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The sun dipped low, painting the sky in blood-red streaks.
Something hung from the camp gate like a grotesque piñata.
Every soldier who passed it quickly looked away and hurried on without a word.
"Teacher, from now on the southern battlefield is mine."
Inside the command tent, with no outsiders present, Daeron faced Tywin and spoke plainly.
Tywin's expression was thunderous. His pride had taken a brutal hit. "The Reach host against Robert's rebels? You're just a twelve-year-old boy. You really think you can beat him?"
"A defeated opponent," Daeron replied calmly, radiating unshakable confidence.
He wasn't some average lord who only knew how to brawl.
He was Daeron Targaryen—wielder of Dark Sister, rider of the dragon Caraxes. In any era, he ranked among the very best.
He believed in himself completely. No reservations.
Tywin's face grew even darker. The shame of losing Tumblestone and the humiliation of cutting off his own beard were now permanent stains on his record.
"I'll return to King's Landing and request command of the Riverlands campaign," Tywin said after weighing his options.
Daeron answered bluntly, "You may fight the rebels in the Riverlands, but there will be no repeat of what happened at Tumblestone."
"You care that much about those sheep?" Tywin's old arrogance flared.
Daeron smiled, but there was steel in it. "The Seven Kingdoms belong to House Targaryen. If anyone commits atrocities on these lands again, don't blame me for turning ruthless."
His smile was bright, showing perfect white teeth.
To Tywin, it looked like the fangs of a young dragon finally baring themselves and claiming dominion.
Tywin swirled his wine cup and answered with silence—an unspoken surrender.
"I toast you, Teacher."
Daeron stood and personally filled Tywin's cup.
The balance of power had shifted.
---
King's Landing
News of the victory at Deerfield reached the capital. Prince Daeron had flown to the rescue on dragonback and crushed ten thousand of Robert's men with only five thousand.
The glorious triumph completely erased the shame of the defeat at Tumblestone.
Daeron's dramatic thousand-mile flight to save Deerfield was turned into songs and poems by bards and musicians, spreading through every street and tavern.
Red Keep – Throne Room
"Hahaha! Well fought!"
Aerys laughed heartily, unusually clear-headed, delighted by his second son's military success.
This wasn't like conquering the worthless Iron Islands. This was a real victory against actual rebels. It strengthened the Iron Throne's prestige and gave every loyalist house a powerful shot of confidence.
He summoned the court nobles specifically to boast about it.
"Your Grace, Prince Daeron lifted the siege at Deerfield and defeated Robert's personal army. The end of the rebellion is surely close at hand," Lord Corlton said, playing the perfect sycophant.
Aerys laughed even louder and nodded vigorously. "Indeed! I put down the last Blackfyre Rebellion, and now my boy will crush House Baratheon's treason. Both of us carry true dragon blood!"
Corlton's face twitched.
Your Grace really has no shame. You weren't even king during the last Blackfyre Rebellion—that was Jaehaerys II.
Aerys didn't care. He kept ranting. "Once the rebellion is over, I'll slaughter every traitor in the Four Kingdoms, cut off their heads, and hang them from the city walls!"
But someone always had to ruin the mood.
Lord Staunton, still recovering from his earlier beating, stepped forward. "Your Grace, while Prince Daeron deserves praise for relieving Deerfield, Robert's main force remains intact. The outcome in the south is still uncertain."
Aerys's laughter died instantly. He glared daggers at the man.
"Your Grace, Lord Tywin is the supreme commander of the loyalist armies. Perhaps Prince Daeron should serve under him and continue learning while they press into the Stormlands."
Staunton was still trying to undermine Daeron.
Aerys blinked, suddenly suspicious. "Tywin?"
He had heard how Robert ambushed Tywin, how the Hand lost Tumblestone and had to cut off his own beard and flee like a coward.
"Heh heh heh."
The thought made Aerys snicker.
Robert truly was his old friend Steffon's son—same bold spirit. Beating Tywin so badly was actually quite satisfying.
When they caught him later, Aerys decided he'd grant the boy a quick death.
Seeing the king laugh, Staunton thought he had a chance and pressed on.
But the Small Council had no patience for him.
Corlton immediately cut in. "Your Grace, Lord Tywin has already sent word. After his defeat he plans to return to King's Landing, reorganize the Lannister troops, and then march to the Riverlands."
"Tywin is coming back?" Aerys frowned. He had zero desire to see that stone-faced bastard.
"Yes. He has handed full command of the southern theater to Prince Daeron."
"Ah… I see."
Aerys hesitated, weighing his old friend Tywin against his son. Who was truly better suited to lead the loyalist armies?
Daeron's victory had been brilliant and had spread his name across the realm.
But Tywin had fought more campaigns and was widely regarded as one of the greatest military minds in Westeros.
Deep down, Aerys still leaned toward Tywin.
"Your Grace," Varys said smoothly, reading the room perfectly, "Lord Tywin chose to hand command to Prince Daeron. Clearly he trusts the prince's military talent."
Aerys's eyes brightened, but he still grumbled, "There's never been a twelve-year-old supreme commander. Even the Young Dragon Daeron I and Daemon Blackfyre were sixteen before they made their names."
Westeros loved stories of young prodigies—mostly because life was short and old men weren't worth celebrating.
But even by those standards, twelve was pushing it.
Varys's eyes gleamed. "Your Grace, Prince Daeron hatched dragons at eleven, rode them at twelve, conquered the Iron Islands the same year, and has now lifted the siege at Deerfield. Does that not prove his exceptional ability?"
He paused, then delivered the perfect line: "He is your son, Your Grace. Raising a boy general at such a young age is something few kings in history have achieved."
The flattery struck true.
Aerys's imagination ran wild. A touch of madness crept into his grin. "Correct! My son is a military genius. He won the battle Tywin lost. I must reward him handsomely!"
He wasn't completely insane.
First reward: strip Tywin of supreme command and curse the man as useless.
Second reward: for his son.
Aerys racked his brain for a proper title, growing frustrated when he couldn't think of one. He scratched his head and shouted, "Were all the people in the past idiots?!"
"I hereby name Daeron Supreme Commander of the Seven Kingdoms! He shall command all military forces during the war until the rebellion is crushed!"
"Your Grace is wise," Varys bowed deeply.
In his mind he thought: I expected something like Warden of the Realm. Instead he invented "Supreme Commander." Still, for wartime it carries even more authority.
And so the matter was settled.
Lord Staunton tried one last time to slander Daeron and was immediately swarmed by Corlton, Luthor, Varys, and the others. After a brutal barrage of verbal abuse, he left red-faced and humiliated, branded a petty schemer.
Corlton and the rest looked extremely pleased.
Prince Daeron had proven himself on the battlefield.
They would do everything in their power to push him toward the Iron Throne.
Anyone who stood in their way would become their common enemy.
---
Meanwhile, the Stormlands had entered the rainy season.
When Daeron received the news, he was camped beside the Blueburn River, having just celebrated his thirteenth nameday.
"Supreme Commander of the Seven Kingdoms… that title has some weight."
Daeron warmed his hands by the fire and tossed the letter into the brazier.
It was obvious his father was stingy.
Instead of naming him Regent or Warden of the Realm, Aerys had invented this new wartime title.
Clearly the Mad King feared his son's growing fame might threaten his own throne.
Daeron smiled faintly. "If I need more, I'll take it myself."
The tent flap opened. Davos stepped inside.
"Prince, Lord Randyll sent word. Robert has regrouped his army and is heading toward Summerhall."
"Where is Lord Randyll now?" Daeron asked.
"Almost at Summerhall."
Davos answered honestly.
Robert's defeat at Deerfield had ruined his plan to reorganize the Stormlands. He didn't dare push south into the Reach.
Instead he spent days pulling back the army that had been marching on Ashford and gathering scattered troops.
He had considered attacking Deerfield again, then pushing on to Ashford.
But after seeing the dragon, his men were terrified. Attacking Deerfield again was no longer an option.
After failing to rally Blackhaven and Nightsong, he lacked the confidence to block the Reach host at Ashford.
So he chose the next best thing: march on Summerhall, sweep through loyalist holdings like Allestree, Fallwood, and Blackhaven, and restore morale among the Stormlands rebels.
Randyll Tarly had anticipated exactly that and was moving to intercept him at Summerhall.
Daeron made his decision instantly. "Tell Lord Cafferen to gather three thousand men and march for Summerhall at once."
He intended to end this in one decisive battle and shatter the Stormlanders' last hopes.
With seventy thousand Reachmen under Randyll Tarly and Daeron commanding Caraxes from the sky, Robert would have zero chance.
"Yes, Prince!"
Davos's face was deadly serious.
Summerhall
Randyll Tarly had taken a detachment of cavalry ahead and set an ambush near the Kingsroad outside Summerhall.
The Kingsroad ran north-south, linking King's Landing to the heart of the Stormlands while also connecting to the Dornish Marches through Summerhall and Blackhaven.
Robert would never abandon the Kingsroad for rough mountain paths.
"Thirteen-year-old Supreme Commander of the Seven Kingdoms?" Randyll muttered, iron-gray eyes gleaming with ambition. "Then let this battle make the name Randyll Tarly famous once more and restore House Tarly's glory."