"The king is still in his prime," Olenna Tyrell said, calm as ever. "Why would he need a regent?"
She wasn't about to commit without seeing the full hand. House Tyrell had already done its part in the war. Any further moves would depend on who offered the better deal.
Tywin's brow furrowed. "Randyll Tarly swept the Vale with the Reach host. Your lords are swimming in plunder—lands, gold, harvest. What more do you want?"
The Vale's best territory now belonged to the crown, but every lesser lord and landed knight's wealth had been carved up and handed to the Reachmen. That haul was worth ten Small Council seats. After all, council seats existed to enrich and empower the families that held them.
House Tyrell had already taken its share of the spoils. It was time to cash out.
"No, no, no." Olenna shook her head. "I'm an old woman, not a politician. My house supported the Iron Throne. My house received its reward. That is fair."
She leaned forward. "But the war is over. I have no obligation to get dragged into royal infighting, risking everything for uncertain gains and the label of a schemer."
The meaning was clear: she was ready to take her winnings and walk away.
Tywin heard the unspoken part. "You're worried the boy will turn on House Tyrell once he holds the regency?"
"Exactly." Olenna didn't bother denying it. "Look at the letter. He didn't just take the Vale—he folded Gulltown straight into the Crownlands."
She ticked off the new titles on her fingers. "Warden of the River Road. Warden of the Mountain Road. And he still refuses to name a new Lord of Storm's End. He is clearly turning the old Warden titles into permanent royal offices that answer only to the crown."
Her voice sharpened. "Today it's the River Road and the Mountain Road. Tomorrow it will be the Gold Road, the Rose Road—how many roads do we even have? I'm running out of breath just listing them."
She set her cup down. "You understand what this means. If Daeron creates more Warden titles, the Westerlands and House Lannister will be hemmed in the same way. You'll all be forced to live carefully."
She was old nobility. Nothing escaped her.
Anything that threatened House Tyrell's power was off the table.
Tywin saw her point but countered, "He is only securing direct control over the three conquered kingdoms. Reorganizing the Crownlands is the real key."
"Reorganizing… the Crownlands?" Olenna's eyes glittered. She had finally pried something useful out of him.
"House Targaryen has dragons again," Tywin said flatly. "Whatever his ambitions, we must tread lightly. But you are right—if the boy intends to crush the great houses, we will need allies who can stand together."
The first half defended Daeron. The second half was an offer of alliance.
Olenna caught it at once.
Tywin wanted Daeron on the throne but didn't fully trust him either. He was preparing for both possibilities.
"Then it seems we are on the same side," Olenna said, satisfied.
She had invested in Daeron, but she feared losing everything if he turned on his backers. House Tyrell had no real leverage. That was why she had been ready to cash out after the Vale was taken.
Now, with Tywin offering a shared plan to install a new ruler, she had a safety net. If things went sour, she could still pull back.
Tywin nodded. "Besides the boy, we have no better choice."
"True enough," Olenna agreed.
Like many lords, she saw House Targaryen caught in an awkward generational gap. Aerys and Rhaegar were both unfit. The two younger princes were still children. Daeron was only thirteen—technically underage—yet he had hatched dragons, won battles, and built a power base that made him seem like a grown man.
"Speaking of which," Olenna asked, "what has Prince Rhaegar been doing?"
---
Essos – Lys.
Rhaegar stood outside a manor chamber, waiting for news.
The door finally opened. An elderly Yi Ti healer stepped out, medicine box in hand.
"Has she improved?" Rhaegar asked, voice hoarse.
The old man answered in Yi Ti. A sharp-faced woman with a teardrop mole beneath her left eye translated smoothly into High Valyrian.
"She has childbed fever—a heat sickness. I have given her medicine to clear the heat and disperse the stasis. The lady's condition is stable."
Rhaegar barely heard the rest. He thanked the healer, paid him, and watched the two Easterners leave.
Inside the room, Lyanna lay thin and pale on the bed, barely breathing. In the cradle beside her, the newborn cried softly.
Rhaegar sat down, looked at mother and child, and said nothing for a long time.
Ser Arthur Dayne watched from the doorway and let out a quiet sigh.
Ever since Rhaegar's meeting with Daeron and the talk of the Prince That Was Promised, the silver prince had become a ghost—haunted, drifting, barely present.
Arthur's hand rested on the hilt of Dawn. I should be with my brothers, fighting for the realm.
---
King's Landing.
The Dragon Gate was packed. Nobles and smallfolk crowded every inch of the road, waiting for the returning army.
A streak of red fire split the sky.
"Hiss-graa—!"
Caraxes shot over the city walls, crimson wings wide, molten-gold eyes gleaming.
"Dragon!"
"It's Prince Daeron's dragon!"
The roar that went up from the crowd shook the stones. Nobles cheered and waved. Commoners screamed with joy.
A brilliant blue shape followed, tearing through the clouds and circling the Great Sept of Baelor. The bells rang wildly from the wind of Tessarion's wings.
The people lost their minds.
Then the army appeared—banners snapping, hooves thundering down the Kingsroad.
Mace Tyrell had shoved his way to the front, riding his little chestnut mare and beaming like a hero while he squeezed Randyll and the others into the background. Girls tossed flower garlands at him. He caught one and placed it on his head like a crown.
"Ha! I love you too!" he shouted, waving.
The city was alive with celebration—the first real joy in years.
Varys watched from a nearby rooftop, hands tucked in his sleeves.
"Dragons make House Targaryen… unpredictable," he murmured.
He smiled faintly. Distance preserved mystery.
---
Red Keep.
Aerys had ordered a grand feast and invited every lord in the realm. The hall was packed.
Ser Gerold Hightower stood near the king, coordinating with the Small Council.
Normally the order would be: honor the heroes, then feast.
Aerys had flipped it. Feast first, honors later.
"Let us hope everything goes smoothly," Lord Corlton muttered, eyeing the mountains of food and wine. Every dish cost gold.
The feast was already in full swing when the drums sounded.
Two Kingsguard took positions at the doors and began announcing the guests.
Mace Tyrell entered first, belly leading the way.
Ser Gerold's voice rang out: "Lord Mace Tyrell of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of the Reach, Warden of the South—"
More names followed. Hightower, Rowan, Whent, Royce, Lannister—every great house filed in.
Then the drums swelled.
A black-and-silver figure appeared in the doorway.
Daeron walked down the steps, Dark Sister at his hip, silver hair shining.
Ser Gerold cleared his throat and gave the longest title yet:
"His Highness, Prince Daeron Targaryen—Prince of the Bounty Hall, Supreme Commander of the Seven Kingdoms, Warden of the Realm, Acting Lord of Storm's End, Acting Warden of the River Road, Warden of the Mountain Road, Protector of the Vale—"