The victory at Deerfield raced across the Seven Kingdoms like wildfire, lifting the hearts of every loyalist from the Crownlands to the Reach.
For the first time, the lords and smallfolk truly understood what a dragon could do.
They finally grasped the old saying: a Targaryen with a dragon is the closest thing to a god walking the earth.
And right behind that realization came Daeron's name—sung louder than ever.
"Young Dragon" Daeron had become the unbreakable backbone of the loyalist cause.
---
Tumblestone
Daeron led his troops back into the battered town and began gathering the scattered Crownlands soldiers.
Robert's sneak attack had broken the army, but it hadn't wiped it out. The moment Daeron arrived on Caraxes and unfurled the three-headed red dragon banner of House Targaryen, the hidden remnants poured out of alleys and barns and reformed under his banner.
At the same time, Ser Kevan finally tracked down his missing brother Tywin.
The two Lannisters rode into Tumblestone and met Daeron at the Dragon Square—the largest open space in the rebuilt town. It was the same square where the skulls of Vermithor, Seasmoke, and Tessarion had once been displayed for the whole realm to see. After the Iron Throne reclaimed the skulls, it had become the town's busiest market.
Daeron stood on the raised platform, looking down at the shell-shocked townsfolk still reeling from the fighting.
Two soldiers dragged Lord Foote forward.
"Prince, mercy!" the lord blubbered, piss already staining his breeches. "I had no choice!"
Daeron's purple eyes stayed ice-cold. "I know Tywin's men looted your town and pushed you into rebellion."
His scouts had told him the whole ugly story before he even reached Tumblestone.
"Yes! Exactly, my prince!" Foote's face lit with desperate hope. "My liege lord is Tyrell. I've always been loyal to the Iron Throne. I never meant to betray anyone!"
Daeron shook his head. "I understand your grievance, but that doesn't excuse opening the gates to the enemy."
"Prince, I swear it wasn't my idea—"
"The Iron Throne doesn't care."
Daeron drew Dark Sister with both hands, laid the Valyrian steel across Lord Foote's neck, and recited the charges in a clear, ringing voice. Then he swung once—clean and final.
Thump.
The head rolled.
Daeron flicked the blood from his blade and ordered the body dragged away to hang from the town walls as a warning.
Foote didn't deserve pity. He could have sent a raven to the Iron Throne or begged his Tyrell overlord for help. Instead he chose treason and let Robert's army inside.
He had to die.
The smallfolk gasped. Men, women, elders, and children all stared with the same mixture of fear and hatred—at Daeron, at the loyalist soldiers, at the whole bloody war.
Daeron met every pair of eyes without flinching. He didn't blame them.
These people had suffered.
They weren't hating him personally. They were hating war itself—the endless, grinding misery that ground ordinary lives to dust.
They were war-weary.
"My good people!" Daeron spread his arms, letting the afternoon sun catch his silver-gold hair and handsome young face.
"Some men robbed you. War crashed through your homes. None of that was your fault, and I am truly sorry for your pain."
Not an apology from a king—sympathy from a man who understood.
He was still a feudal lord; he wasn't about to bankrupt the crown with blind charity. But he was also a human being.
While the townsfolk watched warily, Daeron lifted Dark Sister high overhead and declared in a voice that carried to every corner of the square:
"I, Daeron Targaryen, second son of Aerys II, hereby decree that every merchant, farmer, and tenant in Tumblestone is exempt from all taxes for one full year. Not a copper groat will be collected."
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Daeron kept going. "Any shopkeeper who was looted may submit a list. The Iron Throne cannot repay everything, but we will compensate you for one-third of your losses."
The merchants' eyes lit up with real hope for the first time.
"And to every family whose wives or daughters were violated," Daeron said, voice steady, "come forward and report it. You will receive two years of tax exemption, and the women will be given safe housing. If they wish, we will find them good husbands among the loyalist soldiers."
That last promise hit the deepest.
Tears spilled openly. Men pulled their wives close. Mothers clutched their children. Families broke down sobbing in the square.
The married women might eventually heal. But the unmarried girls… their futures had been stolen. Many poor families would have thrown them out just to save face and one extra mouth to feed.
Daeron's offer was salvation.
"Prince Daeron—!"
Sobs turned into cheers. People who moments earlier had looked at him with hatred now wept his name like a prayer.
The prince who could grant them tax relief.
The prince who would shelter their daughters.
In that moment he felt more real to them than any stone statue of the Seven.
---
Outside the army camp
Daeron pushed through the grateful crowd and strode back toward the Lannister tents, face like a thundercloud.
He had seen the hunger in those people's eyes. They didn't ask for riches or perfect justice—just a chance to live without being trampled.
And some arrogant bastard had decided their lives were worthless.
Daeron was rethinking every decision that had put Tywin in charge here.
War meant death. That was unavoidable.
But innocent people should never have been thrown into the meat grinder for no reason.
"Prince, do you wish to see Lord Tywin?" Kevan asked, stepping out of the command tent.
Daeron glanced at the big Lannister pavilion, then snatched a soldier's steel helmet without a word and marched straight at his teacher's brother.
"Prince—?"
Kevan's eyes widened.
Daeron didn't speak. He simply swung the helmet like a club and cracked it across Kevan's skull with a dull thunk.
Kevan dropped like a sack of grain.
"See him? See what?" Daeron snarled, straddling the downed knight and hammering the helmet down again and again. "What the fuck is there to see?! You pieces of shit!"
This was the public warning. This was the message.
He couldn't confront Tywin directly—Tywin was still Hand of the King, Lord of the Westerlands, and Daeron's planned black glove for the dirty work.
Beating Kevan was just venting.
If he humiliated Tywin to his face, the old lion would have no choice but to resign for the sake of his pride. And Daeron still needed him.
So Kevan took the beating.
Crunch. Crunch.
Blood sprayed. Kevan's head lolled.
"Prince! Please stop!" Lord Cafferen and the others came running and dragged Daeron off.
Daeron hurled the dented helmet. It bounced off Kevan's bloody skull and rolled right to the entrance of the Lannister command tent.
He couldn't question Tywin.
But he could make sure every last monster under Tywin's banner understood the new rules.
"This is Lannister ground!" a deep voice growled.
The monsters came to him.
"The Mountain" Gregor Clegane stepped out, eight feet of armored brutality, blocking the tent like a steel wall. Behind him stood a pack of Lannister officers and soldiers—the survivors of the Tumblestone disaster.
Daeron looked up into the narrow eye-slits of that monstrous helm and gave a cold little smile.
"So you're the famous Gregor Clegane."
"Yeah, that's me," Gregor rumbled, voice like millstones grinding.
Daeron didn't waste words. "Three days of looting. You raped more than a dozen innocent women and killed three men who tried to protect their families."
Gregor leaned forward, radiating pure violence. "Even if I did… I was following Lord Tywin Lannister's orders."
He answered to no one except the man who held his leash.
"Good," Daeron said softly. "You're even more deserving of death than Amory Lorch ever was."
He took one step back.
Gregor didn't understand. His brain ran on rage and orders; thinking wasn't part of the package.
Lord Cafferen and the others watched, sensing something terrible coming.
Skreeeee—!
A crimson shadow fell over the camp. Caraxes landed on the hill behind the tents, wings half-spread, warning screech splitting the air.
Gregor's massive body jerked. He stared at the dragon.
"Fight me," Daeron said quietly, Dark Sister in his right hand, Red Rain in his left, "or fight him."
Gregor took one step back, drew the huge two-handed sword from his back, and settled into a dueling stance.
Only an idiot would choose the dragon.
"Perfect," Daeron whispered.
Life Seed surged through his body. He blurred forward like a ghost.
"Get the fuck away!" Gregor roared, swinging the slab of steel in a waist-high arc.
Daeron hopped back, then darted inside the big man's guard the instant the sword whistled past.
Gregor's full plate might as well have been paper against Valyrian steel.
Dark Sister stabbed under the ribs.
Gregor bellowed and switched to a one-handed grip, punching with the other fist.
Daeron danced aside, planted Red Rain in the dirt for leverage, and flicked the blade across the back of Gregor's left ankle—severing the tendon.
"AAAHHH!" Gregor howled, dropping to one knee.
"You don't get to live," Daeron said calmly.
He kicked the giant in the chest, knocking him flat on his back, then drove both swords down—Dark Sister through the left arm, Red Rain through the right—pinning the monster to the earth like a bug on a board.
He wasn't Oberyn Martell; he wasn't going to play games and get his skull crushed.
Lord Cafferen and the others watched in horror as their prince nailed a living man to the ground.
And that was only the beginning.
Daeron yanked Dark Sister free, planted his boot on the spurting arm, and slid the point of the blade down Gregor's body—across the helm, the throat, the heart, the belly—until the tip rested between the giant's armored legs.
"No—!"
Gregor finally understood. He thrashed like a speared bull, but one arm was pinned and the other felt like it was being crushed by a dragon.
"Say goodbye to the tool you used on those girls."
Shunk.
Dark Sister punched straight through the steel codpiece and cut the filthy thing clean off.
"AAAAAAAAAAHHH!!"
Gregor's body snapped rigid. The pain and humiliation were so overwhelming he screamed louder than any of the women he had ever violated.
Daeron's lips curled in a small, satisfied smile.
The Mountain's howls were sweeter than any street dog's dying whine.
He didn't even bother counting the girls in Tumblestone.
In another life, this animal had smashed a baby's head against a wall and then raped Elia Martell with hands still wet with her children's blood.
Gregor Clegane was paying for crimes he hadn't even committed yet.
"Prince… he is a Lannister man," Lord Cafferen whispered, terrified of what Tywin would do.
"Lannisters get to shelter monsters now?" Daeron asked coldly.
He wasn't afraid of Tywin. The old lion had dirt on his hands now; hiding in his tent was the only way he could keep any dignity.
Caraxes felt his rider's rage and flapped down into the middle of the camp.
Daeron kept his boot on Gregor's chest. "Dracarys."
"Prince—?!"
This time even the watching soldiers panicked and tried to rush forward.
Gregor could die—they didn't care—but the prince was standing right in the line of fire.
WHOOOOSH—
Caraxes understood perfectly. A torrent of flame roared out, striking the ground six inches above Gregor's head.
The superheated air warped like a mirage. Black glass formed where sand had been.
Gregor's steel helm turned cherry-red in seconds, searing itself to his face with a sickening hiss.
The stench of burning meat and hair filled the air.
"Kill me! Just kill me!" Gregor screamed, voice cracking as the red-hot metal fused to his skull.
Daeron stood motionless. The dragonfire washed over him in waves, yet not a hair on his head was singed. Sparks danced in his silver-gold hair like living embers, but his pale skin remained untouched.
The two Valyrian steel blades gleamed in the firelight.
For one perfect, terrible moment, Daeron Targaryen no longer looked like a man.
He looked like a god—standing on the chest of a screaming giant while dragonfire raged around him, completely unharmed.
The Young Dragon had arrived.