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The Shield Islands
"Run! For the love of the Drowned God, RUN!"
An Ironborn longship squadron scattered in panic. The first mate's scream was still echoing when a pillar of dragonfire slammed into the trailing vessel, snapping its mast like kindling and turning the deck into an inferno.
Screee—!
Caraxes wheeled overhead, his crimson wings blotting out the sky like a living storm. Flame poured from his jaws in a continuous, merciless torrent.
A dragon in flight was already faster than anything afloat.
Caraxes, the swiftest of his kind, was a living reaper on the open sea.
The lead Ironborn ships never stood a chance. Terror broke them before the flames even touched their hulls. One by one the vessels became floating pyres, their crews leaping into the waves only to be swallowed by the boiling water.
"Dracarys!"
Daeron guided the Blood Wyrm with calm precision, letting the dragon play with the prey rather than ending it instantly. Caraxes responded perfectly—diving, climbing, spiraling like a winged serpent—herding the Ironborn exactly where he wanted them.
A few desperate raiders nocked arrows and loosed a ragged volley.
Daeron watched with cold indifference as the shafts pinged harmlessly off Caraxes' scales and membrane. The dragon's hide was harder than Valyrian steel; the arrows simply snapped or flattened on impact.
Screee—!
Caraxes' molten-gold eyes narrowed. With a powerful snap of his serpentine waist, he folded his wings and dove.
The Ironborn below screamed, flinging away weapons and clawing at their armor.
BOOM.
A roaring column of red flame swept the deck clean. The ships vanished inside a roaring curtain of fire.
Daeron gave the command in High Valyrian.
"Enough, Caraxes. We're done here."
The dragon answered with a joyful screech, banked sharply, and shot upward into the clouds, vanishing from sight in seconds.
Highgarden – Noon
One man and one dragon touched down in the outer ward barely half a day after leaving.
Daeron slid from the saddle, unbuckled his sword-belt, and tossed Dark Sister to a waiting squire.
"Prince, you returned faster than expected," Mathis Rowan greeted him.
The Lord of Goldengrove stood tall in full plate, hair combed neatly, beard freshly shaved. He had answered the Iron Throne's call with three thousand five hundred well-equipped men and now waited for the march north.
Daeron exhaled, calm. "The Ironborn scouts at the Shield Islands were easier to deal with than I thought."
Mathis gave a rare, thin smile. "I was speaking of your speed, my prince. That dragon of yours flies faster than any bird or ship I've ever seen."
Highgarden to the Shield Islands was two days' hard ride.
Daeron had flown there, burned the raiders, and returned before the midday meal.
Mathis's voice dropped with satisfaction. "With that kind of power, I cannot see how we lose the war that's coming."
Screee—!
Caraxes hissed at the approaching servants, then incinerated the sheep they brought and began devouring it with greedy snaps of his jaws.
Daeron left the dragon to his meal and ordered Howland Reed to keep watch.
For this campaign in the Reach he had left Barristan and Jon Connington in King's Landing to guard his family and keep an eye on Tywin. His personal escort consisted of the Blackfish, Brynden Tully, and the newly appointed Kingsguard Jaime Lannister.
Jaime's hot temper made him a liability in the capital right now.
For diplomacy he had brought Davos, Howland, and the Reach-born Count Owen.
The War Council Chamber
The moment Daeron stepped inside he saw Davos and the Blackfish bent over maps with a bald, powerfully built knight.
"Prince."
Randyll Tarly's voice was low and gravelly. He set down the charcoal stylus and map, bowing with perfect military courtesy.
He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a cleanly shaven scalp and a face carved from granite. The Valyrian-steel greatsword Heartsbane rested against the table beside him.
Daeron unbuckled Dark Sister and laid it aside. "Lord Tarly, I've cleared the Ironborn scouts at the Shield Islands. No sign of any Greyjoy banners."
Randyll nodded once. "Quellon Greyjoy is old. His sons are impatient to prove themselves. Those scattered raiders are the work of the 'Little Kraken' and his brothers."
The man was famously blunt.
Daeron agreed. Small probing fleets always preceded a major Ironborn raid.
The fact they hadn't committed their full strength yet suggested someone—probably old Quellon—was still reining them in.
Davos spoke up, worried. "By burning their ships, haven't we alerted them?"
"They have no brains for strategy," Randyll answered flatly. "Ironborn only understand plunder. If the prize is rich enough, they'll risk anything."
He left the second part unsaid: the only reason the Ironborn weren't already swarming the Mander was because Quellon Greyjoy was dying, and his sons still feared his wrath.
"Prince, look here," Randyll said, placing his hand on the map.
The Reach host was swelling daily. Nobles from along the Mander—Longtable, Cider Hall, Bitterbridge—were already marching to join the main army at Highgarden. Current estimates put their total strength at sixty thousand men.
"Sixty thousand," Daeron said with quiet satisfaction. "More than the combined forces of the Crownlands and the Riverlands."
He turned to Davos. "Any word from the Stormlands?"
Davos produced several letters. "Blackhaven, Stonehelm, Grandview, and Nightsong have all pledged to the Iron Throne."
Daeron raised an eyebrow—pleasantly surprised but not shocked. The marcher lords of the Dornish Marches were natural allies once they learned he was personally leading the Reach host.
Randyll added, "I have some friendship with two of those lords. The moment they heard you were in the Reach, they declared for the loyalist cause."
Daeron gave a small, satisfied smile and made his decision.
"Before we march north, we deal with the Ironborn first. I won't have them raiding our rear while we're away."
Randyll's cold eyes gleamed. "A show of force, or do we break them completely?"
Shipbreaker Bay
Storm's End rose like a clenched fist against the cliffs, its ancient walls battered by endless wind and rain.
A lone ship rode the swells, its stag banner snapping wildly.
"I'm home," Robert Baratheon growled, staring up at the fortress he had not seen in years.
He had come back carrying fire in his chest.
His gaze drifted north, past the black clouds, toward the invisible shape of Dragonstone.
There lived the man he hated more than any other.
Robert's voice was iron. "Rhaegar, I'm going to smash your collarbone, rip open your chest, and see whether your heart is red… or black."
Thunder cracked overhead, lighting the hard lines of his face.
Inside Storm's End
Stannis Baratheon stood at the high window of the tower, watching the stag banner draw closer.
"Maester Cressen, prepare the ravens."
The old, round-bellied maester nodded. "Robert has been away a long time and has just fought at Gulltown. Shall I prepare a feast so you and Renly can welcome him properly?"
"No."
Stannis's answer was immediate and flat. "War is coming. Robert has no time for revelry."
Cressen opened his mouth, then closed it again with a sigh.
Stannis was not cold by nature—he was simply… Stannis. Logical to a fault, unyielding, and painfully honest. The man who had practically raised the younger brothers after their parents died.
He stared north, toward Dragonstone, and the shadow that now loomed over them all.
"Prince Daeron Targaryen… the Dragonrider."
Stannis's jaw tightened.
The Baratheons carried the blood of dragons through their grandmother. They should never have joined the wolves and falcons against the Iron Throne.
But Robert was his brother.
So Stannis would do what he always did: shoulder the burden and find a way to win.
Even against dragons.