Blackwater Bay.
The royal fleet sailed up the throat of the river, ships moving in orderly formation toward the Mud Gate.
"My lord, we captured a hundred thousand tons of grain—barley, wheat, oats, black beans, and more. Enough to feed four hundred thousand people for a full year."
Tyrion rattled off the numbers like a born accountant, clinging to Lord Lucerys like a shadow.
He added proudly, "Plus medicine and furs. The Volantenes gave us a fair price."
"Stored properly, it should cover a small-scale winter sickness outbreak."
Lord Lucerys shook his head. "Still not enough, boy."
Tyrion stared at his ledger, heart pounding with excitement. "War loot really is something else. Pure profit."
"Hiss-graa—!"
A piercing shriek split the air behind them. Wind slammed the sails. Something heavy struck a mast. The ship lurched violently.
Tyrion lost his footing and cracked his forehead against the deck.
"My lord, are you all right?"
Sailors rushed to steady Lord Lucerys.
"Ow—damn, that hurt."
Tyrion pushed himself up, rubbing his head, and looked back just in time to see a crimson dragon soar over Blackwater Bay. Its long tail skimmed the waves before it climbed toward the Red Keep on Aegon's High Hill.
"Whoa…"
Tyrion forgot the pain. His eyes filled with pure awe and longing.
That was House Targaryen. The family that rode dragons.
Dragons really were perfect creatures.
He kept staring.
King's Landing.
Tywin called an emergency council meeting.
"My lords. It's been a while."
Daeron walked into the chamber and smiled at the surprised faces around the table.
"Your Grace, you're finally back."
"We've all been waiting."
The ministers greeted him warmly, far less formal than usual.
The young king could be ruthless, but most of the time he was easy to deal with.
Once Daeron took his seat, the meeting began.
Tywin spoke first. "Your Grace, you led the Volantenes in an attack on Lys?"
"Not quite."
Daeron corrected him calmly. "I allied with the Volantenes and we attacked Lys together."
Tywin's temple twitched. What was the difference?
He had taken his eyes off the boy for a short time, and the plan to simply stir up trouble in the Stepstones had turned into the king personally leading foreigners to sack Lys.
Unbelievable.
Still, Tywin felt genuine shock and wariness that Daeron had struck Lys and returned unscathed.
Even Aegon the Conqueror hadn't done that.
"This trip brought back a hundred thousand tons of grain, plus medicine and furs—enough to fill an entire new royal warehouse."
Tywin swallowed his lecture and focused on the positive.
Daeron nodded. "I made a deal with Volantis. We've claimed a stretch of sea around Bloodstone Island as a royal enclave. The royal fleet will station there permanently to keep an eye on the Stepstones."
Securing control of Ginger Island was one of the biggest wins of the voyage.
Tywin didn't care about the enclave. He cared about diplomacy. "Volantis is no easy partner. They're even greedier than the Triarchy. When dealing with them, stay on guard at all times."
"Your Grace, attacking Lys… you won't start a full war, will you?"
Lord Corlton asked carefully.
That question hit the heart of the matter.
Lord Staunton, Lord Mace, and Maester Aemon all turned to Daeron with the same concern.
No one took the possibility of war lightly.
Daeron chose his words. "I can't promise it won't happen, but Volantis will take the lead. I'll step in when the timing is right."
The Triarchy would have to be idiots to ignore the Volantenes hammering at their door and instead cross the sea to attack the Iron Throne.
Worst case, the combined strength of the Seven Kingdoms still far outmatched Volantis.
If they came looking for revenge, they were asking to die.
The ministers visibly relaxed.
Volantis was a starving wolf that had sunk its teeth into the Stepstones. If the Triarchy wanted peace, they would have to deal with the invaders first.
"Still, the grudge is real. We can't ignore it."
Tywin's eyes sharpened. "We can open formal diplomacy with Volantis and help them pressure the Triarchy. Keep the fighting in the Stepstones going as long as possible."
Lord Lucerys nodded in agreement.
War was about being bold and ruthless.
If you didn't bleed your enemies dry, you only hurt yourself.
The discussion ended.
Daeron gave his orders. "Lord Mace, get the new royal warehouses built quickly. The fleet brought the first load of grain. More is coming. None of it can sit outside."
"Yes, Your Grace. I'll do everything in my power."
Lord Mace thumped his chest. His once-round body looked like it had lost a few pounds.
"Your Grace, wait a moment."
Tywin called out as Daeron left the chamber.
Daeron turned. "Lord Tywin, is there something else?"
"Of course. A few thoughts on the Triarchy and Volantis."
Tywin didn't bother with pleasantries. "Unless it's absolutely necessary, you should stop interfering in the Stepstones for now.
"You've already attacked Tyrosh and Lys twice. The eastern continent is starting to view you as a threat. Smart politicians over there will realize you have designs on their lands."
Daeron couldn't deny it.
Tywin's voice was sharp. "The Seven Kingdoms need peace. Don't drag us into another war."
With that, he brushed past Daeron and walked away.
Daeron stood there for a moment, then smiled faintly.
The risks and rewards of what he was doing were evenly matched.
The old lion wasn't the type to shy away from opportunity. He had to see the value too.
"Using the excuse of 'knowing better' to lecture me?"
Daeron was starting to understand.
Tywin was probably worried the royal family was growing too powerful too fast and was looking for ways to push back.
Typical Lannister self-interest.
Daeron shook his head and decided to visit the dragon cave.
Sunfyre was still there.
He had named the golden hatchling Sunfyre.
While reading The Dance of the Dragons he had always loved Aegon II's golden dragon Sunfyre.
Sunfyre was called the most magnificent and beautiful dragon in all of Westeros history.
It had fought at the Battle of Rook's Rest, helped Vhagar kill the Red Queen Meleys, then—badly wounded—survived by eating corpses on the battlefield and drove off the black faction's dragon-slaying army.
Once it recovered enough, it flew back to Dragonstone, killed the wild dragon Grey Ghost, and ate it.
After linking up with Aegon II, it defeated the young dragon Moon Dancer in single combat.
Finally, it ate the black queen Rhaenyra herself.
A true monster of a dragon.
And its description matched perfectly: shining golden scales that looked forged from sunlight, with soft pink wing membranes that only made the golden dragon more stunning.
"I hope you grow into something just as strong and magnificent."
Daeron smiled to himself. "And I hope you get a good rider who lets you reach your full potential."
A fully grown golden dragon would be something to see.
Daeron walked down the corridor.
Cersei stepped out in front of him, eyes lighting up. "Your Grace?"
Daeron stopped mid-step.
He was starting to think the corridors were Cersei's personal spawn point.
How did she always find him?
"Your Grace, I heard you were back and came running to see you."
Cersei closed the distance, lips curving in a bright smile.
Daeron: Time to go.
At the same time, the Red Keep was far from quiet.
Tywin returned to the Hand's Tower and sent for both his sons.
"Father." Jaime pushed the door open.
Tyrion followed behind his brother, head down. "Father."
Bang!
Tywin's face was dark as thunder. He slammed his palm on the desk. "Jaime Lannister, who gave you permission to take your brother to the battlefield? Did I say yes?"
Jaime gave an awkward laugh and turned his head away.
Everyone knew that when a parent used your full name, you were in trouble.
Tyrion spoke up quickly. "Father, I begged Jaime to take me."
"Quiet!"
Tywin glared at his younger son with open disgust. "If you weren't my son, I would have had you drowned in a latrine long ago. Instead of being grateful, you sneak off to war without a second thought for the Lannister name."
Tyrion looked up in surprise.
He didn't understand. He had only followed the king to the front lines, kept the books, and convinced a few Golden Company sellswords. How was that embarrassing the family?
"Don't give me that pitiful look. You're not Cersei and you're not Jaime. Making that face just makes people sick."
Tywin's words cut like knives, tearing his youngest son down without mercy.
Tyrion's eyes filled with tears. His pride was in tatters.
Tywin had no pity left. "Go back to Casterly Rock."
He had decided this long ago. Other matters had delayed it.
Tyrion's two unauthorized trips had made the decision final.
Tyrion didn't dare argue with his father's authority. He lowered his oversized head. "Yes, Father."
Jaime couldn't stay silent any longer. He opened his mouth to defend his brother.
Tywin cut him off coldly. "If you want to be head of this family, take off that white cloak first and come home to Casterly Rock as my heir."
Jaime shut his mouth at once. He gave Tyrion a helpless look.
He hadn't been able to leave Cersei before. Now he couldn't leave the white cloak and the honor of fighting beside his idol and the other Kingsguard.
Being forced back to Casterly Rock to live a boring life as heir would be worse than death.
"Both of you, get out."
Tywin was in no mood for either of them.
On the other side of the keep, Lord Mace waddled from one minister to another—Lord Corlton the treasurer, Lord Owen the master of works, Ser Alliser Thorne the commander of the City Watch—finally ending with Davos Seaworth, the master of the royal household.
Building new royal warehouses meant going through every step of the process. Nothing could go wrong.
"If I keep this up, I'm going to waste away to nothing."
Lord Mace wiped sweat from his forehead. He was already panting, legs shaking.
After thinking it over, he decided to take his problem straight to the king.
He really couldn't do this alone anymore.
Without his mother Lady Olenna's advice and without his wife Alerie's tireless bookkeeping, he was drowning.
The petition landed on Daeron's desk.
After reading it, Daeron wrote his reply: "Summon Willas Tyrell to King's Landing. Appoint him as an accountant under the Master of Works to assist Lord Mace."
Lady Olenna had been too willful. She had left and taken the whole family with her.
Willas Tyrell was supposed to serve as Daeron's squire, train with the Constabulary Knights for a few years, then begin his career.
This was the perfect excuse to bring him back.
On the surface it was a promotion for House Tyrell. In reality it was pressure on Lady Olenna.
Daeron had been back in King's Landing for half a month.
He kept busy with steady work while watching the Stepstones.
Volantis had not disappointed him. They attacked Bloodstone like mad dogs, trying to seize the entire chain.
Finally House Martell committed, sending Rhaegar ten thousand soldiers.
Both sides fought two brutal sieges. Wins and losses on each side.
At the same time, Lys and Myr launched a surprise attack on Grey Gallows, indirectly relieving the pressure on Bloodstone.
"A triangle is the most stable shape."
Daeron saw the three-way balance forming and finally felt at ease.
A good big brother always showed up at the critical moment to take the heat.
Truly touching.
"Still, Rhaegar's ambition is no small thing."
Daeron's instincts were sharp. He could tell Rhaegar's real target wasn't just the Stepstones—it was one of the Free Cities.
More precisely, Lys.
Otherwise Rhaegar would have abandoned Bloodstone the moment Volantis attacked.
But he hadn't.
He had even turned down the Triarchy's offers and dragged House Martell into the fight against Volantis.
"With Rhaegar's skill, taking Lys shouldn't be difficult if Volantis wasn't in the way."
Daeron shook his head.
Volantis's sudden involvement meant neither Rhaegar nor the Triarchy would get an easy win. They were heading for a long, grinding war.
Perfect.
The longer the Stepstones stayed chaotic, the more time Westeros had to grow stronger.
Daeron walked into the throne room.
"Your Grace—Your Grace—"
Ministers lined both sides of the great hall.
At the base of the tall, twisted Iron Throne stood two old men, one middle-aged man, and several dozen nervous King's Landing blacksmiths.
"Master Tobho, it's in your hands now."
Daeron spoke to the middle-aged man in High Valyrian.
Tobho Mott was tall and lean, bald, with thick slabs of muscle.
Faced with the young king's instructions, Tobho didn't dare be casual. He bowed low. "Leave it to us, Your Grace. We won't waste your gold."
He was a Qohorik blacksmith who had learned the secret arts of reforging, repairing, and coloring Valyrian steel.
In the old stories he had been Gendry's master and had melted Ice for Tywin, turning it into two new swords.
Now he had just arrived from Qohor. His first job in King's Landing was a royal commission.
The two old men with him were veteran Qohorik smiths who had accepted positions as court craftsmen.
"Your Grace, we're ready."
The Yi Ti healer stood nearby. As the first court physician, he was there to assist the blacksmiths.
Daeron stepped back and had the heavy doors of the throne room thrown open.
"Hiss-graa!"
"Hiss-graa—!"
A blue dragon and a black dragon entered the hall. Each was nearly thirty feet long and roared warnings at everyone present.
Outside, Caraxes rose from the grass and thrust his massive head through the open window, smashing the frame. His head—big as a millstone—pushed into the chamber.
"Dragonfire!"
At Daeron's command, all three dragons breathed at once.
Crimson, deep blue, and pale green flames poured down together, swallowing the grotesque Iron Throne.
The thousand swords that made it began to glow red. Molten steel ran down from the highest points.
The blacksmiths stood frozen in terrified silence, eyes wide.
Daeron watched calmly as the Iron Throne slowly melted, its jagged blades softening, turning into glowing red metal that dripped and smoked.
He had said it the day he took the throne—he would melt this iron chair.
Aegon the Conqueror's intent had been noble: to remind every future king that the throne was never comfortable.
But Daeron had never liked it.
Dragons were the true foundation of House Targaryen.
With dragons, power was eternal.
No iron chair could represent that. No iron chair could change it.
"Your Grace, are you certain you want it reforged in this design?"
The Yi Ti healer and Tobho Mott asked one last time.
Daeron glanced at the simple sketch he had drawn and nodded. "Yes. Keep it simple."