289 AC.
The Long Summer's fifth year burned hot, but the harvests across Westeros were fat and golden.
King's Landing.
"Your Grace, Volantis has collapsed. Malacho Maegyr is sailing home to face charges from the Elephant Party archons."
"The Triarchy is tearing itself apart. Myr is in open civil war. Half the sellsword companies have gone pirate and are raiding the Stepstones like wolves."
"Prince Rhaegar is stuck in a stalemate. The Windblown and the Second Sons have already broken their contracts and pulled out."
Tywin's voice was steady as he laid out the latest reports. Daeron leaned back on the Iron Throne, fingers idly spinning the twin iridium rings on his left hand. One pulsed with moonlight luck. The other thrummed with explosive fire. Both had been forged on Ginger Island's volcano forge—perfect tools for a king who preferred results over speeches.
"Looks like the Stepstones are turning into a meat grinder," Daeron said, calm as ever.
Five years on the throne had changed him. He was nineteen now, tall, lean, silver-gold hair cut short and swept back. The boy who once hid behind dragons had grown into a man who didn't need to raise his voice to make the room listen.
Tywin didn't flinch. "Without fresh help, Rhaegar's failure is just a matter of time."
"We'll send him help," Daeron answered. "House Martell will do their part too."
He had stopped meddling directly in the Stepstones after the sack of Lys. Let the east bleed itself dry. Malacho had played a strong hand like a fool—too many fronts, too much pride—and now Volantis was licking its wounds while the Triarchy ate itself alive. Rhaegar was holding on by his fingernails. Doran Martell would probably sell his own castles before he let that investment fail.
Tywin's green eyes sharpened. "If the Iron Throne struck now, we could take the Stepstones in a week."
Every councillor watched Daeron. He shook his head once.
"Rhaegar's fought long enough. I'm not stealing his victory."
Public opinion mattered. The lords still remembered he was the second son who had taken the throne. Kicking his brother while he was down would look ugly. Blood was blood, even when it was inconvenient.
He turned to Lord Lucerys. "Recruit eight hundred strong men from the Crownlands. Full kit, full supplies. Send them to Bloodstone to reinforce Rhaegar."
Lucerys blinked. "Your Grace—"
"Do it."
Five years as king had taught Daeron that ministers obeyed best when they stopped offering opinions. He had plans for the Stepstones and the east. The islands would be his. The continent beyond? He would take what he could hold and no more.
Lucerys bowed. "As you command."
Davos spoke up. "The Long Summer has been kind to most of the realm, but Dorne's harvests have been poor. House Martell has poured everything into Rhaegar. They may be running dry."
Daeron filed that away. Doran would keep sending men and gold until the last coin was spent. Pride and sunk cost made for stubborn allies.
Varys changed the subject smoothly. "Your Grace, the royal hunt in the kingswood is in a fortnight. Shall we tighten security?"
"No need. It's a hunt, not a tourney. Keep it simple."
Since the recovery years began, Daeron had hosted a dozen tourneys, hunts, and feasts. He hated the pageantry, but the nobles loved it. It washed away the sour taste of Aerys's reign and the war. Even the smallfolk made coin selling pies and ale. The cost was only gold—and Daeron had plenty.
The new royal domain had tripled the crown's income. Riverlands and Stormlands taxes, Vale grain, Gulltown and White Harbor port duties, and the steady flood of eastern merchants now trading openly in King's Landing. No more hiding behind mad kings and closed gates. The city breathed again.
---
Oldtown, outskirts.
Thwack.
Jaehaerys's arrow flew true, pinning a gray hare three hundred paces away. Baelor Hightower clapped like a proud uncle.
"Prince, your aim improves every day."
Jaehaerys lowered the weirwood longbow and grinned. "Good enough. Accuracy over power."
"Your Grace could outshoot half the realm."
Baelor took the bow while servants rushed forward. Jaehaerys lived well as Lord Leyton's squire—plenty of free time after lessons in etiquette and history to hunt with the Reach's young blood. He trained hard anyway. Sword, horse, bow. Five years of special crops and relentless practice had turned the quiet boy into a lean, confident young man.
"Prince, a raven from King's Landing."
Ser Jon Darry handed him a letter sealed with the three-headed dragon. Jaehaerys broke the wax and read fast, eyes lighting up.
"It's from my brother. He wants me back for the royal hunt."
Ser Jon smiled, though guilt flickered behind it. His charge had talent, but not the raw edge of Daeron or even little Viserys. Five years of special crops had finally let Jaehaerys form a Life Seed and reach squire-knight rank. Swordwork was solid but never brilliant. Still, the boy had heart.
"This hunt, you'll take the prize, Prince."
Jaehaerys tucked the letter away. "I've got a surprise for him anyway."
He hadn't wasted his time in Oldtown. Every day had been study and growth. When he returned, Daeron would see exactly how far his little brother had come.
The letter also carried news: the Stepstones were locked in stalemate, Rhaegar struggling, the Triarchy scheming. The Iron Throne was finally moving. Jaehaerys felt the pull of home like a tide.
"I need to speak with Lord Leyton before we leave," he said. "And ask Baelor if he wants to ride with us."
Baelor agreed at once. The Hightowers had grown rich and powerful in the Long Summer, quietly eclipsing even the Tyrells. Jaehaerys had spent five years as their bridge to the crown, feeding useful intelligence north while learning everything Oldtown could teach.
A carriage waited under the trees. Lynesse Hightower peeked through the curtain, golden hair framing milk-pale skin, watching the silver-haired prince with open interest. Jaehaerys turned without a glance and led the party back toward the city. He still had packing to do—and a kingdom to impress.
---
King's Landing.
Daeron listened to Varys repeat the same rumors from the east.
Not rumors anymore.
Varys kept his hands tucked in his sleeves. "Lys tried to lure Prince Rhaegar after he refused them. They cast a wide net and found every bastard with even a drop of dragon blood. Gave them estates, gold, titles."
Some claimed Targaryen descent. Others swore they were heirs to long-lost Valyrian houses. Truth was hard to prove.
"Too many fakes," Varys warned. "But one real bloodline could change everything."
Daeron only cared about one detail. "Any dragon eggs?"
"None confirmed."
"Keep every eye open. Miss nothing."
Daeron had seeded those rumors himself—agents whispering in every Triarchy port that dragon blood was power again. The Free Cities that once hunted Valyrian descendants now competed to claim them. Fakes flooded the streets, driving up the value of the real thing.
House Targaryen sat at the top of that market. If a genuine egg surfaced, Caraxes would collect it. If someone actually hatched a dragon… well. First tamer keeps the prize. The rest were just future leeks for the crown to harvest.
A knock at the door. Barristan's voice carried. "Your Grace, Lord Lucerys requests an audience. Urgent."
Daeron rose from the Iron Throne, rings glinting in the torchlight.
The young king was done waiting. It was time to move.