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Storm's End
Lord Mace Tyrell strode into the great hall like he owned the damn place, glancing left and right with obvious satisfaction. The Reach lords trailed behind him.
Sure, he hadn't actually taken the castle himself, but his army had been here doing the work. That was good enough for him. He lifted his chin and marched at the front of the column, chest puffed out.
Paxter Redwyne and Mathis Rowan exchanged flat looks behind his back.
Seven hells, this man…
Up on the second floor in the warm solar, Daeron stood by the fireplace, tossing another log into the flames. Everyone in the room was on his side—no need for formalities.
"The news that we've pacified the Stormlands has already spread across the Seven Kingdoms," he said. "We'll ride for King's Landing tomorrow. We need to settle the rewards and redraw the maps as quickly as possible."
He knew his father Aerys too well. This kind of thing couldn't be delayed.
Davos and Randyll Tarly both nodded eagerly. The promise of land and titles had them fired up.
Daeron's gaze shifted to the doorway. Stannis Baratheon stood there with his head lowered, staring at a crack in the floorboards.
"Stannis."
Stannis jerked like he'd been slapped. He slowly lifted his head, looking lost.
He hadn't held Storm's End. He'd chosen to bend the knee.
But what really haunted him was still the sheer terror that radiated from that red dragon.
Daeron studied the younger version of the man who would one day be called the King Who Cared. He was weighing what to do with him.
Stannis had courage and brains. In another timeline he would have been the only one of the five kings to march north to help the realm. Sending him to the Wall to join the Night's Watch might produce an excellent Lord Commander in ten years…
But that felt like a waste.
"Prince Daeron Targaryen," Stannis said, stepping forward and dropping to one knee, "I, Stannis Baratheon, confess my crimes and beg your mercy."
Daeron asked quietly, "What can you do for me?"
"If you need it, I can help pacify the Stormlands lords. If you trust me, I can put on armor and fight your enemies."
Stannis didn't carry the same rebel fire as Robert. He still recognized the Iron Throne's legitimacy. Swearing loyalty didn't weigh on his conscience.
"All I ask," he continued, "is that you forgive my crimes, spare my brother Renly Baratheon, and show mercy to the men who held the castle with me."
He was selling himself outright. Only by earning forgiveness and being given a role could he save his own life and preserve at least some of House Baratheon's bloodline. Renly, Maester Cressen, and the garrison soldiers might live.
Daeron let out a soft chuckle. "I thought you were supposed to be the stubborn one."
He didn't enjoy humiliating defeated enemies, but even he was surprised at how quickly Stannis had flipped.
"It was Robert who rebelled," Stannis said plainly. "I was simply his brother and vassal doing what duty required."
Daeron's smile widened. "You're right. The real mistakes were made by Rhaegar and Robert. We second sons just keep cleaning up their messes."
He drew Dark Sister and laid the flat of the Valyrian steel blade on Stannis's shoulder.
"I accept your oath of fealty. I'll give you a chance to earn redemption—but only for you, and only for the innocent."
Stannis bowed his head. "I am grateful beyond words, my prince."
Daeron sheathed the sword and personally helped the man to his feet.
"For now, stay out of sight. Send Renly across the Narrow Sea where my father won't find him. Storm's End will change hands. House Baratheon will lose every title and right. If you want new honors, you'll have to earn them yourself."
(Only Renly gets to live, he thought. If it had been Robert or even this version of Stannis, they'd both be dead on the spot. But Renly… the boy was basically decorative.)
King's Landing
The sky was clear and bright, not a cloud in sight.
Aerys had woken early. The moment the raven arrived with news that Storm's End had fallen, he nearly jumped out of his skin with glee.
One of the four rebellious kingdoms had been crushed. The end was in sight.
"White Bull!" he bellowed. "Summon the Small Council at once!"
Aerys laughed wildly as he threw on his robes, practically vibrating with the need to show off.
After the usual chaos, the Small Council assembled.
The agenda had three items:
1. What to do with Storm's End
2. Rewards for Daeron
3. Listening to the king brag
Lord Corlton was in high spirits. "Prince Daeron's successful pacification of the Stormlands was a tremendous achievement. His reward should be generous."
"I agree completely," Lord Luthor added.
In their minds, Daeron had crushed an entire kingdom. He deserved the title Warden of the Realm at minimum—enough prestige to eventually eclipse Rhaegar's position as Prince of Dragonstone.
Aerys cut them off impatiently. "We'll talk about that later. I want the entire Stormlands folded into the Crownlands. Draw up the plans."
Tywin's voice was ice. "Your Grace, with respect, there is no precedent for this in the history of the Seven Kingdoms."
Aerys's eyes narrowed dangerously.
Tywin continued without flinching. "Since Aegon's Conquest, the realm has always been seven kingdoms. Even the Conqueror only carved pieces from the Stormlands and Riverlands to create the Crownlands. We've never absorbed an entire kingdom."
Aerys's face flushed red. "House Baratheon rebelled! Every last one of them is a traitor. Storm's End already belongs to the crown, and the rest of the Stormlands should follow!"
"I propose we select a new Lord of Storm's End from among our loyal servants to govern the region in the crown's name," Tywin countered.
Aerys slammed his fist on the table, making cups rattle. "Tywin! Are you defying your king?"
Tywin's expression didn't change. "I am not defying you, Your Grace. Your fantasy will force every noble in Westeros to defy the Iron Throne."
The two men stared each other down. Neither blinked.
Aerys looked like he wanted to murder the man on the spot.
Tywin simply looked faintly contemptuous.
The rest of the council stared at the floor, desperately hoping not to get caught in the crossfire.
Half a Month Later
King's Gate, King's Landing
Under Tywin's direction, the court nobles and lords had gathered to welcome the returning royal army. Commoners lined both sides of the road of their own accord.
They had come to cheer for Daeron.
In another timeline, the smallfolk of King's Landing had been vicious—throwing shit at King Joffrey and rioting against the Baratheon regime. The reason was simple: they'd been starved.
Food reached King's Landing in two main streams—through Harrenhal from the Riverlands, and along the Roseroad from the Reach.
During the War of the Five Kings, Tywin had devastated the Riverlands. Later, when Renly courted the Reach, the Tyrells cut off grain shipments.
This time was different.
Daeron had secured the Reach's full support and kept the food flowing. No one in King's Landing had gone hungry.
On top of that, his decision to waive a full year of taxes for the people of Tumblestone had earned him real goodwill among the smallfolk. When resettling the women who had been violated, several farmers had tried pushing extra daughters into the program, but Lord Manly had followed Daeron's orders and accepted almost everyone.
The Prince's new lands needed people anyway. Might as well let the smallfolk do the screening.
"Look at that," Lady Olenna Tyrell said, appearing at the King's Gate and positioning herself right next to Tywin. "How beloved our Targaryen prince is."
Tywin glanced sideways at the tiny old woman. "A victorious prince is always popular."
Olenna shook her head with a sly smile. "The nobles love him because he brings them glory. The smallfolk love him because he actually protects them."
The jab was obvious.
Tywin's expression darkened. He was quickly losing patience with the Queen of Thorns.
"Don't you agree, Lord Tywin?" she pressed sweetly.
She had a silver tongue and loved using it to say exactly what people didn't want to hear.
Tywin realized this wasn't casual conversation. "What exactly are you trying to say? Are you here to beg for rewards on behalf of that useless son of yours who keeps stealing credit?"
Olenna didn't flinch. "Of course I am. My son raised the entire Reach army. His contributions were enormous."
Mace might be a puffed-up fool, but he had delivered seventy thousand men.
Unlike some people who marched under the Hand's banner, contributed almost nothing, and still tried to nickel-and-dime every little thing.
Tywin heard the mockery loud and clear. "You traveled all the way to King's Landing just to trade insults with me?"
"Not at all." Olenna's smile vanished. "I simply heard that Prince Daeron is still unmarried. Some people have already gotten a head start, so I thought I'd put my own bid in."
Tywin blinked. "Put your bid in?"
Olenna was never one to dance around a subject. "I have two daughters. I plan to offer one—or both—to Prince Daeron. Some other people's daughter is becoming… inconvenient."
Tywin's face went thunderous. He stared down at the old woman like she was something he'd found stuck to his boot.
This wasn't a jab anymore. This was open declaration of war.
Olenna didn't even look at him. She snapped her fingers toward her daughter-in-law. "Alerie, hand me my wine. Can't you see I'm having a war of words here? My throat is parched."
Alerie handed over the cup with a sour expression.
Olenna took a long drink, swished it around her mouth, and complained, "Not my own blood, so of course she makes me ask. What terrible daughters-in-law the gods have given me."
Alerie looked like she might faint from pure rage.
It was right in the middle of the Old Lion and Old Rose going at each other that the thunder of hooves rolled across the plain. A great three-headed red dragon banner appeared on the horizon.
"Look!" someone shouted. "Prince Daeron has returned!"