While Daeron made the rounds visiting Stormlands lords, King's Landing was changing fast.
Aerys did something completely out of character: he named Tywin supreme commander of the loyalist armies and ordered him to march on the Riverlands.
Tywin scraped together what was left of the Lannister troops plus every Crownlands man he could find and headed for Harrenhal to link up with the loyal Riverlords.
One funny thing happened along the way.
Tywin tried to pull the Reach army into the campaign. Mace Tyrell dodged him for days, claiming the Reach host was "resting" halfway to Harrenhal.
"War's still going and they're already stabbing each other in the back," Daeron scoffed when he heard.
At the same time, a fleet from the Greenblood docked at King's Landing carrying ten thousand Dornish spears.
Rhaegar was in command, with Prince Lewyn as his second.
After the troops were settled, Rhaegar asked to take them north to crush the rebels. Aerys shut him down hard. The king wanted those spears handed straight to Tywin.
In the end nothing happened. The Dornish stayed in the city.
King's Landing was now packed with the Reach army, the Dornish spears, and Daeron quietly locking down the Stormlands. The whole capital felt like the eye of a storm—one wrong move and everything would explode.
Meanwhile, up north, Eddard Stark had finished mustering the North and crossed the Neck into the Riverlands.
Ser Denys Arryn marched out of the Mountains of the Moon and joined him. Together they headed for Riverrun.
"How many men did you bring, Ned?" Denys asked. The pure warrior couldn't even guess the size of the Northern host—just knew it looked smaller than the Vale army.
Ned's face was tight, eyes distant. "Thirteen thousand five hundred warriors. That's every fighting man the North could raise."
"Well, that's not bad," Denys said cheerfully. "We've got eighteen thousand from the Vale. Add Hoster's Riverlanders and we'll hit thirty or forty thousand easy."
Ned's jaw clenched. His mind was somewhere else.
His sister Lyanna had run off with Rhaegar, got their father and brother killed, and dragged the whole Stark house into ruin. He didn't know whether to blame her—she was one of the only family he had left.
Benjen had begged to come south. Ned left him at Winterfell. If Ned died on this campaign, Benjen would be the last Stark male. The boy would have to rule the North alone.
"Maybe by the time I'm dead the Starks won't even have the North anymore," Ned thought with a bitter smile.
He didn't want to think that far. He just needed to know Lyanna was safe.
Rhaegar was every girl's dream prince… but he already had a wife. Ned wasn't sure where Lyanna stood in the man's heart.
"What a perfect, noble Prince Rhaegar Targaryen," Ned growled under his breath. "You stole my sister, murdered my father and brother, and drove my foster-father Jon Arryn and my friend Robert into rebellion."
His grey eyes burned with cold fury. He wanted to drag Rhaegar out and ask him what the word honor even meant.
How could one man make a mistake so huge it dragged the entire continent into hell?
"Stop thinking about it," Denys said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Once we link with Hoster we'll swing over to Stonehelm and find Robert."
Denys grinned like it was a hunt. "When we get Robert back, we'll—"
"Wait!" Ned cut him off, face suddenly pale. "What did you just say? Robert's at Stonehelm?"
"Yeah, that's where he's healing."
Ned's stomach dropped. "You and I marched thousands of miles with our armies, and even you heard where Robert's hiding. You really think the loyalists haven't heard the same rumor?"
Robert was in danger.
Ned didn't waste another second. He ordered the entire host to move faster—straight to Riverrun at forced march.
Harrenhal
Tywin arrived and merged his forces with the loyalist army already there—nearly thirty thousand men ready.
"Lord Hand! Fresh news!"
Lord Whent came running.
Someone had spotted Robert Baratheon hiding at Stonehelm and the report had reached the loyalists.
"Robert Baratheon," Tywin hissed, eyes like black ice. "Assemble the army. Stonehelm is sheltering a traitor. We march."
The old lion's hatred for the man who had chased him across the countryside and made him cut off his own beard was finally getting its chance.
The war outside barely touched the Stormlands.
Daeron's political tour of the Stormlords was almost finished.
With Lords Cafferen and the other four loyal houses acting as go-betweens, he threw a massive feast at Storm's End and invited every Stormlander lord who was still breathing.
A few houses whose lords had been executed or sent to the Wall couldn't come—their new heads of house attended instead. Almost everyone else showed up.
Twenty wagons of food rolled in. The great hall was decorated richer than Winterfell's harvest feast. The party would run three full days.
That Night
The Storm Hall glowed with torchlight. A dozen long tables groaned under every kind of delicacy.
The Stormlords split into three clear camps.
First camp: Cafferen and the other five houses who had fought with Daeron and gotten fat rewards—100% loyal to the prince personally.
Second camp: the pardoned houses like Haystack Hall, Evenfall Hall, Harvest Hall, and Greenstone. After Daeron's personal visits they had smartly switched sides.
Third camp: the punished ones. Rainwood houses like Stonehelm, Mistwood, Rain House, and Crow's Nest had lost land or seen their lords exiled. Some seats were now run by temporary regents.
The worst off was House Connington. Jon Connington had been Rhaegar's best friend; after Tessarion burned him alive, the rest of the family joined Robert. Daeron had made an example of them. Most branches were exiled across the Narrow Sea. Griffin's Roost was currently lordless, waiting for a new grant.
"My lords," Ser Selwyn Tarth of Evenfall Hall rose, cup raised. "The age of House Baratheon is over. Prince Daeron defeated us, but he spared our lives and our people. We should be grateful and help rebuild the Stormlands."
Selwyn was in his forties and had only one child—a three-year-old daughter named Brienne.
"To the prince!" Lord Brynden Caron of Nightsong joined in. The big lords' prestige rolled out and the rest of the Stormlords quickly followed, raising their cups.
The Stormlands had always been different—no single overwhelming second-tier house like the other kingdoms. The strongest were probably the Carons of Nightsong, the Swanns of Stonehelm, and the Dondarrions of Blackhaven. The Carons were fierce warriors but always cash-poor. Daeron's gift of supplies had solved Brynden's immediate problems, so the man was happy to stand up and unify the room.
Half the lords in the hall were already Daeron's supporters. The feast ran smoothly.
Early in the night the Rainwood lords still looked stiff, but by the second half of the evening even they had dropped their grudges and were singing and dancing with everyone else.
"Nice moves!" Daeron laughed, tossing a purse of gold dragons onto the table. "Whoever dances best tonight gets a hundred gold!"
A hundred dragons wasn't fortune, but after the war it was serious money—especially to the knights, younger sons, and singers in the room.
"Prince, every house is willing to set aside old grudges and recognize you as Prince of Storm's End," Barristan murmured behind him, passing on a message from one of the Harvest Hall cousins.
Daeron smiled and shook his head. "I don't need the title to rule the Stormlands. Once I actually rule it well, they'll give me the title themselves."
Barristan nodded. He understood—the prince was playing for something far bigger than one castle.
Right now the entire Stormlands was already in Daeron's pocket. The name didn't matter, and skipping the title kept his father from getting paranoid.
"Barristan, go dance!" Daeron pushed the old knight toward the floor.
He noticed something else: Stormlands lords were nothing like Reach lords.
The Reach was rich and soft. Their nobles spent the whole night flattering each other in perfect, fake-polite voices.
The Stormlands was harsh and wild. These men fought like hell, drank like fish, and partied like tomorrow might never come. Win or lose, they threw themselves into wine, women, and song.
No wonder Robert had been able to win three battles in one day at Summerhall and still drink and joke with Cafferen and the others afterward.
Suddenly the torches dimmed. The music slowed. The crowd parted.
A golden-haired beauty stepped into the center of the hall and began a dance that was nothing like the others.
Daeron looked closer—it was Lady Sylla Errol of Haystack Hall.
She looked completely different from the modest widow he had met. Hair swept up, wearing a low-cut black evening gown that showed off her shoulders and curves. Mature, sensual, every movement dripping with experience.
Her figure was perfect. The dance was pure temptation.
It reminded him a little of Ashara's dance at Harrenhal—same elegant, heartbreaking beauty—but older, riper, like a peach ready to be picked.
"Being a widow can't be easy," Daeron thought with a quiet sigh.
The dance ended to thunderous applause. Sylla wiped the sweat from her brow and excused herself to change.
As she passed Daeron's cushioned seat she brushed the thin curtain aside, adjusted her skirt, and sat down right beside him.
Daeron's pulse jumped.
He glanced around. The Stormlords were back to wild revelry, music turning loud and fast again.
"Did you like it?" Sylla asked first. Her voice had a rich, mature warmth.
"Very much," Daeron answered honestly.
"Mmm." She said nothing more, just watched him with those clever eyes while her fingers idly stroked the soft goose-feather cushion, testing its quality.
They sat in silence for a minute.
Then Sylla stood and walked toward the guest rooms upstairs.
Daeron's expression flickered. He turned to Barristan.
He was pretty sure she had just invited him.
"She's beautiful, isn't she?" Barristan said, lips twitching in a knowing smile.
Daeron was certain now. He shook his head anyway. "No."
"It's fine, my prince. That's how things work among nobles."
Barristan leaned in and lowered his voice so only Daeron could hear. "Prince Rhaegar married late, but he didn't stay single the whole time either."
Daeron shook his head again. "Still no."
"It can only help you. Look around."
Barristan gave him a subtle nod.
Daeron took a casual sip of wine and scanned the room.
Several noble ladies who hadn't danced were sitting at nearby tables, chatting—but their eyes kept drifting back to him.
Barristan gave him an encouraging look that said go on, figure it out.
Daeron actually laughed.
The Stormlords were testing his attitude. They had sent the most beautiful widow as their ambassador.
He didn't even need to ask whose idea it was.
"Go on, Prince," Barristan urged quietly. "Enjoy a good night. By the time the sun comes up tomorrow, you'll be a real man."
No strings. No marriage required.
"Alright."
Daeron thought about it for two seconds, picked up Dark Sister from the table, and followed Sylla upstairs.
Appetite was appetite. Nothing to be ashamed of.
Compared to the young, green girls like Cersei or Ashara, he much preferred a ripe, experienced woman like Sylla Errol.
Upstairs – Guest Chamber
The room was dimly lit by a single candle.
Sylla was still wearing the same low-cut black evening gown, leaning against the wall with her head tilted, golden hair loose.
"My lady—"
Daeron reached out.
Sylla turned, met his eyes, and spoke softly. "Call me Sylla. Tonight I have no other titles."
"Sylla… you really are beautiful."
Daeron meant it. His hand naturally settled on her soft waist.
She was tall for a woman, skin like cream, figure elegant and full. The evening gown made her look more regal than any young noble miss.
"Don't talk," she whispered. "We're wasting good time."
She took the lead, sliding her arms around his neck, rising on her toes, and pressing her lips to his.
Daeron's body tensed, then followed her rhythm.
First taste of real intimacy.
Next Morning
Sunlight poured through the white curtains onto the bed.
Daeron opened his eyes and saw a cascade of golden hair across his chest instead of the ceiling.
For one startled second he thought it was Cersei.
Then he woke up fully.
"You're awake?" Sylla murmured.
She had been up for a while, lying on her side in his arms, head propped on one hand, the other resting lightly on his waist.
What he saw in her eyes wasn't shyness or regret.
It was interest… and a spark of real affection.
This woman was playing at a very high level.