"Perfect!"
Daeron's face lit up. He left the cranky Toothless behind and grilled Lord Lucerys for every detail on Dragonstone and the royal fleet.
Dragonstone needed no explanation.
It was the ancient seat of House Targaryen, the traditional holding of every heir, and the Dragonmont was the best place in the world for dragons to thrive.
Rhaegar had sat on that treasure for years and done nothing with it. Now he was gone from Westeros and his name was turning to mud. Daeron took it without a second thought.
Legality?
As Regent Prince his standing already outranked the king. Ask anyone in the Seven Kingdoms—except Dorne, which had never bent the knee—who the real heir was. Daeron just needed the paperwork to make it official.
"Prince, the garrison on Dragonstone has been replaced," Lucerys said, pride in his voice. "You can move in whenever you like."
He paused, then added, "The Dragonmont is dragons' territory. You should station a full company of Dragon Guards there. No more keeping the beasts cooped up in the Dragonpit."
"Done," Daeron said. "I'll send them today."
He was more than satisfied. No matter how nice the new Dragonpit was, cold stone couldn't compare to a living volcano.
"What about the royal fleet?" he asked.
Lucerys straightened. "Half the ships already belong to House Velaryon. The handover went smoothly—only a handful of Rhaegar's hardliners caused any trouble."
Daeron grinned. "Well done."
Ever since he'd seen dragons and ships working together in perfect sync, he'd been hungry for that fleet. The royal fleet was one of the three strongest navies in Westeros. With the Iron Fleet scattered and only the Redwyne fleet left as a rival, this was exactly the weapon he needed.
Lord Owen had already reported the numbers: fifty warships normally based at King's Landing and another hundred and sixty at Dragonstone, including eighty oar-powered war galleys.
Daeron ran through the ship types in his head—longships, flat-bottomed cogs, the rare great galleys and swan ships. The royal fleet had them all.
Lucerys continued, "I dissolved the Guardians of the Throat alliance and folded every ship back into the royal fleet. Lord Grafton of Gulltown even donated one great galley and five cogs to sweeten the deal."
"Grafton's a good man," Daeron said with a small laugh. Then his tone turned serious. "Keep the fleet at Dragonstone for now. We may need it soon."
With his own royal fleet he was no longer dependent on the Ironborn or the Redwynes. His eyes were already on the Stepstones.
Not to hold them—just to raid them for special gems.
His farm was pumping out vital crops in huge batches. He was using them to train the Dragon Guard and the new Constabulary Knights. Already more than a hundred men had awakened life force.
It still wasn't enough.
The magic tide in Essos was stronger. More special crops, more people who had mastered life force. The Stepstones were crawling with gem veins that had drawn the Triarchy and every pirate in the world. Who knew how many fighters had already climbed the gem sequence?
Daeron had created the Life Seed technique, but the requirements were brutal. Only legends like Barristan, Arthur Dayne, and the Blackfish had succeeded. Even Ser Jon, Ser Gerold, and Jaime were stuck on the final step.
That method would stay royal-only.
If he wanted to match Essos, he needed cheap, fast results—special gems to turn loyal squires into full knights.
(Quick note on Daeron's system:
No life force = ordinary man.
Mastered life force = squire.
Formed Life Seed or completed gem sequence = full knight.
Everything after that was still unknown; even Daeron was still pushing his own limits.)
"Prince, are we moving on the Narrow Sea?" Lucerys asked, eyes bright.
Daeron waved the question off. "Just be ready. Nothing immediate."
He wasn't planning to strike yet. In the stories he remembered, a monstrous storm had destroyed the royal fleet the night his little sister Daenerys was born. He wanted the ships safe at Dragonstone when that hit.
"Wonder how wide that storm will be," he muttered.
If it wrecked the whole Narrow Sea, the Triarchy pirates would be in for a very bad day—and the perfect moment for him to sail.
Lucerys kept quiet and watched the prince think. A quiet pride swelled in his chest. Daeron looked more like a king every day.
The older man drew himself up, silver hair catching the light, and spoke in flawless High Valyrian—the old tongue of the dragonlords.
"Prince Daeron, you are already Regent Prince. The king has lost his way. The heir has failed. You command the greatest power since the days of Valyria—dragons. House Targaryen has been quiet too long. House Velaryon has faded with them. But the lords of Tidehead remember our ancient oaths. We will follow you as our ancestors followed the dragonlords of old. Command us."
He bowed low, silver hair falling over his shoulders.
Daeron blinked, surprised. He heard the offer clearly: Lucerys was urging him toward the throne.
"Rise, my lord," Daeron said, smiling as he helped the older man up.
He had been thinking the same thing. The only real obstacle was that his father was still alive and there was no precedent for a prince taking the crown while the king still breathed.
He was waiting for the right moment—something on the scale of the rebellion itself that would let the lords accept a new king without blinking.
The annexation of the Riverlands and Stormlands… the chaos in the Stepstones… either could provide it.
"We'll see which comes first," Daeron thought, perfectly calm.
Lucerys left the Dragonpit a few minutes later, back straight, shoulders squared, every inch the proud lord of Tidehead instead of a scheming courtier. He had already decided: he would sail across the Narrow Sea, find a wife of pure Valyrian blood, and father daughters. His one legitimate son and bastard were useless. House Velaryon would not fade on his watch. The old custom of marrying into House Targaryen would continue.
At the same time, a quiet tea gathering was underway in the Red Keep.
Queen Rhaella had summoned Shaena, Elia, and a circle of highborn ladies and girls to her chambers.
Rhaella reclined on a swan-down chaise, her pregnant belly huge, birth only weeks away. She sat at the center of a ring of cushioned chairs and low tables.
Shaena sat to her left, cradling a cup of hot tea.
Elia sat to the right, with Ashara Dayne standing behind her holding little Rhaenys, who was babbling and reaching for everything.
Olenna Tyrell, Janna Tyrell, and Cersei Lannister completed the circle.
"I need to find Queen Rhaella the perfect post-birth gift," Cersei said brightly, her eyes flicking toward the queen. She still hadn't given up on marrying the prince. Ambition looked good on her.
"Try the tea," Rhaella said with a small smile, fanning herself despite the winter chill and pointing at the ceramic pot with her closed fan. "Daeron's farm grows it. Quite nice."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Janna said, pouring a cup for her mother.
Olenna took a sip, eyes narrowing in approval. Good flavor—and rare. She could sell this for a fortune.
After the usual polite chatter, Olenna and Janna excused themselves around midday, already scheming about the tea-leaf trade.
That left only Shaena, Elia, Ashara with the baby, and Cersei—who refused to leave.
"That shameless Lannister girl," Rhaella muttered under her breath. "Joanna really raised a piece of work."