The Ironborn lords led the way through Pyke's dripping corridors until they reached the lord's chamber.
The door hung half-open. Rainwater had pooled across the stone floor.
"He's inside," Lord Merlyn said, hatred thick in his voice.
Daeron stepped past him without a word.
"I am the king… the Drowned God would never abandon me…"
Balon sat slumped against the bedframe, eyes glassy, muttering to himself like a broken man.
Quellon Greyjoy's corpse still lay exactly where it had fallen—skin purple, eyes wide and staring, hands frozen around his own throat. The floor beneath him was dark with rainwater and worse.
"Strangler," Daeron said quietly, recognizing the poison at once. A Lysene favorite—colorless, tasteless, it closed the throat until the victim choked to death on dry land.
"Prince… he looks completely mad," Jaime muttered, staring at Balon.
Daeron gave a short wave. "Take him."
"Don't touch me!"
Balon suddenly thrashed like a wild animal. Brynden stepped in and drove an elbow into the side of his head. The would-be king dropped like a sack of grain.
"What the hell happened here?" Daeron asked, turning to Lord Merlyn.
The Ironborn were surprisingly cooperative now—broken, hollow-eyed, answering every question without hesitation. They truly had no fight left.
Merlyn led them across the causeway to Old Wyk and up Nagga's Hill.
Nagga, the legend went, had been the greatest sea dragon ever born—big enough to swallow islands whole. Grey King slew her long ago. Her forty-four ribs still thrust up from the earth like the columns of a dead god's hall, the most famous landmark in the Iron Islands.
"Skreeeee!"
Caraxes circled overhead, molten-gold eyes fixed on the massive fossilized bones with clear interest.
"A sea dragon that size would have rivaled an adult Targaryen dragon," Daeron murmured, running his hand along one icy rib. Even Balerion's bones back on Dragonstone hadn't felt this enormous.
"Prince, this way," Merlyn said.
At the crest of the hill stood a crude altar of piled stones, dark with old blood.
According to Merlyn, a hundred Ironborn bodies had once lain here as sacrifices. The storm had swept every last one away.
Merlyn gave a bitter laugh. "Maybe the Drowned God really did take them."
Daeron didn't smile. He spotted a single withered corpse half-buried in the rubble—an old blind man in a drowned priest's robes, mouth frozen in a silent scream, skin stretched tight over bone.
"Backlash," he said, stepping away. He wanted nothing to do with whatever ritual had been performed here.
The Ironborn had tried blood magic to summon the storm. Instead of saving them, it had killed three times as many of their own.
"Prince—look at this," Jaime called. He had pried a scrap of parchment from the dead priest's robes.
It detailed the ritual: a hundred lives, plus "the blood of a king," mixed with special gems and sacred fish as offerings.
At the very bottom, one line had been scratched harder than the rest:
"King's blood—"
Daeron's lip curled in disgust. He tossed the parchment into the air.
"Burn it."
Caraxes answered with a short burst of flame. The parchment vanished in red fire.
Blood magic.
Daeron hated the very words. The old Valyrian Dragonlords had drowned the world in it and paid the price. The new Westeros would never see that horror again.
"Prince, we brought Balon up," Paxter said quickly, sensing his mood.
They had also dragged up a long-haired boy of twelve or thirteen—Victarion Greyjoy, the third son, still in chains.
Daeron looked at the shattered sea stacks, the broken Ironborn, and made his decision.
He walked to the center of Nagga's Hill, right in front of the Seastone Chair, and raised his voice so every lord and captain could hear.
"From this day forward, the Iron Islands return to the direct rule of the Iron Throne. Any man who defies me will end like this one."
Dark Sister flashed once.
Balon Greyjoy's head rolled across the ancient bones.
"YES!"
"That bastard Balon—"
The Ironborn roared—some in savage approval, some simply glad the man who had doomed them was dead. One captain snatched Balon's head and smashed it against the stones until it was unrecognizable.
The story of Balon listening to the drowned priest and bringing the storm down on his own people had already spread. The survivors hated him more than they hated the dragons.
Daeron sheathed his sword. His appetite for total conquest had faded.
After Caraxes and the storm, barely enough Ironborn remained to crew a single longship. Their famous fleet was gone. The Iron Islands were finished as a threat.
He turned to the chained Victarion.
"I name you Governor of the Iron Islands. You will command all military and civil affairs, rebuild the people's livelihood, and raise a new Iron Fleet in service to the Iron Throne."
Victarion dropped to his knees, voice thick. "By the Drowned God, Victarion of House Greyjoy swears his life and loyalty to House Targaryen. If I break this oath, may the sea claim me and my soul wander forever without rest."
Daeron accepted the vow, then explained what the title truly meant.
Victarion would still rule the islands, but as a governor, not a king. He would command the Iron Fleet directly for the crown and draw a rich salary from the royal treasury. The title "King of the Iron Islands" was abolished.
It was a small change on paper. In practice, it branded House Greyjoy—and every Ironborn—as subjects of the Iron Throne.
Daeron kept the rest of his thoughts private.
Once I swallow the Riverlands and Stormlands, the title "Governor" will fit perfectly anyway.
He clapped Victarion on the shoulder. "Comfort your people. Rebuild the fleet quickly. The Iron Throne will need every oar when the real wars come."
"Yes, Prince."
Victarion's face was a storm of grief and disbelief. His father and eldest brother were dead. Euron had vanished. And now the third son who had been a prisoner yesterday was suddenly Governor of the Iron Islands.
Life moved fast.
---
Dragonstone
Rhaegar sat alone in the glass garden he had built for Elia. His fingers brushed the withered flowers no one had watered since she left. His indigo eyes were full of quiet despair.
The letter from Riverrun had just arrived.
Hoster Tully had joined the rebellion.
Rhaegar lowered his head, unable to escape the consequences of his own choices.
He had known running away with Lyanna would cause trouble.
He had never imagined it would burn the entire realm.
A few days earlier, the maester had confirmed Lyanna was three months pregnant.
But he still hadn't told her what had happened to her father and brother in King's Landing. She was strong, but that news might break her.
"How do I make this right?" he whispered.
He truly didn't understand how everything had gone so wrong.
He had known about the four-region alliance. Before the tourney at Harrenhal, both Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully had quietly sounded him out about calling a Great Council to replace his father.
In his mind, the alliance could have been split and brought to heel.
Instead, his father had branded them all traitors.
Rickard Stark—honorable, if cautious—had died in King's Landing, executed in a trial by combat against Daeron.
"Wrong," Rhaegar breathed. "All of it was wrong."
His plan had been simple: replace his father, soothe the lords, father the Prince That Was Promised, and stand together against the coming Long Night.
How had it come to this—four kingdoms in open revolt and the whole continent sliding into war?
Knock. Knock.
Ser Arthur Dayne's voice came through the door. "Prince, a letter from King's Landing."
Rhaegar called him in.
Arthur entered, studied Rhaegar's face for a moment, then handed over the scroll.
It was from Prince Lewyn Martell.
The Dornishman demanded to know exactly what Rhaegar's relationship with Lyanna Stark was—and whether he still remembered his wife Elia and their newborn daughter.
He also made it brutally clear:
If Rhaegar did not return to King's Landing at once, Dorne would send no troops to support the Iron Throne.
Rhaegar read the letter twice, then sat in silence.
Arthur sighed. "Prince… Princess Rhaenys's first nameday is coming soon."
"I know, Ser."
He heard the unspoken plea: Go home. See your wife. Hold your daughter.
But he had no idea how to face Elia.
And he could not abandon Lyanna.
Arthur could no longer stay silent. "Prince, Lord Robert has raised the Stormlands. Prince Daeron has taken the Reach host north to crush the rebels there. You are the Prince of Dragonstone—the heir to the Iron Throne."
"At a time when the Seven Kingdoms are tearing themselves apart, you should be leading the loyalist armies, retaking the Riverlands, and facing the North and Vale."
Arthur's words struck home.
Rhaegar lifted his head. For the first time in weeks the old princely fire returned to his eyes.
"Ser Arthur, tell Ser Oswell to take Myles and Lonmouth back to King's Landing at once."
He would not face Elia yet, but he could at least send protectors and signal his remaining loyalists.
Even now, some lords still believed in eldest-son succession and would follow him without question.
Arthur smiled, relieved to see his prince waking up.
Rhaegar stood. "Prepare two ships. I am sailing to Sunspear to speak with Prince Doran personally."
House Targaryen needed Dorne's full strength.
And when he met Doran, they would discuss the future of both Elia and Lyanna.
The realm was already burning.
After the war, when he proposed restoring the old Targaryen custom of taking multiple wives, no lord would dare object.
Rhaegar's indigo eyes hardened with new purpose.
"I want to marry two."