Daeron left Dragonstone.
He took Shaena with him and the two of them flew their dragons straight back to King's Landing.
"A prophecy can twist a man that badly?" he muttered halfway home, brow furrowed the entire flight.
How the hell was he supposed to save Lyanna?
He'd done it for Lord Rickard's attempted treason, for "the Wild Wolf" Brandon storming into the Red Keep, for Eddard Stark raising an army in rebellion—
Sometimes he genuinely couldn't understand what was going on inside Rhaegar's head.
The Starks were his family's killers.
"If I wasn't worried about kinslaying, I would've stabbed you right there," Daeron growled, shaking his head as he drew the Valyrian steel dagger at his belt.
It was the family heirloom—the exact one their father always carried.
He'd used this blade once to push Rhaegar and Lyanna together.
Now he'd traded a secret for it.
The secret? The Prince That Was Promised wasn't Rhaegar's kid.
It was him.
In a world of ice and fire, the one who hatched dragons and brought them back into the world was the prince the prophecy spoke of.
Daeron was certain.
The moment he'd walked out of the flames on Dragonstone's eastern shore, he had become the prince born of smoke and salt.
Rhaegar had wasted his life chasing the wrong dream.
"Go ahead and break," Daeron thought coldly. "It's all you've got left."
He remembered the way his brother's face had frozen, those indigo eyes shaking like they might shatter. It felt satisfying and tragic at the same time.
How could one man be this stupid?
Evening, 6:00 p.m.
Daeron and Shaena didn't head back to the Red Keep. They landed at Dragon-Tongue Farm instead.
"Hiss-graa!"
Toothless was curled up by the bat cave. The second he saw the two riders and two dragons he let out an angry roar.
Whack!
Caraxes smacked him with his tail, calming the cranky little brother down.
Toothless couldn't win a fight, so he just bared his teeth, dove into the blue grass, and started ripping it up to vent.
"You rest. I've got some work to do," Daeron told Shaena, unbuckling the chains at her waist and helping her down.
Shaena looked around the farm, noticed the cottage looked a little newer, and pushed the door open.
Daeron dug through the chests until he had everything for the tea-room offering pack. No need to wait for more Zuni magic apples—he took the two remaining dragon eggs from the wooden box and placed the black one (Drogon's egg) inside the little Zuni hut.
Drogon's talent was legendary. They called him the Black Death, the second coming of Balerion.
He'd hatch this one first.
"Doesn't look any different yet. Guess it still needs time."
Daeron lay on the ground and peered inside. The copper-green and yellow eggs already in the hut still had their stony shells.
Reviving petrified eggs clearly wasn't easy, even for the Zuni magic.
Choosing to hunt for living eggs back then had been the right call.
Late that night Daeron returned to the cottage and crashed.
The next morning he flew back to King's Landing.
"Prince, Maester Aemon requests your presence," Lord Owen said, rushing up to them looking flustered.
Shaena's skin glowed, her cheeks rosy, the graceful curve of her body hidden beneath the sky-blue split skirt and riding pants. She carried a new, softer elegance.
"I'll wait for you," she said gently, kissing his cheek before heading inside.
Lord Owen's eyes went wide and he gave an enormous, proud "auntie" smile.
"Stop staring. Let's go," Daeron said, grabbing Owen's arm and heading for the council chamber.
"Lord Tywin has been defeated again. His Grace is furious."
"How did he lose this time?"
The councillors were all talking over one another, dissecting the Riverlands situation.
Daeron sat in the Hand's chair and listened until he had the full picture.
Two nights earlier, Riverrun's gates had suddenly opened. A force under "the Blackfish" Brynden Tully had launched a night raid on Tywin's camp, catching the old lion completely off guard.
Daeron's face stayed blank. He already knew exactly why. Damn you, Blackfish. You really are willing to die to save your house.
The Blackfish wasn't disloyal and he wasn't stupid.
He'd clearly decided to die with House Tully if that's what it took.
"Prince, Lord Tywin has pulled his army back to Harrenhal to link up with Ser Barristan. He wants to gather every man and storm Riverrun," Lord Corlton said, looking uncomfortable.
Daeron's voice was ice. "No need. I'll march for the Riverlands myself in the next few days and take personal command of the loyalist host."
He was genuinely impressed with how bad his teacher was at war.
Any halfway decent commander could beat Tywin like a drum.
Lord Corlton looked relieved. "In that case, everything's fine."
"One more small matter," Lady Olenna said, attending the council and cutting in smoothly.
Daeron motioned for her to continue.
Olenna jerked her chin toward Varys, who was trying to disappear into the background.
Varys cleared his throat. "If you're leading the army into the Riverlands, who will command the Dornish spears?"
"Are Rhaegar and Prince Lewyn dead?" Daeron asked flatly.
Varys sighed. "According to the latest raven, Prince Rhaegar sailed for Lys last night."
Reason: Lady Lyanna had childbed fever and Rhaegar had gone looking for medicine. Lys was famous for its poisons, alchemists, and sorcerers—experts in that sort of thing.
"And Prince Lewyn went with him?" Daeron's eyelid twitched. He refused to believe Lewyn would sit by while his niece Elia was humiliated and then help the woman who'd replaced her.
"No," Varys admitted. "But Prince Lewyn sent a raven to Sunspear this morning. He says the Dornish soldiers answered Prince Rhaegar's call. Without Rhaegar here, he cannot convince them to fight."
Translation: House Martell had marched for Rhaegar, not the Iron Throne. Now that Rhaegar had run off with his mistress, the Dornish weren't in any mood to do the king any favors.
Whether they would march at all depended on Prince Doran's reply.
"Either he's in denial or he's given up," Daeron muttered, wondering what the hell Rhaegar was thinking. The man kept making the worst possible moves.
Lady Olenna jumped in. "You see? Not every house is as loyal as House Tyrell. The Dornish especially."
She never missed a chance to trash the Martells and lift up her own roses.
Daeron gave her a cold glance and stood. "Take me to Prince Lewyn. I want to see what's going on for myself."
House Martell had been comfortable for far too long.
They actually thought tying themselves to Rhaegar meant they could shit on the Targaryen name.
Outside the Dragon Gate.
More than ten thousand Dornish spears were camped five miles outside the city, their banners fluttering in a riot of colors.
Today, though, the camp was about to learn fear.
"Bring Prince Lewyn out!" Daeron shouted.
He sat on Caraxes in shining silver armor, the red dragon perched on a high ridge overlooking the camp.
Several Dornish lords turned pale and stumbled backward.
"Hiss-graa—!"
Caraxes's molten-gold eyes fixed on the little insects below. Twenty meters long, the beast was a living nightmare. The pressure alone made the lords sweat.
Moments later Prince Lewyn and a group of Dornish lords hurried forward.
"Prince, what is the meaning of this?" Lewyn asked, face tight. He didn't dare get too close to the red dragon.
Daeron leaned forward in the saddle. "My father ordered you to march. Are you deaf?"
"I informed the lords. They are awaiting Prince Doran's reply," Lewyn said helplessly.
Rhaegar had dropped the ball at the worst possible moment and abandoned House Martell.
The Dornish lords were furious. If Lewyn hadn't talked them down, they would've stormed the Red Keep demanding answers from the king.
"You march for the Iron Throne and House Targaryen," Daeron said coldly. "Not for one man named Rhaegar Targaryen."
His voice was ice. "Two choices. March with me to the Riverlands. Or go home to Dorne."
"We want an explanation from Rhaegar!" one lord from House Uller of the Red Mountains stepped forward, furious.
Daeron didn't even blink.
"Hiss-graa—!"
Caraxes extended his neck and unleashed a river of crimson flame. The Uller lord and several men beside him became living torches.
"AAAAAHHH!"
Their screams were horrible. They rolled on the ground, but dragonfire couldn't be put out. In seconds they were dead.
Prince Lewyn's face went white. He immediately stepped in front of the others, pushing them back.
"I'll ask one more time," Daeron said, eyes locked on Lewyn. "Do you march with me to the Riverlands, or do you go home?"
This time there was no real choice.
March or die.
Lewyn felt the weight of man and dragon crushing him. The calm prince of old vanished; all that remained was pure terror.
"No answer?" Daeron asked.
Caraxes felt his rider's rage. When a fresh wave of Dornish soldiers charged forward, the dragon opened his jaws and sprayed a pillar of red flame.
Dozens of men were swallowed before they even knew what was happening. They became screaming human torches.
Lewyn's face drained of all color.
"We will march!" a golden-haired, blue-eyed Dornish lord suddenly shouted. He shoved the hesitant Lewyn aside and stepped directly in front of the terrifying dragon.
Daeron looked at the sigil on the man's chest. "And you are?"
"I am Lord Anders Yronwood of Yronwood, son of Ormond Yronwood."
Anders was a big, broad-shouldered man, his exposed skin burned red from years under the Dornish sun.
Daeron glanced at Lewyn. "Can you speak for them?"
"Yes!" Anders dropped to one knee, spread his powerful arms, and roared, "Noble Dragon Prince, House Yronwood is yours to command! I can bring five thousand spears and march with you to the Riverlands!"
"Heh. Interesting," Daeron said.
He looked back at the rest of the Dornish lords, one hand resting casually on the saddle. "At least someone has sense. What about the rest of you?"
Caraxes rumbled deep in his throat, ready to breathe fire again.
The Dornish lords' faces showed every emotion imaginable.
"I will march!" A knight of House Dayne stepped forward and knelt, offering five hundred spears.
Once the first man knelt, more followed.
House Dalt of Lemonwood… House Allyrion of Godsgrace… House Vance of Wayfarer's Rest… House Gargalen of the Spire…
Nine out of every ten Dornish lords dropped to their knees and swore to follow the Dragon Prince.
Daeron's expression never changed. He looked at Prince Lewyn and the last few holdouts.
Lewyn couldn't bear the pressure. He knelt, head bowed.
The remaining landed knights asked to return to Dorne.
"Dracarys," Daeron ordered without hesitation.
Caraxes breathed a jet of flame. Their screams echoed across half the camp as they burned alive.
The other lords stood frozen. The firelight painted their faces like molten wax dripping on skin.
Such ruthless methods were rare among Targaryens these days.
The man before them reminded them of "the Young Dragon" Daeron I—the harshest father Dorne had ever known.
Daeron showed no mercy. He raised his voice. "Assemble the troops. We march at first light tomorrow!"