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Lucerys Velaryon stormed into the throne room like a man half his age. At over fifty, the Lord of the Tides still carried the weight of a lifetime at sea. His presence filled the chamber.
"Your Grace, we've lost four ships. One flew my own sails. The Stepstones have become a festering wound. We can't keep ignoring it."
Daeron's brow furrowed. Four ships gone? The pirates had grown bold again. They never learned.
"Mind your tone, Lord Lucerys," Tywin said coldly from the foot of the throne. The Hand had slipped in uninvited the moment serious talk began.
Lucerys turned on him, meeting Tywin's pale green eyes without flinching. "Since the Battle of the Narrow Sea, no Stepstones pirate has dared touch an Iron Throne ship. This sudden attack means something's changed."
Tywin's voice stayed flat, but the edge was sharp. "Care to share your theory? Or are you simply unhappy the king still sends aid to Prince Rhaegar?"
Lucerys's jaw tightened. He wanted war on the Stepstones—glory for himself and open trade lanes again—but Daeron had already made his position clear in council. No one was launching a full invasion while Rhaegar still fought.
Daeron spoke before the two men could lock horns. "Lord Lucerys, patience. I've already sent envoys to Pentos and Volantis. We're exploring… options."
Both men turned to the young king on the Iron Throne.
The chair itself had changed. No longer the jagged nightmare Aegon the Conqueror had built, it was now a towering black seat of reforged steel, broad and solid like a mountain of enemy blades. The twisted spikes were gone. In their place, twenty-eight dragon scales of every size and color were embedded along the arms, back, and steps—each one taken from a dragon that had once belonged to House Targaryen. At the center of the high backrest, the three-headed red dragon of the royal house stood proud and unmistakable.
Daeron sat relaxed, one leg hooked over the armrest, the picture of a king who no longer needed to sit stiffly in fear of his own throne. He had melted the old one down and rebuilt it on his own terms. A reminder that a true king stood alone, with only his own strength to rely on.
"The Stepstones are a problem we can't ignore," Daeron said evenly, "but we won't rush into war either. Not yet."
Lucerys's eyes lit with approval. "Wise, Your Grace. At least someone sees the threat clearly."
Tywin's expression didn't shift, but his tone cut like a knife. "Some of us see it clearly enough without needing to shout in the king's presence."
The two men had become open rivals. Lucerys was the only lord bold enough to challenge Tywin to his face in council and treat House Lannister like any other house. He treated everyone that way.
Daeron knew exactly what Lucerys had been doing with the royal fleet. Five long voyages—reaching Asshai in the far east, Lorath in the north, the Summer Islands and the Lizard's Head in the south. He had grown rich trading spices, special crops, and gems, just as the old Sea Snake had dreamed. High Tide was rising again from the ashes left by the Triarchy pirates during the Dance. Spicetown was no longer a fishing village. House Velaryon was clawing its way back to the power it had held before the dragons died.
Lucerys reached into his coat. "There's more, Your Grace."
He pulled out a folded parchment and handed it to a Kingsguard, who passed it up the steps. Daeron unfolded it and read the heading.
Wind-Rider Sail, Type I. Myr's Secret Design.
"Twenty-five percent faster," Lucerys said. "Even in dead calm. The sail generates its own wind through some mixture of alchemy and sorcery. Myr is keeping the method hidden, but they're already producing them in numbers."
Daeron studied the diagram. Ordinary-looking three-masted sails on the surface. But the name "Wind-Rider" made him pause. It sounded too close to the Stardew Valley panel's own "Wind Path" abilities for comfort.
He looked up. "How are they made?"
"No one outside Myr knows," Lucerys admitted. "They keep hiring every hedge-wizard and blood sorcerer they can find. The ones who work on the sails vanish into secret workshops."
Daeron made his decision at once. "Send an envoy to Myr. Offer whatever price they want. I want those sails on the royal fleet first."
Lucerys grinned, clearly pleased. The royal fleet was still mostly Velaryon ships. Arming them better only strengthened his house.
"Consider it done, Your Grace."
He bowed and turned to leave. At the door he met a tall silver-haired youth—his eldest son, Monterys Velaryon. The boy had already sailed three voyages with his father and carried himself like a born sailor.
Tywin watched them go, voice low. "House Velaryon rises fast. Lucerys uses the royal fleet for his own trade routes and calls it duty. Keep an eye on him. Another Sea Snake in the making."
Daeron smiled faintly. "He's ambitious. That's useful."
Tywin's eyes narrowed. "Useful until it isn't."
Daeron leaned back on the wide throne, one boot resting on the step. "You called him my Sea Snake, Lord Tywin. So tell me—who are you in this story?"
Tywin's face tightened for half a second. Otto Hightower's shadow was long, and he knew it.
He changed the subject smoothly. "The Stepstones need a final solution. Tyrosh or Myr would make fine targets once we're ready."
"Without the Stepstones as a base, we're not ready," Daeron said. "You know that."
Tywin didn't argue. Instead he gestured at the throne room around them. "Five years of your plan. King's Landing cleaned up, population cut from half a million to four hundred thousand, new towns built, royal domain locked tight. You've prepared for war whether you admit it or not."
Daeron said nothing, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
Tywin pressed on. "Speaking of preparation—five years of marriage, Your Grace. The realm still waits for an heir. Perhaps it's time we discussed succession seriously."
Daeron's easy smile vanished.