Harrenhal.
After a grueling half-month march, the Reach host and the Dornish spears finally arrived and pitched camp along the shore of the Gods Eye.
"Help me down, damn it," Mace Tyrell grumbled. His ass was killing him from the long ride, and his big belly kept him wedged in the saddle.
Mathis Rowan rolled his eyes and hauled his liege lord off the horse like a sack of grain.
On the other side of the lake, Prince Lewyn finished settling his ten thousand spears and went looking for his Kingsguard brothers, Barristan and Jon Darry.
The loyalist armies were finally united. The endgame was close.
---
Tower of the Burning King.
Daeron and Tywin sat across from each other, working through a mountain of military dispatches.
"Teacher, would you rather head back to King's Landing?" Daeron asked politely.
Tywin didn't even look up from the letter he was writing. "What, you think I'm no good at soldiering anymore? Trying to ship me back to that shit-hole capital?"
Ever since the Blackfish's midnight raid left him bleeding and humiliated, Tywin had kept his mouth shut on Riverlands strategy and tried to stay invisible.
Daeron didn't bother with pleasantries. "If you're just here to grab Riverrun and carve yourself a chunk of the Riverlands, I suggest you go back to King's Landing and do your actual job as Hand. Help my father run the realm."
Tywin's quill stopped mid-stroke. His eyes narrowed in genuine surprise.
Daeron kept his tone flat. "You've been hammering House Tully for months. Everyone knows it's because you want Riverrun."
In the eyes of the nobility, the next Warden of the River Road would be chosen from House Whent, House Darry, or one of the other loyal Riverlords. House Tully had been stripped of almost everything and reduced to a minor house. Whoever held Riverrun controlled easy access in and out of the Riverlands.
Tywin's face hardened. "Boy, House Lannister has bled for the Iron Throne. Don't you dare accuse me of base greed."
Daeron waved the denial away. "Look, the war's almost over. Go back to King's Landing, keep my father calm, and help me straighten out the River Road and the Kingsroad. We'll both get what we need."
Tywin studied him for a long moment, then asked coldly, "Rhaegar's off in Lys chasing his mistress. The realm has no heir. You really think you and I can run the kingdom together while your father sits on the throne?"
"I'm not fishing for anything," Daeron said with a small laugh. "Just go back, keep Aerys happy, and help me lock down the new road systems. That's all."
Tywin's mind raced. He had assumed Daeron was angling for the crown. But the boy's real target was something else.
Then it clicked—the new offices. The High Warden of the River Road. The Master of the Kingsroad. The acting Lord of Storm's End. The Warden of the Realm.
Daeron already controlled the Crownlands, the Stormlands, and now most of the Riverlands. If he merged the Riverlands and Stormlands into the royal domain, the Crownlands would balloon overnight.
"You want to swallow the Riverlands and the Stormlands whole and turn them into direct Crown holdings," Tywin said, voice tight.
Daeron didn't deny it. "Shouldn't I?"
He had dragons now. Why the hell would he keep playing the old feudal game?
Without dragons he might have left the great houses alone. But he had them, and the war had handed him the perfect excuse. He wasn't about to waste it.
"Do you honestly think the Riverlords and Stormlords will agree?" Tywin demanded, standing up.
Daeron leaned back, calm as ever. "Do you think they'll risk saying no to the man with the dragons?"
The Conqueror had carved out only a modest Crownlands because the realm was newly conquered and the lords still needed careful handling. Times had changed. Half the nobility in Westeros was already lining up to serve House Targaryen.
Tywin went quiet, weighing the consequences. A vastly stronger Iron Throne would hem in both the Westerlands and the Reach. Any future Lannister army marching out the Golden Tooth would face royal lands instead of Tully lands. Refusing to bend the knee would brand them traitors.
And it wasn't just the Lannisters. Highgarden would be nearly surrounded—Riverlands to the north, Stormlands to the south, Crownlands to the east. One war and the Tyrells would be crushed between royal pincers.
"The moment you pull this off, the great houses will never rise again," Tywin said, voice low.
Daeron smiled. "Exactly."
Tywin stared at his former student. The boy had grown claws.
"I have a choice?" he asked bitterly.
"You can resign the Handship and crawl back to Casterly Rock to enjoy your gold," Daeron said. "But you can't stop me. The realm is with me now."
After the Iron Islands, the Stormlands, and the Riverlands campaigns, every lord and commoner in Westeros had seen what dragons could do. Becoming direct vassals of the Iron Throne meant royal protection and royal favor. Who would refuse?
Tywin swallowed his pride. "Fine. I'll leave for King's Landing tomorrow and pave the way for you."
Daeron's smile returned. "Safe travels, Teacher."
Tywin snatched his cloak and stormed out without another word.
Once the door closed, Daeron kicked his boots up on the table, hummed a soft tune, and closed his eyes.
He needed a black glove—someone ruthless enough to do the dirty work in King's Landing after the war. Cleaning up the city, running a census, breaking the remaining criminal networks. Tywin's iron fist was perfect for that.
A knock sounded. Ser Jon Darry stepped in.
"My prince, Lord Owen brought a letter. He also brought that red priestess with him."
Daeron straightened. "Send them in."
Lord Owen hurried forward and handed over the sealed parchment. "Maester Aemon says it's from the Prince of Pentos himself. He insisted you read it personally."
Daeron broke the seal and scanned the letter.
Prince Rhaeton of Pentos—chosen from the forty magisters—had nothing but praise. He congratulated Daeron on returning dragons to the world, expressed the deepest respect for House Targaryen, and carefully avoided any mention of the raid on his city. He even blamed Illyrio entirely, claiming the late magister must have provoked the prince. He made no demands for compensation and ended by inviting Daeron to visit Pentos once the rebellion was over. He proposed a formal military alliance between Pentos and the Iron Throne.
Daeron laughed softly. "This Rhaeton knows how to read the wind."
Pentos was weak. After losing to Braavos they had almost no navy and no sellswords. They survived by bribing Dothraki hordes to camp in the hills as a buffer. It was a desperate, temporary fix.
But if they could ally with a dragonlord family across the Narrow Sea, everything changed. No more fear of Braavos. No more begging nomads for protection. They might even claw back some power.
Daeron picked up a quill. "A friendly Free City is worth having."
He wrote a polite reply accepting the invitation and the alliance proposal.
Just then Ser Barristan entered. "My prince, Lord Randyll reports the army is fully assembled. He asks if we march on the Trident."
Daeron sealed the letter and stood. "We march. Before winter closes the passes, we drive the rebels back into the Mountains of the Moon."
"Yes, my prince."
On the south bank of the Trident.
Randyll's host had camped at a shallow ford and was already laying pontoon bridges.
On the opposite shore, the combined Northern and Vale army sat in grim silence, watching the royal forces prepare to cross.
High overhead, two dragons—one red, one blue—wheeled slowly in the sky, their shadows sliding across the water like a silent threat.
Any attempt to block the crossing would be answered with dragonfire.