"Good!"
Daeron granted the order without hesitation, handing Lord Mace the siege of Storm's End.
Randyll's brows knitted tightly; he clearly didn't understand the reasoning.
Daeron offered no explanation. He simply sent the overjoyed Mace on his way.
He was protecting Randyll.
At Summerhall, Randyll had killed twelve thousand Stormlanders—men born and raised in the Stormlands. If he then led the assault on Storm's End itself, he would become the lightning rod for every grudge in the region.
Daeron's plans for Randyll went far beyond "great general."
Randyll had the potential to be a true commander.
He still remembered the promise he'd made to the Queen of Thorns: after victory, House Tyrell would receive portions of the Stormlands as blood price.
That would leave the Reach oversized—large enough to split into two Riverlands.
So why not carve it in half on purpose?
The moment he saw Randyll's masterpiece at Summerhall, Daeron had already mapped out exactly how to use the man to achieve that split.
He would draw the border at Horn Hill, absorbing Nightsong, Blackhaven, and the key marcher holdings into a new autonomous region—the Dornish Marches—still nominally part of the Reach but answering directly to the Iron Throne.
He would name Randyll "Governor of the Marches."
On paper the land would still belong to Highgarden. In reality it would be self-governing and loyal to the Crown.
The result? The Crownlands would swallow most of the Stormlands, the Reach would take the rest, and a brand-new Dornish Marches would be born under Randyll's iron rule.
Randyll guarding the Marches would strip Highgarden of its natural shield at Horn Hill while creating a strong buffer against Dorne.
Rhaegar had married Elia. House Martell would never abandon him. Daeron needed to prepare.
As for whether Olenna would agree?
By then the rebellion would be over. Daeron would no longer need the Reach's goodwill.
He would have already given them the lands they demanded and created a new marcher governorship to defend against Dorne.
What more could they possibly want?
Back to protecting Randyll.
If Randyll was to rule the entire Dornish Marches, he could not afford to be hated by every Stormlands lord. Nightsong, Blackhaven, and the other marcher houses would never obey a man who had personally slaughtered their kin.
Letting Mace take the "credit" for Storm's End would shift the hatred onto the Tyrells.
Besides, Mace had zero chance of actually breaking Storm's End.
It was also the perfect opportunity to give the puffed-up lord a reality check.
"Prince, perhaps you should take Coppergate instead?" Randyll asked, still trying to adjust the plan. He lived far from the political center and couldn't read Daeron's deeper intentions.
Daeron smiled. "You take Coppergate. Stack up some more military honors."
A dragon was the ultimate siege engine; neither Coppergate nor Storm's End could stand against Caraxes.
But Randyll needed glory of his own.
Mace had already stolen the credit for Summerhall. Clearing out the Kingswood rebels alone wasn't enough to make Randyll's name.
Coppergate was the gateway to the Stormlands—every bit as vital as the Golden Tooth in the Westerlands or the Bloody Gate in the Vale.
Capturing it would make Randyll Tarly famous across the Seven Kingdoms.
---
King's Landing
News of the Summerhall victory reached the capital and spread like wildfire across half of Westeros.
Prince Daeron had scored two decisive victories in a single day, shattered Robert's Stormlands army, and sent the Usurper fleeing in disgrace toward the Riverlands.
One battle had decided the fate of the Stormlands and cut the rebel alliance nearly in half.
It carried the same weight as Harrenhal during Aegon's Conquest.
The loyalist cause surged. Wavering lords across the realm rushed to declare for the Iron Throne.
Red Keep – Throne Room
"Well done! Well done indeed!"
Aerys clapped so hard it looked like he might break his own wrists, laughing with genuine delight.
He had not been wrong about his second son.
Daeron had won at Deerfield and now at Summerhall. The Stormlands were on the verge of total collapse.
Robert had been the unspoken leader of the four-kingdom alliance, the man with the greatest prestige.
By crushing his army at Summerhall, Daeron had effectively destroyed half the rebel strength in one stroke.
Without the Stormlands, the Vale and the North were nothing.
The Riverlands were strong, but House Tully did not rule alone.
Victory felt close enough to taste.
"Hahahaha—"
The more Aerys thought about it, the happier he became. He switched straight into mockery mode. "Tywin! Come see what my good son has done. He defeated Robert—the same Robert who chased you across the countryside until you had to cut off your own beard and run like a whipped dog!"
Tywin stood motionless in the hall. He drew a slow breath and closed his eyes, the killing intent behind them barely contained.
Being chased by Robert and forced to shear his own beard was a humiliation he would never forget.
Aerys rubbing his nose in it in front of the entire court struck the old lion's reverse scale.
"Damn it all—how did they let Robert escape? Why wasn't the boy killed?"
Seeing Tywin refuse to answer, Aerys quickly grew bored and began nitpicking the report like a man looking for bones in an egg.
"Your Grace, although Robert escaped, the Stormlands now belong to the Iron Throne," Lord Corlton said smoothly.
Aerys loved the sound of that. "Correct! I shall strip House Baratheon of every castle, every acre, every title. The entire Stormlands will be absorbed into the Crownlands!"
"…"
The Small Council exchanged uneasy glances and broke into a cold sweat.
The king was actually serious about folding the entire Stormlands into the royal domain.
The Kingswood and the impregnable Coppergate stood between the two regions. The proud Stormlands lords would never accept direct rule from King's Landing.
When the councillors stayed silent, Aerys scowled. "What? You doubt my vision?"
"No, no, Your Grace—"
Corlton shook his head frantically.
Varys glided forward and spoke in his soft, honeyed voice. "Your Grace, Prince Daeron has won yet another spectacular victory. Should he not be rewarded?"
Aerys froze.
He had already named his son Supreme Commander of the Seven Kingdoms, giving him wartime authority over every army.
He had assumed the title would expire once the war ended.
Now the boy had won again. Another reward?
Aerys's face soured.
His son already had lands, castles, and troops. The only titles left were Regent or Warden of the Realm.
He had no intention of granting either.
Aerys put on his stingiest expression. "No need. One victory is hardly worth celebrating. When he actually pacifies the Stormlands, then he may come ask me for a reward."
The councillors frowned but held their tongues.
The king wasn't entirely wrong. You couldn't hand out titles for every win or there would soon be nothing left to give.
They would simply wait until the Stormlands were fully subdued and then push for the Warden of the Realm title.
"Once Prince Daeron holds the title of Warden, his legitimacy will rival Prince Rhaegar's," Corlton thought, already calculating.
Warden of the Realm was one of the highest honors—usually reserved for kings themselves.
Regent was out of the question. There was already a Prince of Dragonstone; creating a second regent prince would be chaos.
---
283 AC, Mid-April
Storm's End
The castle sat on the edge of Shipbreaker Bay, forever wrapped in storm clouds and howling winds. Clear skies were rare.
Today was no exception—thick black clouds, lightning, and thunder.
A downpour would arrive any moment.
BOOM—
Lightning split the sky, illuminating the scene outside the walls.
Storm's End perched on sheer cliffs with only one narrow path connecting it to the mainland.
Tens of thousands of Reach soldiers now ringed the castle in an airtight siege.
Inside, Robert had left his brother Stannis with only eight hundred men. The numbers were hopeless.
Inside Storm's End
Stannis sat alone at the table. His plate held nothing but boiled beans and a small heel of black bread.
Three months of siege had emptied the stores. Even the acting castellan ate peasant fare.
The soldiers were worse off—rations had been cut again and again. Morale was collapsing.
"Stannis, you haven't slept again?"
Maester Cressen descended the stairs. The once-portly old man had wasted away; his color was terrible.
Stannis glanced at him but said nothing.
"Ah… Robert is still alive, at least. Lord Hoster has him safely hidden at Stonehelm. Some of Robert's friends are caring for him there."
Cressen looked at the untouched plate with pity. "Eat something, my boy. We still have enough stores to last a while longer."
Stannis had no appetite. He pushed the plate away. "Save it for tomorrow."
He knew exactly how little food remained. Not a single crumb could be wasted.
After a moment he asked again, "Any word from Robert?"
"Same as always."
Cressen shook his head. No new messages.
Stannis fell silent.
Robert had sent nothing since his defeat. The only update had come through Lord Hoster: Robert was recovering at Stonehelm.
But Robert's silence didn't mean the Stormlands were safe.
Two and a half months earlier, Randyll Tarly had taken Coppergate.
Half a month ago, Prince Daeron had swept the Kingswood on dragonback, captured thousands of scattered rebels, and broken the will of most Stormlands lords.
Now only a handful of houses near the Rainwood still held out. Storm's End was the last bastion.
"We can tighten belts and stretch the stores another three months," Stannis calculated, staring at the grim balance sheet in his mind.
The castle's unique geography had let eight hundred men hold off seventy thousand for three months.
But the food situation was desperate.
The most terrifying part? The Dragon Prince himself had not yet joined the assault.
Otherwise…
Stannis felt as if he had swallowed a lead weight. The pressure crushed his chest until he could barely breathe.
He slapped his own face, forcing himself to stay cold and rational.
Hold. Hold. Hold. Buy Robert every extra day you can.
"I will not surrender. I will hold until the end."
Stannis steadied his resolve.
Skreeeee—!
A piercing shriek sliced through the thunder and lightning—like an air-raid siren from the gods themselves.
Stannis's head snapped up. He stared out the window toward the sky.
He had never heard that sound before.
But its uniqueness could mean only one thing.
Dragon.
BOOM—
Lightning flashed again, lighting up the castle courtyard.
Stannis narrowed his eyes and saw a sight he would never forget.
Skreeeee—!
Beneath Storm's End's towering outer wall crouched a massive crimson beast. Its serpentine neck stretched upward as it screamed at the storm.
Caraxes's molten-gold eyes gleamed with lazy power. His enormous body coiled like a living river of red scales. His vast wings spread like twin umbrellas, and his long tail flicked back and forth.
In the months since the last sighting he had grown again—now twenty meters long.
Even against Storm's End's colossal walls he looked enormous.
Pitter-patter—
Daeron stood in front of the dragon. Caraxes's wing sheltered him from the rain. His long silver hair whipped in the wind.
Gulp.
Stannis's eyes widened. He swallowed hard.
Seeing the man and the dragon together, even his stubborn heart could not summon the will to resist.
Robert… is this the enemy you chose to fight?
He could not tear his gaze away. His body was paralyzed by primal terror.
BOOM—
Thunder rolled louder. The rain grew heavier.
Caraxes's nostrils flared. He smelled the little insect and turned his elegant, menacing head toward the rain-soaked figure stumbling across the courtyard.
Daeron did not turn. He simply stood at the dragon's side and met Stannis's eyes through the downpour.
His expression was calm—no arrogance, no contempt. Only quiet appraisal.
Stannis's face went white beneath the rain. He took one involuntary step back.
In that moment he finally understood what it meant to be a Targaryen.
It was not merely blood.
The young prince standing unafraid beside a living dragon, regarding him with those steady purple eyes—that was the true color of House Targaryen.
The natural supremacy that came from conquering dragons.
Shing!
Rain lashed down. Daeron drew Dark Sister and held it point-down, blade flat.
The meaning was unmistakable.
Yield… or die.
Stannis's body trembled—not from the cold rain, but from the violent war inside his chest.
Hold?
Daeron's face remained expressionless. In the freezing downpour he exhaled a single puff of warm breath.
True dragons did not need to think too much.
Clang.
The next second Stannis let his sword fall from numb fingers. He walked forward step by step until he stood before the man and the dragon, then slowly dropped to his knees and bowed his stubborn head.
"Storm's End… surrenders!"