Sunset Sea
The combined Redwyne and Shield Islands fleets swept past Lannisport, cutting west toward Ironman's Bay like a steel tide.
"Skreeeee—!"
Caraxes wheeled high above, crimson wings casting a long shadow over the ships. Daeron stood at the rail, hair whipping in the salt wind, eyes scanning the horizon. Far above, a sapphire streak and a spectral black shadow chased each other through the clouds—his two younger dragons keeping perfect formation with their big brother.
"Tessarion and Toothless are full of energy today," he murmured, smiling faintly.
He was going to the Iron Islands.
Ironborn… don't be afraid.
His smile sharpened.
Because fear won't save you.
---
It wasn't recklessness. Daeron knew exactly what he was doing.
First, on the open sea, Caraxes—the dragon whose very name once meant "Sea God" in Old Valyria—was unstoppable. On land he was a nightmare. At sea he was a god.
Second, the Ironborn were a special breed of vermin.
If they raided you and you drove them off, that was just defense. They'd come back the moment your back was turned.
To truly break them, you had to chase them home, burn their islands, and keep burning until the sight of a single red dragon made every Ironborn piss himself and run.
Only then would they learn.
And now the lesson was coming to them.
"Prince," Lord Paxter Redwyne reported, striding up the deck. "Logistics are fully stocked."
The young Lord of the Arbor was tall and lanky, with a long face, messy golden hair, and a scruffy beard that made him look older than he was.
Daeron nodded. "With Lannisport behind us, supply lines won't be an issue."
He'd already sent word to Tywin. His old teacher was more than happy to let his student teach the Ironborn a lesson. He probably hadn't realized just how thorough that lesson was going to be.
"Yes, my prince!"
Paxter bowed and returned to command.
Daeron leaned on the rail, utterly relaxed. If the ships weren't moving so fast he would have tossed a couple of fishing rods overboard just to feed the dragons a snack.
This is what real naval power feels like.
After linking up with the Redwyne and Shield fleets, he finally understood the old Valyrian Dragonlords' joy.
Back in the Freehold there had been three tiers of nobility.
At the top: the Forty Dragonlord families. They ruled the skies.
Below them: the land nobles of the Long Summer and the Sea Nobles.
The Sea Nobles—houses like Velaryon and Celtigar—were the ones who actually made the empire run. They commanded the fleets that followed the dragons across the world. When the Targaryens fled the Doom, those same Sea Nobles came with them to Westeros.
And gods, were they useful.
Daeron looked out across the fleet—more than two hundred warships carving through the waves like a moving wall of steel. The faster the wind blew, the faster they flew.
This was why the old Dragonlords had loved the Sea Nobles. One dragon could cover ground in three days that an army took weeks to march. But ships never stopped. They could chase the dragon across the sea without rest.
That was how the Freehold had conquered half the eastern continent.
"After the rebellion," Daeron decided quietly, "the Royal Fleet becomes mine. Rhaegar wouldn't know what to do with it anyway."
---
Iron Islands – Pyke
Lord's Chamber
Quellon Greyjoy lay wrapped in blood-stained bandages, breathing shallow and ragged.
"Maester… when will my father wake?" Balon's voice was a broken rasp, like gravel dragged across a throat full of smoke.
The old maester kept his eyes on the floor. "Lord Quellon has long suffered from a hidden illness. He was only holding on through sheer will. The arrow that struck his lung… I fear—"
Balon's single remaining eye burned. "Just tell me—can he wake up?"
"He can!"
The maester fled the room.
If Quellon died, the Seastone Chair would spark a bloody succession war.
If he lived, Balon could be named heir without question.
"Thank the Drowned God for Victarion," Balon muttered. "Without him we'd all be dead."
He rose and stepped in front of the tall standing mirror.
The reflection that stared back was barely human.
The left side of his face was a melted horror—eyelid burned away, eyeball bulging wet and red. Most of his black hair had been seared off; only a few pathetic strands remained.
He looked more corpse than king.
"Dragon…" Balon whispered.
Every night he woke choking, feeling the boiling river close over him again, dragging him down.
He punched the mirror. Glass exploded.
Cough… cough…
From the bed came a weak sound. Quellon's eyes fluttered open.
Balon spun around. "Father?"
---
Pyke Island – Remote Beach
A small skiff scraped onto the rocky shore. A lone figure dragged it up, then threw his head back and laughed like a madman.
"Pyke, you beautiful bitch—I'm home!"
Euron Greyjoy peeled off his salt-crusted leather, the blue eye beneath the patch glittering with feral glee. He'd dived the second he saw the red dragon and swum for his life, stealing a fisherman's boat midway and slipping back alone.
"Good thing I move fast," he smirked. "Otherwise I'd have died with Balon and the rest of those idiots."
Running from a fight didn't shame him. In his mind, that was just smart.
That red dragon had been cheating.
He strode toward Pyke Castle—only to stop dead when he learned the truth.
Balon was alive.
Quellon was alive.
Euron's grin died.
That wasn't how the story was supposed to go.
---
Lord's Chamber – Hours Later
Quellon, propped up on pillows, summoned every lord and captain on Pyke.
Balon and Euron stood on either side of the bed like rival wolves.
The captains who had survived the Mander looked at Euron with pure murder in their eyes. The Crow's Eye had abandoned them all.
Quellon's voice was weak but clear.
"When I die… the Seastone Chair passes to my eldest son—Balon."
Balon's burned lips twisted into a victorious sneer.
Euron said nothing. He simply turned on his heel and left, cloak flaring.
Behind his back, the single blue eye boiled with pure venom.
---
Days Later
Balon now held real power. He ordered every island fortified against a possible Lannister raid from Lannisport and began preparing his formal coronation as Lord Reaper.
He kept Euron under constant watch.
Victarion was still missing—presumed dead in the river. Balon genuinely mourned him.
"I'll avenge you, brother," he growled to the empty air. Whether he meant it or not, the words made him sound like a proper Ironborn.
BOOM—
A thunderous explosion rolled across the sea from Great Wyk.
Flames lit the horizon. Shouts and steel rang out.
Balon's face drained of color. He staggered to the window.
---
Great Wyk – Hammerhorn
Lord Gorold Goodbrother was screaming at one of his captains, shaking the man by the collar.
"How the fuck did the Arbor fleet get inside three miles of Great Wyk without anyone sounding the alarm?!"
The captain had no answer.
The Iron Islands were a chain of rocky fortresses. Every approach was supposed to be watched.
They had never faced dragons before.
"Skreeeee—!"
Caraxes skimmed low along the coast, dragonfire blasting the defensive lines to cinders.
"Skreeeee!"
"Skreeeee—!"
Tessarion and Toothless followed right behind—sapphire and spectral-green flames carving glowing scars across the shoreline.
Daeron guided Caraxes straight toward Hammerhorn.
Take Great Wyk first.
Then Harlaw.
He'd heard a branch of House Harlaw in Grey Garden still held the Valyrian steel sword Nightfall.
That blade had his name on it.
"Skreeeee!"
Toothless dove like a black meteor. His clinging green flame hit Lord Gorold square in the face.
"AAAAAHHH—!"
The Ironborn lord became a living torch. Armor turned into a prison of fire. He rolled, he screamed, he begged the sea to save him—nothing worked. Within seconds he collapsed, a charred, twitching husk.
"Prince has broken the line! Follow me ashore!"
Lord Paxter Redwyne's eyes lit with savage joy. The Redwyne fleet surged forward, ramming the docks.
This was the easiest invasion any of them had ever fought.
Dragons cleared the path. All the fleet had to do was charge.
"FOR THE REACH!"
The naval army poured onto Great Wyk, sweeping aside the shattered Ironborn like dry leaves.
Daeron circled once more on Caraxes, already looking west toward the next island.
The Iron Islands had thought they were raiders.
Now they were learning what it felt like to be prey.