The Small Council stared at Ser Arthur Dayne with open curiosity.
Wasn't he supposed to be in Lys with Prince Rhaegar?
Even stranger—he had returned with Prince Daeron.
Daeron arrived a short while later, dragon settled, and took his seat at the head of the table.
Tywin rose slowly. "Prince, where have you been? Was the journey safe?"
"I went to Dorne to strengthen some old ties," Daeron said, dropping into the king's chair.
He had gained more than he expected.
Melisandre had finished the magic ink. The dragon farm could now produce teleportation totems.
He had unlocked the desert oasis, complete with mines and shops.
Skull Cavern alone had pushed his mastery forward.
And he had secured House Yronwood's loyalty.
Anders Yronwood still hated the Martells. Oberyn had served as a squire in Ironwood, slept with the old lord's mistress, then poisoned the old man during a trial by combat. Doran had barely punished his brother.
The hatred ran deep.
Daeron had promised Anders a title worthy of "Guardian of the Stone Road." Anders had promised a surprise in return.
Tywin's mouth tightened at the mention of Dorne. "I wasn't aware you had any ties there worth strengthening."
"You don't know half the things I do," Daeron replied.
Tywin let it go and handed over the report. "You returned at the right moment. Lord Caswell of Bitterbridge is in open rebellion. The evidence is clear."
Daeron scanned the page, then looked around the table.
"Then kill him."
Mace Tyrell blinked. "Prince, he may have accomplices. Shouldn't we investigate first?"
"Lawbreakers need investigation," Daeron said calmly. "Rebels only need coordinates."
He turned to Tywin. "Save the Lionheart Knights. The Dragon-Tongue Knights will handle Bitterbridge."
Tywin frowned. "No one matches the Lionheart Knights in quality."
"We'll see."
The meeting ended.
---
At the Dragon Gate, Stannis Baratheon stood in black steel armor, three-headed red dragon banner in hand.
"Dragon-Tongue Knights—move out!"
Three hundred armored riders thundered through the gate, black plate and crimson cloaks streaming like a living dragon across the ground.
Daeron watched from a tower window.
Three hundred fully trained gem-sequence knights could sweep any minor lord's lands clean.
Bitterbridge was nothing.
Time to show the realm what the crown could do.
---
Three days later, Bitterbridge.
Lord Caswell rode along the riverbank inspecting his thousand men—five hundred foot, three hundred archers, two hundred horse.
Still no word from Peake, Fossoway, or Merryweather.
His squire had vanished, supposedly riding for King's Landing.
Something was wrong.
A low rumble shook the ground.
Dust rose on the far side of the stone bridge.
Lord Caswell turned—and froze.
A black tide of armored riders poured across the bridge, led by a man holding a three-headed red dragon banner high.
"Dragon-Tongue Knights?!"
Stannis spotted him at once.
"Caswell!"
An arrow flew. It punched clean through the lord's back.
"Kill them all!"
Stannis drew his silvered sword and charged into the panicked Bitterbridge ranks, blade rising and falling in bright arcs of death.