Daeron's mouth curved in a hidden smile. He had to fight not to laugh out loud.
If I left this war in your hands, I'd be losing sleep every night.
Lord Mace Tyrell had skin thicker than castle walls and an ego to match. While praising himself he still managed to slip in flattery for Daeron, raising his voice so every lord in the tent could hear. "The Battle of Summerhall was won thanks to Prince Daeron's brilliant strategy and the terror he spread from dragonback. That's how we achieved two crushing victories in a single day!"
The Reach lords knew exactly what their liege lord was made of, but none were stupid enough to call him out in public.
Besides, Randyll Tarly was proud, cold, and blunt—hardly popular. Stepping on him while lifting up the prince and their lord was a scene they were more than happy to watch.
Cheers erupted inside the command tent. The Reach nobility threw themselves into the feast with all the lavish excess they were famous for.
"No wonder the Reach holds the richest and most fertile lands in the Seven Kingdoms yet has never produced a single legendary figure," Daeron thought, still smiling.
One sentence summed it up: the lord was jealous of talent, and his vassals were happy to coast on his success.
Anyone who actually got things done became a target for both sides.
Lord Puff Fish, you don't appreciate real generals—so I'll take them for myself.
Daeron's smile widened. He accepted the cup someone pressed into his hand and joined the Reach lords in their celebration.
Randyll had earned the greatest credit in this battle. But Daeron wasn't about to stand up and contradict Mace in front of everyone. That wasn't how you ran an army.
To Randyll, Mace probably looked like a greedy, dim-witted boss who stole credit from his best employee.
From Daeron's perspective, however, Mace had brought seventy thousand well-equipped soldiers to the table—the single biggest factor deciding the war. As long as he didn't rebel or disobey direct orders, a few flaws could be tolerated.
After all, those seventy thousand men could swing any battle on the continent.
In the original timeline, Prince Rhaegar had only forty or fifty thousand at the Battle of the Ruby Ford, while Robert's entire four-kingdom alliance fielded fewer than forty thousand.
Daeron's confidence in crushing the rebellion came from securing House Tyrell's full support.
He wasn't naïve enough to think vassals owed their lords blind loyalty. The Tullys of Riverrun had rebelled for far less.
In the original story, after Ashford, Mace had hidden Randyll away and spent the rest of the war "besieging" Storm's End until the fighting ended.
Daeron understood one thing perfectly:
House Tyrell supported the Iron Throne—but the degree of that support could vary wildly.
If his father Aerys had called the banners, Mace might have brought forty or fifty thousand men, fought one hard battle to prove he wasn't slacking, then disappeared exactly as in the original timeline.
If his brother Rhaegar had personally courted them, they might have sent fifty or sixty thousand, fought one decent battle, then started negotiating for more rewards the moment the Stormlands were pacified.
You couldn't expect Highgarden and the entire Reach to throw everything away for nothing.
These men had raised their own troops, fed them from their own granaries, and spent not one copper star from the royal treasury.
If you wanted their full effort, you had to make it worth their while.
That was why Daeron had traveled south in person and struck the deal with the "Queen of Thorns." He had secured the maximum possible commitment from House Tyrell—seventy thousand men ready to follow him from the first battle to the last.
That kind of support came with a price, and part of the price was keeping the not-so-bright Lord Mace happy.
Truth be told, Mace wasn't a bad man.
He was just… simple, rich, and easily flattered.
Daeron barely had to try—Mace had already convinced himself he was the most loyal servant the Iron Throne had ever seen.
But he wasn't letting a commander of Randyll Tarly's caliber slip through his fingers.
"Prince, you are truly wise and mighty!" Mace beamed, practically glowing. If he hadn't been afraid of overstepping, he might have started dancing.
Daeron slung an arm around the man's shoulders, shoved a full cup of red wine against his lips, and laughed loudly. "My lord, this one's for you!"
Mace couldn't refuse. He closed his eyes and gulped it down. When he opened them again, his gaze was already glassy.
"Prince… hic—"
The belch came out before the words.
Daeron laughed, steered the drunken lord toward Lord Mathis Rowan with a few polite words, then slipped away toward the corner of the tent.
Randyll sat alone, frowning, completely out of place amid the revelry.
"Not joining the toast?" Daeron asked casually.
Randyll gave everyone else the cold shoulder but answered Daeron evenly. "I'm a soldier. I prefer to keep a clear head."
Good self-awareness.
Daeron poured him a cup of wine, set it in front of him, and said quietly, "House Targaryen does not forget those who serve it well."
He let go of the cup, turned, and walked away.
True reassurance didn't need long speeches.
Randyll stared at the gently swirling wine, a complicated look flickering across his usually stony face.
Daeron rejoined the crowd and found Davos working the room with his usual easy charm.
"Give this to Lord Randyll. Say whatever you think will land best."
Keeping his back to the others, Daeron slipped Davos two wheels of Gold Star cheese and a bottle of Life Potion.
Life Potion: Restores a large amount of vitality.
The recipe had unlocked at Combat Level 2.
It required one red mushroom, one purple mushroom, one morel, and one chanterelle.
After the Tourney at Harrenhal, Daeron had planted dozens of mushroom logs in the oak, maple, and pine groves at Dragon-Tongue Farm. Every four days they produced fresh mushrooms.
Purple mushrooms were still rare, so overall output was modest.
Before the war he had only managed to brew about forty bottles—barely enough for emergencies.
"Prince… what is this?" Davos asked, turning the fat red bottle in his hands. He had never seen anything like it.
Daeron answered honestly. "Life Potion. It heals injuries. Anything short of a death wound will improve after you drink it."
In truth the effect was dramatic.
As long as the brain and internal organs weren't destroyed—or the wound wasn't poisoned—broken bones, severe burns, infected cuts… everything healed faster.
In Westeros, where medicine was still primitive, it was practically a divine elixir.
"Leave it to me, Prince."
Davos bowed and disappeared into the crowd. Negotiation and persuasion were his specialty.
Randyll was still staring at the cup, lost in thought.
He kept turning Daeron's words over in his mind.
House Targaryen does not forget those who serve it well.
Did that mean a reward or official recognition after the war?
Given the current situation, the Iron Throne still needed House Tyrell's full support. Any reward would probably come later.
That was fine.
For a noble, real land and power were always more reliable than empty honors.
Randyll lifted the cup, intending to drain it in one go, then paused. It somehow felt wrong to drink it that way.
At that moment someone approached from behind.
Davos was no longer the lowly smuggler. He moved with calm confidence and set the items Daeron had given him on the table in front of Randyll.
"What's this?" Randyll's sharp eyes locked onto him like a hawk's.
"From the prince, my lord."
"Prince Daeron?"
Randyll's gaze softened, though he remained wary.
Davos knew better than to over-explain with a man like Randyll. He kept it short and direct. "The prince holds you in high regard. These will heal your wounds. Once the rebellion is over, he will reward you handsomely."
He pointed at the Life Potion. "Drink this first. It works fastest."
Message delivered, items delivered.
Davos gave a respectful nod and melted back into the crowd.
Randyll stared at the table for a long moment.
What kind of lord sends only two sentences and then leaves?
He examined the Life Potion and the Gold Star cheese. Even his cold, battle-hardened heart felt something stir.
Special crops were incredibly rare.
The Reach produced more than most regions, but competition among the nobility was fiercer too.
Randyll had once spent a small fortune on them and quickly mastered Vitality.
After that he stopped buying.
First, Horn Hill sat on the Dornish Marches and wasn't wealthy.
Second, he preferred to spend every coin on military supplies rather than chase tiny increases in Vitality.
Randyll lived like a disciplined, penniless warrior—relying on daily training and hard work instead of magical shortcuts.
"Life Potion… something like the forest witches or fire sorcerers make?"
He remembered Daeron had auctioned large quantities of special crops after Harrenhal. House Tarly had even bought one.
As expected, he thought. A Targaryen who can hatch dragons is different from the rest.
Legend said the old Dragonlords of Valyria had been master sorcerers with miraculous powers.
Randyll was not a fearful man. He uncorked the red bottle and drank the Life Potion in one swallow.
A warm current spread through his body instantly. The micro-fractures and lacerations on both arms from clashing with Robert's warhammer began to tingle with gentle heat.
The sensation was completely different from eating special crops.
Crops created a faint warmth in the belly that slowly spread outward.
The Life Potion acted directly on the whole body and zeroed in on injured areas, speeding healing and easing pain.
"Truly miraculous," he murmured.
He tucked the two wheels of Gold Star cheese away, picked up his wine again, and took a slow sip.
Dornish summer red—fiery, famous across the world.
Strong enough.
---
Fallwood
The Reach army had pushed north and made camp at Fallwood, seat of House Fell.
Inside the great hall Randyll spoke in his usual clipped tone. "Robert has fled toward the Riverlands. His Stormlands army has scattered and is regrouping around Summerhall and the Kingswood—several thousand men with signs of forming new bands."
He spread a map of the Stormlands and pointed to three locations, laying out his plan with crisp precision. "Prince Daeron will strike Storm's End directly and crush the rebels' last hope. I will take Coppergate and open the Kingsroad. Lord Mace will sweep the Kingswood and secure our supply lines."
The plan was elegant—like a net slowly tightening around the entire Stormlands.
Lord Mace frowned, clearly about to speak.
"Lord Randyll, perhaps the prince and I should switch roles," Daeron cut in smoothly, tweaking the otherwise perfect strategy.
"Let Lord Mace lead the main army and besiege Storm's End. I will use the dragon's mobility to clear the Kingswood of scattered rebels."
Randyll's brow furrowed.
Daeron slung a friendly arm around Mace's shoulders and praised him loudly. "Lord Mace has proven his skill at coordinating large forces. Seventy thousand men surrounding Storm's End will terrify the garrison into surrender."
"Exactly!" Mace puffed up with pride. He hadn't expected the prince to single him out. He thumped his chest. "Give me one month and I'll take Storm's End. If I'm even one day late, you can hold me personally responsible!"
"One month?" Daeron repeated.
Mace's belly strained against his doublet as he declared with absolute confidence, "One month. Not a day more. If I fail, you may punish me however you see fit."