The last thought before the Dornish soldier blacked out was simple and terrified.
"Is that… a dragon?"
A massive crimson shape tore through the clouds above Bloodstone Island. Caraxes roared and unleashed a torrent of dragonfire that turned the patrol camp into an inferno. Men and moss-covered rocks exploded into ash and black smoke.
Daeron sat calm in the saddle, eyes cold as he scanned the burning ground below.
"Caraxes—again."
The red dragon shrieked with savage joy and dove, serpentine body twisting in midair. Another blast of fire ripped across the Dornish positions. The explosive rings on Daeron's hand triggered with every kill, turning the dragonfire into devastating area blasts that shattered stone and flesh alike.
Caraxes was a flying nightmare—adult-sized now, blood-red scales gleaming, wings wide enough to cast shadows over entire ships. Every kill fed the golden-spur ring and sent the dragon surging faster, hotter, deadlier. Daeron felt the thrill in his bones. This was what he was meant for.
Two hours later the royal fleet dropped anchor. Eighteen hundred men swarmed ashore and rounded up the survivors. Sixty-seven Dornish prisoners. Two swan ships. Five longships. A mountain of supplies.
The fleet commander approached, sweating. "Your Grace, the men are ready to repair the old camp—"
"No," Daeron cut in. "Burn what's left. We're building a proper town right there." He pointed at the only flat stretch of ground on the southwest side of the island. "Tell King's Landing to send masons, timber, and grain. Bloodstone belongs to the crown now."
The commander blinked. "A town? On Bloodstone?"
Daeron's smile was sharp. "We're taking the entire Stepstones. These islands are going to feed and arm the realm. I want seven kingdoms living here, not just pirates and corpses."
Seven days later Caraxes and the royal fleet had swept through half the archipelago. Every pirate nest, every smuggler hideout, every hidden cove was either burned or taken. The fleet finally linked up with the main royal armada.
Daeron gave the order without hesitation. "Leave eight hundred men to hold Bloodstone. The rest sail for Grey Gallows. We finish this."
---
King's Landing
Tywin Lannister stared at the raven scroll, jaw tight. "He wants to build a town on Bloodstone?"
Maester Aemon's voice was calm. "The Stepstones are no longer a forgotten backwater, my lord. With dragons in the sky, the crown can hold what it takes."
Tywin's green eyes narrowed. "Or it can bleed the treasury dry fighting pirates for the next twenty years."
Aemon smiled faintly. "House Targaryen is different now."
Tywin said nothing for a long moment. Then he turned to his brother. "Kevan, take three thousand Redcloaks and fifty Lionheart Knights. Sail for the Stepstones immediately. Daeron will need ground forces when he hits Grey Gallows."
Kevan nodded once and left.
Varys slipped in a minute later, face carefully neutral. "Your Grace's fleet has secured Bloodstone. Prince Rhaegar remains unaware—still chasing glory in the Summer Sea."
Tywin's mouth curved in a cold, satisfied line. "Let the silver prince keep chasing. By the time he looks back, the Stepstones will already fly three-headed dragons."
Later that afternoon Cersei and Tyrion arrived at the Red Keep. Tywin didn't even stand.
"Jaime will take Tyrion with him to the Stepstones," he said flatly. "Both of you are going to war. The crown needs every sword and every coin it can muster."
Cersei's face went white. Tyrion just laughed once, bitter and small.
Tywin ignored them both. "Pack light. You leave at dawn."
---
Grey Gallows
The royal fleet appeared on the horizon like a storm of red sails and black steel. Three hundred Dornish soldiers panicked inside their mountain caves.
One olive-skinned knight from House Dalt stared at the massive red dragon circling overhead and felt his legs turn to water.
"It's him," he whispered. "The Young Dragon has come for us."
Caraxes screamed and dove. Dragonfire painted the sky red. The first blast incinerated the cave mouth and half the defenders in a single roaring line.
The knight dropped his sword and ran.
He didn't make it far.
By nightfall the island was burning. Daeron stood on the highest ridge, Caraxes coiled behind him like a living fortress of scales and claws. Below, royal banners snapped in the wind.
He looked out across the Narrow Sea toward the distant lights of Tyrosh and smiled.
The Stepstones were falling.
And this time, they would stay fallen.
This time, the realm would actually keep what it conquered.
This time, Daeron was done playing the patient second son.
He was the king now.
And kings took what was theirs.