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The next day the sky was clear and bright, not a cloud in sight.
Sunlight poured through the throne room's stained-glass windows, chasing away the gloom cast by the Iron Throne and the black stone floor. The air felt fresh and open.
Daeron leaned against the window frame, gazing out at the domed Dragonpit on Rhaenys's Hill. Every so often a red dragon, a blue one, and a black one burst into view, tumbling and chasing each other before vanishing again.
"It really does feel like a dragonlord family now," he thought with a quiet smile.
Ser Jon Darry approached and spoke low. "Prince, His Grace is still sleeping off last night's wine. The Hand asks you to preside."
The hall was already packed with the lords who had earned rewards and the rest of the nobility. Today was the day for official grants, and the king's absence was making everyone uneasy.
"I'll take the chair," Daeron said.
He walked straight toward the Iron Throne without hesitation.
The lords fell silent at once, every eye on the young prince.
A year ago some of them might have been shocked. Not anymore. He was the Regent Prince now.
"Regent Prince Daeron!" Barristan announced from beside the throne.
Daeron climbed the twisted steps with steady, unhurried strides. Truth be told, he had never planned to sit on this thing. But the world had other ideas.
He reached the top, turned, and sat.
No drama. No hesitation. Just a man taking his seat.
Most of the lords looked proud, almost relieved. A few looked uneasy. All of them watched.
The council began.
Varys stepped forward and called the first honorees.
Tywin and Mace came up together.
Tywin had commanded the secondary front in the Riverlands while Daeron led the dragons through the Stormlands. Even without battlefield glory, his service mattered.
Mace had raised the entire seventy-thousand-man Reach host and followed Daeron from the first battle to the last—even if he had spent most of it stealing credit.
Tywin's reward was mostly honors. Daeron added something extra.
"To strengthen the royal administration, the Iron Throne will adjust official salaries going forward," he said. "Lord Tywin has served with distinction. Your stipend is now ten thousand silver stags per month."
Ten thousand silver stags came to roughly forty-eight gold dragons—pocket change for a great lord. But it was a clear signal. Most royal officials lived on far less. This raise marked status.
Tywin gave a slight nod. "My thanks, Regent Prince."
Next came Mace.
Daeron's voice stayed level. "Lord Mace, I name you to the Small Council. Once I finish reorganizing it, your exact seat will be confirmed."
"Yes, my prince!" Mace bellowed, then bent into an exaggerated bow so deep his belly nearly touched the floor.
Daeron had to fight a grin. The whole hall nearly laughed.
Olenna had already traded the promised lands for this council seat in private talks with Tywin. Daeron had agreed. The Tyrells were smart enough to bend rather than break.
Next came the true battlefield men.
Howland Reed was absent—he was busy sealing the Neck against fleeing Northmen—so Daeron announced the grant in his name.
"Howland Reed is named Warden of the Northern Kingsroad and Castellan of Moat Cailin. He may raise two thousand road wardens, paid from the royal treasury."
Stevron Frey stepped forward next.
Daeron made him Steward of the Green Fork, non-hereditary. The man knelt in genuine gratitude.
Then came the main event.
Daeron's voice rang clear. "Randyll Tarly, step forward."
Randyll marched out in his scarred silver-gray armor, every inch the soldier.
"You commanded the Reach host in the Kingswood, the Stormlands interior, the Red Fork, the Trident, and the Bloody Gate," Daeron said. "You swept the Vale clean afterward."
He laid it out plainly, no exaggeration, no omissions. The lords exchanged glances—many had never realized how sharp Randyll really was.
Daeron continued, tone formal. "Randyll Tarly, the realm has lost two dukes. I name you Duke of Horn Hill and Governor of the Dornish Marches. You will oversee all affairs in the Marches."
He unrolled a large map of the Reach and Stormlands and drew the new borders in plain sight.
Starting at Horn Hill, the territory ran west to Highgarden's edge, east to Nightsong, Blackhaven, Harvest Hall, and the rest of the marcher lords—plus dozens of lesser knights and landed families who would now answer directly to the new duke.
The hall erupted in shocked murmurs.
A brand-new duchy. A governor with real power carved straight out of the Reach and Stormlands.
Olenna Tyrell's eyes widened. She opened her mouth to speak.
Willas grabbed her arm and gave a single sharp tug. The ten-year-old shook his head hard.
Olenna's chest heaved. She looked ready to faint. But she let her grandson pull her out of the hall with Alerie trailing behind.
Daeron watched them go, inwardly satisfied. Highgarden had been fed plenty during the war. Now it was time to trim it.
Once Olenna was gone, Daeron stepped down from the Iron Throne, drew Dark Sister, and performed the formal dubbing.
From this moment forward, Randyll Tarly was Governor of the Dornish Marches under the Iron Throne.
"I, Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill, swear by the Seven to serve House Targaryen faithfully. Today and every day that follows, I will not break this oath."
Daeron sheathed the sword, helped him rise, and gripped his forearm.
"Serve the Iron Throne and House Targaryen with loyalty, and you will enjoy lasting honor."
He paused, eyes steady.
"Betray it, and there will be dragonfire."
Randyll met his gaze without flinching.
"Understood, my prince."