there was also a hint of warning.
As though saying... You've gone too far.
Leon lowered his eyes and said nothing.
Varys emerged from the shadows and stood beside Leon, watching Tywin's retreating figure.
"Lord Tywin rarely wears that expression," he said softly. "Surprise, concern, and... uncertainty."
He lowered his head to look at Leon, flickering candlelight reflected in his eyes.
"You've made him uncertain, young master Leon. That is no easy feat."
Leon did not answer.
He merely tightened his grip on the document inside his sleeve, which had yet to receive its official seal.
The Wendwater. Two years. Docks. Warehouses.
And a route out to sea.