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The war ended fast.
Myr's soldiers were wiped out. The sellsword companies either ran or died where they stood. Resistance collapsed.
Under Randyll Tarly's command, the Redwyne fleet locked down the harbor while Reach troops kept order in the streets. Northern and Vale forces held the gates. Stannis took the Dragon Tongue Knights and rode hard down the old Valyrian road, hunting Graulon and anyone else who tried to slip away.
Tristan wasted no time. He dragged the surviving governors straight to Daeron to offer their surrender. It made the transition smoother.
"Your Grace, you need to see this," Staunton said, clanking toward him in full armor. The breastplate had a fresh dent in it.
Daeron glanced at the mark and almost smiled. The man had taken a direct hit from a warhammer and somehow walked it off. Impressive.
Staunton grinned like he'd already counted the gold. "I searched Graulon's mansion. Found a few important prisoners."
He had three people brought forward—an old man with white hair and sharp eyes, a young boy, and an ugly, heavyset woman.
"Tell him who you are," Staunton barked.
The old man bowed low. "Your Grace, I am a priest from the banks of the Rhoyne. The Myr men tricked me and held me prisoner for over two years."
"You're Rhoynar?"
Daeron studied the man's weathered face and felt the cool, steady presence of water magic through his own abilities.
"Yes, Your Grace."
The old man spoke in a hoarse voice, explaining how he and others like him had been lured from the Rhoyne with promises of gold, then enslaved. Those who cooperated made the secret wind-rider sails. Those who refused became blood slaves, bled on schedule to supply the magic.
Daeron's expression darkened.
Blood magic. Slavery. The same ugly tools the old Valyrian dragonlords had used until the world burned them for it.
Staunton leaned in. "We should keep them, Your Grace. They can keep producing the sails for us."
Daeron looked at the prisoners, then at his commanders.
Bluebeard Tarly gave a hard answer. "They're witches. Dangerous. Kill them and be done with it."
Tristan stayed quiet, clearly hoping to keep the profit.
Belar Hightower looked uncomfortable and said nothing.
Tyrion stepped forward. "I disagree."
Daeron raised an eyebrow. "Reason."
"Westerosi law forbids slavery," Tyrion said bluntly. "These people are human beings. Even if they're witches, they're still people. You're about to be king. You can't start your reign by breaking the law you're supposed to uphold."
Daeron was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded.
"You're right. They go free. But I want the method for making those sails recorded. Everything."
The old man and the others bowed in relief and quickly wrote down what they knew.
Daeron kept the Rhoynar priest and his grandson. Water magic might be useful someday. Knowledge was never wasted.
Later, while his men restored order in the city, Daeron stood on a balcony overlooking the harbor. Black smoke still rose from parts of Myr, staining the bright sky.
He looked east, toward the Smoking Sea.
Machiro's prophecy had been clear. One month. The deadline was almost here.
If something was going to happen out there, it would happen soon.
Rhaegar was still somewhere in that cursed stretch of water. Daeron wondered if his brother had found anything worth the risk—or if he was already dead.
Either way, the game was moving faster than anyone expected.