Riverlands – Stonehelm
Some random inn.
"Hiss—damn, that burns!"
Robert Baratheon lay back in the wooden tub, hot water soaking through the bandages and lighting up every cut like wildfire. He almost jumped out of his skin, but the big man played it tough and called it "hot."
"Storm's End is gone too," he muttered.
He didn't sound furious or broken. He just lounged there, pressing a steaming cloth over his face like he was at a spa.
Once his face was hidden, the cocky mask slipped. Robert looked tired—really tired.
"Stannis surrendered. Storm's End is lost. I'm not Lord of Storm's End anymore."
He wasn't whining about power or blaming his little brother for failing. He was stone-cold realistic.
He knew exactly how impossible it had been. Facing a dragon and seventy thousand Reachmen? Stannis never had a chance. Even that nobody Randyll Tarly had turned out to be a monster.
Surrendering was probably the only way Stannis could keep himself and Renly alive.
And Robert knew the second Storm's End fell, his title as Lord of Storm's End was gone—probably his name too. Without that, he had zero clout left in the four-kingdom alliance.
Jon Arryn was slippery as a snake, Hoster Tully had the spine of a wet noodle, and Ned… gods only knew if his best friend had even made it back to Winterfell to raise the North.
The whole rebellion felt like it was already bleeding out.
"Might as well surrender," he said quietly, peeling the towel off and dragging it across his hairy chest.
This wasn't the Robert from the old stories who won three battles in a day at Summerhall. That dragon had knocked the fire right out of him. The red one—Caraxes—had treated his entire army like ants under a boot. Robert was pretty sure the prince had let him run on purpose.
"Why keep me alive?" he wondered. "What use is one beaten rebel?"
But then the rage hit again, hot and endless.
"No. I can't surrender."
His eyes hardened. "Rhaegar, you stole my Lyanna. You're going to pay."
And Lyanna herself—he was going to sit her down and ask why the hell she threw away a perfectly good marriage to become some married prince's side piece.
Was being Lady of Storm's End really worse than warming Rhaegar's bed?
"I'm not done," he growled under his breath. "I'm dragging both of you out into the light."
Right then the door banged open and three giggling girls spilled in—low-cut dresses, painted lips, hips swinging.
They circled the tub, eyes lighting up at the sight of all that muscle and… well, everything else.
Robert's mood flipped like a switch.
"Hahaha, no rush, girls—come on in!"
He grabbed the prettiest one by the waist and yanked her straight into the water, hands already roaming. War or no war, a man still had needs.
King's Landing
Daeron rode through the King's Gate on a pure-white stag.
The beast stood two and a half meters at the shoulder, coat like silk, eyes gentle and noble. Lord Owen had spotted the rare animal by a stream in the Kingswood and rushed it to Daeron—calling it a royal omen for a prince without a proper ground mount.
One feeding of special fruit later, the stag was his. Limited-edition SR-tier lucky mount, courtesy of the Stardew system.
"Yoohoo—"
The white stag strolled through the cheering crowds without a hint of fear, occasionally snatching a red apple from some peasant's hand and crunching it happily, juice dripping everywhere.
"A white stag! That's an omen!"
"Stormlands just fell and a white stag appears? Pure luck!"
The smallfolk went wild. Silver hair, purple eyes, and a snow-white royal stag—everyone came to the same conclusion.
Hero and omen, showing up together.
Prince Daeron was clearly the man who would restore House Targaryen to glory.
"Prince, your reputation keeps climbing," Davos said, riding on his right.
Daeron just smiled and looked up.
"Skreeee—!"
Caraxes sliced through the clouds, red scales flashing like rubies. That piercing cry rolled across the city like a victory anthem.
Behind him came the blue and black young dragons. The three of them circled King's Landing, spitting occasional bursts of flame that made the crowds roar with delight.
After a hundred and fifty years, King's Landing was once again a city of dragons.
And dragons… those were the real omens.
Red Keep
Ser Gerold Hightower—White Bull—led two Kingsguard to greet the prince.
"Prince, congratulations on your triumphant return."
Daeron barely glanced at him. One hand on the reins, he rode the white stag straight past without a word.
Davos and Randyll flanked him on warhorses, swords ready.
Gerold's face went beet red. He stepped back fast.
Once the prince was through the gates, the real heroes—Blackfish, Mace Tyrell, Paxter Redwyne, and the rest—followed on foot after dismounting in the outer yard.
"Ser Gerold!"
Jaime Lannister stepped out in his shining white cloak and silver armor, back in the Kingsguard ranks.
Gerold forced a smile, already getting a bad feeling.
The second son wasn't the quiet boy anymore. He moved like a king now—flashy, dangerous, magnetic. Exactly the kind of man every lord in Westeros wanted to follow.
Throne Room
Aerys sat on the twisted Iron Throne in full regalia, golden crown gleaming.
The huge two-story hall was packed with Small Council members and lords standing on either side. You could hear a pin drop.
Aerys's purple eyes looked hollow. He gripped the blade-edges of the throne so hard his palms bled, but he didn't seem to notice.
Hoofbeats echoed outside.
A snow-white stag stepped into view, carrying the man the entire realm was waiting for.
"A white stag?!" Varys whispered from the crowd, genuinely stunned.
Westeros had plenty of weird beasts—shadowcats in the Vale, direwolves beyond the Wall—but a living white stag walking into the Red Keep? That was something else.
Daeron swung down, gave the stag an affectionate pat on the head, and left it standing politely by the doors.
He wasn't Tywin—he wasn't here to stomp on the king's dignity.
"My lords," he called as he walked in, "I'm home."
Mace Tyrell and the other loyal commanders followed right behind.
Lady Olenna stood near the front, pointing at her puffed-up son and stage-whispering to whoever would listen, "Look at that fat boy—that's mine. If he'd lay off the pies he'd actually be handsome."
Alerie Tyrell behind her: …
"Well done!" Aerys announced, sounding shockingly sane. "You have pacified the Stormlands. You are all heroes of the realm!"
The hall erupted in cheers.
Daeron scanned the room, spotted Olenna's satisfied grin, and slipped over to stand beside her.
Big public show in the throne room—two hundred lords, pure theater for the king to hand out praise.
The real decisions would happen later in the Small Council.
He'd shown his face, the nobles had seen him, now he could step aside and let Mace and the others take the spotlight.
"Prince, congratulations on that magnificent victory," Olenna said, eyes sparkling with approval.
Daeron chuckled. "Couldn't have done it without Lord Mace's excellent command."
Olenna snorted. "Don't make this old woman laugh. Mace's only real talent is stealing Randyll's credit. Without that, he'd be standing behind your white stag."
Daeron actually laughed. The old lady was hilarious.
The easy honors went out first—Mace and the Reach lords got titles and applause, nothing heavy.
The real reward was for the Supreme Commander of the Seven Kingdoms.
"Don't worry," Olenna told him with a wink. "I'll put in a good word."
Daeron stepped forward into the center of the hall.
He had crushed the Battle of Deerfield, the Battle of Summerhall, and taken Storm's End. His achievements were off the charts.
Aerys's face twisted as he stared at his handsome young second son. Pure jealousy boiled in his chest.
"Your Grace," Daeron said with a perfect, respectful nod.
Aerys managed a grunt. Nothing more.
The lords exchanged uneasy glances. He's going to refuse the reward.
Aerys's reputation made it entirely possible.
"Your Grace," Tywin spoke up, voice steady, "Prince Daeron pacified the Stormlands and captured Storm's End. He is the greatest hero of this war. He must be rewarded properly."
Corlton jumped in. "The Hand is correct."
The nobles nodded eagerly. Father rewarding son—should be generous, right?
Aerys decided to be difficult.
"You have done well," he said, "so Lord Corlton will give you some gold from the treasury. Then go take Riverrun for me."
The hall went quiet.
That was like telling the horse to run without feeding it.
Daeron kept his face blank. He didn't care about pocket change. He already had the real prize—Stormlands lands he was never giving back. Fancy titles were nice, but "Supreme Commander" already gave him wartime control over every army. Unless it came with regency power, extra names meant nothing.
Tywin wasn't having it.
"Gold is no way to reward a hero, Your Grace," he said firmly. "If that's how the Iron Throne treats its servants, who will ever fight for it again?"
Aerys's face darkened. Madness flickered behind his eyes. "Then what would you suggest?"
Tywin chose his words like a surgeon. "You are the king on the Iron Throne. The rewards should come from your wisdom."
My wisdom says give him nothing!
Aerys almost said it out loud, but the entire court was watching. He swallowed it.
After a long pause he forced out, "Boy, your princely fief is still under construction. I will grant you funds from the treasury… and add Tumblestone plus the northern half of the Kingswood along the Roseroad as your new lands."
Gasps rippled through the hall.
Daeron's current fief south of the Blackwater was already three thousand square miles. Adding Tumblestone and the prime northern Kingswood would expand it four or five times. Timber, fishing rights at the mouth of the Mander, and Tumblestone's workshops and tolls—it was a massive upgrade.
Even the rocky parts near Tumblestone had value. This would make him a top-tier lord in one stroke.
Daeron stayed perfectly calm. The new lands were huge on paper, but he'd already waived Tumblestone's taxes for a year and the Kingswood couldn't be logged freely. It didn't actually help him much right now.
This was just Aerys's clumsy way of refusing a real reward without looking petty.
Tywin frowned. He couldn't find a flaw—land was the ultimate gift in Westeros.
Daeron opened his mouth to thank his father.
"Wait!"
Olenna Tyrell stepped out of the crowd and cut the moment in half.
Aerys scowled. "What do you want, woman?"
He clearly hadn't expected the tiny old lady with the sour-lemon face.
(If Olenna had heard that thought she would have lost her mind—she'd been a famous beauty in her day, with more suitors than she could count.)
"Your Grace," she said sweetly, "your reward is perfectly generous. Truly magnificent."
Aerys smirked. "Good. Then step back."
"Oh no, I'm not finished." Olenna smiled wider. "Prince Daeron has pacified the Stormlands. Soon he'll have to deal with the Riverlands, the Vale, and the North. Yet right now he only carries the title 'Supreme Commander of the Seven Kingdoms.'"
She paused for effect.
"Truth be told, in all my long years I've never heard of such a thing."
The lords burst out laughing—half at the joke, half because she was right.
Olenna kept going, voice clear and carrying. "Prince Daeron represents the loyalist armies. He represents the dignity of the Iron Throne itself."
"So why not give him a proper, well-known title that every man in the Seven Kingdoms will recognize? Something that lets him lead our forces to victory with real authority?"
Aerys's face turned bright red. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again.
Why?
Because he was jealous of his own son and didn't want to give him anything that sounded too impressive.
The hall waited in dead silence for the Mad King's answer.