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King's Landing.
Red Keep, Small Council chamber.
Tywin Lannister stood tall, gesturing grandly as he laid out the board.
"As expected, House Tully has joined the rebels. I will rally the Riverlands lords loyal to the Iron Throne and lay siege to Riverrun."
He was in an excellent mood lately.
His prized student Daeron had marched south to the Reach, leaving the capital entirely in his hands.
Word was that Daeron was busy hammering the Ironborn on their rocky islands, wasting dragonfire on those sea-scum.
"Youthful vigor," Tywin murmured with a faint smile. "He has dragons now—he has to use them."
That was only half the reason for his good spirits.
The other half came straight from Cersei's own lips: her relationship with Daeron had taken a sudden, very promising leap forward.
War was coming. Daeron had finally realized how vital House Lannister was.
If things kept moving this way, Tywin might even get a little grandson ahead of schedule.
Then he would be the grandfather of the next heir to the Iron Throne.
During the Dance of the Dragons, even a low-politics second son like Otto Hightower had stayed indispensable simply because his daughter had birthed a litter of dragon-blooded heirs.
Standing in the same position, Tywin was confident he could do far better.
Just then Maester Aemon spoke, shattering the pleasant daydream.
"My lord, from what I understand, House Tully's rebellion has a great deal to do with your decision to station the Lannister host outside Riverrun."
The old man's voice was mild, without a trace of accusation.
Yet everyone in the room heard the clear challenge to the Hand's judgment.
Tywin arched a brow and answered openly.
"House Tully has long been tied to House Stark by marriage. They were always part of the Four-Power Alliance. Even without my army at their gates, rebellion was only a matter of time."
"Perhaps," Maester Aemon said slowly, nodding. He did not dwell on the point. Instead he continued, "But the Riverlands are now engulfed in chaos. Fire spreads everywhere. If the Iron Throne does not intervene promptly, the harm to the smallfolk will be immense."
He spoke from the perspective of the common people rather than direct accusation.
Tywin's tone sharpened. "They are only peasants. We face a war that could overturn the realm!"
To the great lords, smallfolk had never mattered.
Maester Aemon sighed softly. "What I mean is this: you should march at once, snuff out the Riverlands fires, and prevent the damage from growing worse."
"You are ordering me to march?" Tywin's eyes narrowed.
A proud man hated being told what to do.
Maester Aemon looked gentle, yet his spine was iron. "If that is how you choose to hear it—yes."
Remember his name.
He was Aemon Targaryen, brother of Aegon V, great-uncle to King Aerys.
Eighty years of life had taught him to see through every mask.
He had long since pierced Tywin's little scheme of sitting back and letting the Riverlands lords bleed each other dry.
The Lannister host waited outside the Golden Tooth, ready to swoop in and pick up the pieces once the fighting was done.
A clever plan.
But Maester Aemon would not allow anyone to sacrifice the realm's stability and the lives of its people for personal gain.
"Maester Aemon, my delay is only to guard against the Vale and Northern armies," Tywin said smoothly, offering the excuse he had prepared long ago.
Aemon could not deny the threat, but he knew the true state of the war. He answered quietly, "Even if not for the Riverlands, you should still follow Prince Daeron's orders and march to Deerfield to shield the loyalist forces there from Robert's host."
He had no wish to quarrel; he simply used the prince's name as a lever.
"I will, Grand Maester!" Tywin rose abruptly, declaring the Small Council at an end.
That arrogant old relic with his royal blood—always pushing.
He should have been left to rot at the Wall.
The same day, Ser Jon Darry sought Tywin out and brought urgent messages from Lord Darry and Lord Haigh.
They begged the Iron Throne to send troops at once and strengthen the loyalist cause.
The Blackwoods had switched sides and were now locked in a death-struggle with their old enemies the Brackens, weakening the loyalist lords.
Meanwhile the Vale army had finished mustering and was already crossing the Mountains of the Moon to aid House Tully.
The balance was tipping badly.
Tywin's face darkened. He slammed the table and growled, "That boy is practically betrothed to my daughter! How could I possibly hold back the Lannister host?!"
Ser Jon Darry blinked, utterly confused.
When had the prince become betrothed to Lady Cersei—?
Tywin realized he had spoken too freely and corrected himself at once.
"Tell the lords I will lead the Crownlands army plus two thousand Lannister vanguard to Tumblestone to support Prince Daeron against Robert's first battlefield.
I will also write to Kevan and order him to besiege Riverrun, easing the pressure on the Riverlands loyalists.
That should suffice, yes?"
Ser Jon Darry took the letter and withdrew.
While the Crownlands host prepared to march, Daeron returned to King's Landing on Caraxes.
As he flew over the Mud Gate he noticed royal ships from Dragonstone in the bay—Ser Oswell returning on Rhaegar's orders.
Daeron gave them a single glance, then guided his dragon down into the Red Keep.
"Second brother! Second brother!"
"Brother—!"
Jaehaerys and Viserys were training in the outer ward under the Red Keep master-at-arms.
The moment they saw Daeron land they ran to him in delight.
"How have you two been?"
Daeron handed each of them a string of Highgarden's silver-star purple grapes and asked after his little brothers.
Little Jae glanced toward the Tower of the Hand, words tumbling out. "This morning I saw Lord Tywin in full plate, but I don't know where he's going."
"To Deerfield," Daeron answered, patting the boy's head and smiling. "Go play."
Jaehaerys still looked puzzled. He dragged his little brother aside and shared the grapes with their trainer as well.
Daeron's smile faded.
In truth, Tywin's actions suited his own plans perfectly.
He intended to swallow most of the Riverlands and Stormlands to enlarge the Crownlands heartland.
The weaker the lords of those two regions became, the better.
Houses like Darry, Blackwood, Frey, and Haigh already rivaled their liege House Tully in strength. If they were not bled dry during the war, any post-war rewards would only make them stronger.
As the Crownlands expanded, centralization would tighten. Letting these great houses grow again would only complicate the new order.
Daeron thought privately, Still, Teacher went too far. Ignoring the suffering of the Riverlands smallfolk will damage the Iron Throne's reputation.
If the chance arose, he would adjust things.
After meeting his father Aerys and Maester Aemon, Daeron was fully up to date on everything in King's Landing. He felt complete confidence that the war against the Usurper would be won.
Of course, as long as he did not blunder, victory had never been in doubt.
What he now possessed was a far clearer grasp of the war's overall rhythm.
Robert's rebel host had finished mustering; the Vale army was already on the march.
The Northern army had not yet appeared, but it would not be long.
On the loyalist side, the Reach host was about to slam straight into Robert.
The Riverlands were in chaos, waiting for either the Vale or the Iron Throne to intervene.
Daeron would hold back for now.
He trusted that Tywin would not actually besiege Riverrun and waste the golden opportunity to weaken the Riverlands lords.
As for Dorne—
With Daeron personally commanding the Reach host this time, there would be none of the foolishness that happened in the original timeline (Mace Tyrell pretending to besiege Storm's End for the entire war).
The coming rhythm of the war would be simple:
Crush Robert's host, swallow the Stormlands.
Then let Robert flee to the Riverlands, link up with the other three rebel kingdoms, and fight the final decisive battle.
Robert, I trust your strength will let you last until the end.
Daeron bore the man no ill will; he even silently cheered him on.
Dragons were like that at heart—cruel.
Maintaining Chaotic Good was Daeron's final gentleness.
Knock-knock-knock.
The door opened at his permission.
Inside the chamber, Shaena kept her head lowered, embroidering a tapestry.
Beside her legs, half-hidden beneath her beige skirts, sat a steaming blood-incubation brazier.
Click.
Daeron lifted the lid. Three petrified dragon eggs of different colors rested atop glowing red coals.
"They are very healthy," Shaena said at last, as casually as if they were discussing the weather.
Daeron checked them, then laughed. "Healthy?"
Three stone eggs.
Shaena shifted her gaze and said softly, "They will hatch."
Only then did Daeron notice the tapestry in her hands.
Inside roaring flames, three dragon eggs leaned against one another. The yellow one had cracked open; a tiny yellow hatchling was crawling out of the shell.
Shaena pointed at the yellow egg, voice full of hope. "I want to put it in Rhaenys's cradle on her nameday."
"No," Daeron refused at once.
Shaena lowered her head and explained, "I think it suits her perfectly."
Daeron sat on the carpet, took her warm hands, and said gently, "I must first find eggs that match you and little Jae and the others before I can consider anyone else."
He could give Shaena or his brothers even a living dragon egg if he wished.
Because he had the Dragon-Tongue Farm, he was already different from everyone else.
Caraxes's rocket-like growth had proved that.
But he could not give a petrified egg to Rhaenys.
She was Rhaegar's daughter—and carried Dornish blood.
Giving her one would be arming the enemy!
Shaena was intuitive but not foolish.
She drew her hands free, gently cradled Daeron's head, and rested it on her silk-skirted lap.
A little clumsy, perhaps a little unpractised.
Daeron's eyes widened. There are perks like this?
Shaena's expression was focused. She stroked his silver hair as though soothing a bad-tempered great-cat, calming the restless fire that always burned inside him.
She thought perhaps this was what he needed.
Noble ladies did this, after all.
"Do you have any requests?" Daeron asked lazily, breathing in the faint clean scent of the girl, feeling the warm afternoon light on his back. The perfect atmosphere for a nap.
"If I do, I will tell you," Shaena answered directly. She never stood on ceremony.
Daeron closed his eyes, wrapped his arms around her slender waist, and felt a deep, contented warmth.
Riding a dragon for days was tiring. He was almost ready to fall asleep.
Then Shaena spoke words that snapped him wide awake.
"Mother is pregnant."
Daeron's eyes flew open. Confusion flashed in his purple gaze; he wondered if he had misheard.
Shaena said calmly, "Not long after you left, Mother began vomiting. Great-uncle Aemon examined her and confirmed it—she is with child."
"Truly?!"
All sleepiness vanished in an instant.
Shaena added, "I only hope Father did not injure her. It could affect the baby."
Daeron sat up slowly, mind racing.
Rhaella pregnant.
In the middle of the Usurper's War.
A new Targaryen sibling.
This changed everything.