The cheers in the Great Hall had not yet fully subsided when King Jaehaerys's hand gently pressed the armrest of the Iron Throne.
The gesture was slight, but like a boulder dropped into a boiling cauldron, it instantly silenced the room. The lords knew this movement. Decades ago, before the campaign to quell the Dornish invasion, the Old King had pressed his hand down just like this when he announced the formation of the Dragonstone Fleet.
Queen Alysanne placed her hand over her husband's wrist, her pale violet eyes sweeping the hall with silent understanding.
Prince Baelon stepped forward from the edge of the dais, the hem of his deep purple robe sweeping the steps. His gaze landed on Ser Lyonel Strong.
Lyonel understood immediately. He turned and took a heavy scroll from a squire. The parchment was edged in red gold, sealed with the gilt stamp of the Iron Throne at the top, the ink at the edges still fresh. Clearly, this had been prepared long in advance.
"I hear your cheers," Jaehaerys's voice boomed across the hall, amplified by the herald's horn, heavier now than when he spoke of dragonfire protection. "But cheers cannot protect the docks of Seagard, nor the merchant ships of Lannisport, nor guard against the jackals across the Narrow Sea who eye us with greed."
He paused, looking at the lords flushed with wine. "The Sand Snakes of Dorne, the Ironborn reavers, the pirates of the Triarchy—they are never isolated forces. Last month, we intercepted letters proving that Ironborn captains have long been colluding with the silk guilds of Lys. They do not just want plunder; they want to sever the sea lanes of the Seven Kingdoms and strangle our trade!"
Murmurs erupted below, more urgent than before. Lord Jason Mallister gripped his goblet until his knuckles turned white. Lord Farmman whispered gravely to his bannermen.
Tymond Lannister frowned, glancing at Mathos Tyrell. The Reach had the densest trade traffic; clearly, they had sensed this too.
"Therefore," Jaehaerys's voice rose again, suppressing the whispers, "I have decided to form a United Fleet of the Seven Kingdoms!"
The words struck like thunder, silencing the hall completely. Lords looked at one another in shock. Even Borros Baratheon stopped laughing with Brandon Stark, eyes widening.
"The Royal Fleet will no longer just guard Blackwater Bay," Lyonel Strong stepped forward, unrolling the parchment. His deep voice was clear and powerful. "It will patrol the entire coast of Westeros—from White Harbor in the North to Storm's End in the South, west to Lannisport, and east along the Crownlands! Each House must contribute at least three warships and fifty sailors. Crown Prince Baelon will serve as Lord Admiral of the Fleet, overseeing command and training. In times of peace, each contingent remains under the command of its own House to guard its waters, and trade taxes for participating Houses will be reduced by thirty percent!"
Squires hurried forward with copies of the decree.
The parchment gleamed pale white on silver trays, every clause clear. At the bottom was a blank space for signatures, with quills dipped in ink waiting beside them.
The lords stared at the document, the wine haze fading from their faces.
Some read quickly, others looked instinctively to their allies. Just as they were about to whisper, they met the gazes from the dais.
King Jaehaerys's violet eyes were deep as night. Queen Alysanne's gaze was gentle but held unquestionable authority.
Prince Baelon stood by the throne, hand on his sword, steady as a mountain.
Daemon held Gael's hand, the skull of The Cannibal on his pauldron gleaming cold in the candlelight, his violet eyes sweeping the room with a sharpness beyond his years.
Even Viserys had put down Rhaenyra, looking solemnly at the lords, with Aemma beside him in silent agreement.
Even the usually dissolute Daemon Targaryen and the "Queen Who Never Was," Rhaenys, projected the dignity of their blood.
Pairs of Targaryen violet eyes shone like cold stars in the warm candlelight, silently enveloping the hall.
At that moment, a low dragon roar echoed from the shores outside the city—Vhagar! Then came the savage shriek of The Cannibal from the hills, suppressing the call of Grey Ghost. From the Dragonpit, Vermithor and Silverwing led the chorus, joined by the clear cry of Dreamfyre, the arrogant roar of Caraxes, and the piercing shriek of Meleys.
Every royal dragon was answering the call. The sound shook the candles violently, making the tapestries tremble against the stone walls.
This chorus was not a threat, but a reminder. A reminder that the Dragons of House Targaryen were not just decorations for a festival, but the power that guarded the realm and enforced the King's will.
The lords' hesitation vanished. Before anyone else could react or read the fine print, the coastal lords of the Crownlands made their move.
"Claw Isle agrees!" Lord Bartimos Celtigar was the first to grab a quill. He signed with a flourish, stamping the crab sigil of House Celtigar beside his name. "Last year, Triarchy pirates took three of my silk ships. I have waited five years for this fleet!"
"Stonedance signs!" Lord Massey laughed, taking the quill. He pointed to the tax reduction clause. "Our ships often sail the Narrow Sea. To have a royal escort is all we could ask for!"
"House Bar Emmon of Sharp Point, agreed!" Lord Bar Emmon signed briskly. "Even Dornish skiffs dare drift near Massey's Hook these days. High time we dealt with them, alongside the Three Whores and the Ironborn!"
The most eye-catching move came from the former Master of Ships, Corlys Velaryon.
As the "Sea Snake" picked up the quill, even his wife Rhaenys looked at him in surprise. She hadn't known he was prepared for this.
Corlys simply smiled at her warmly, signing his name neatly on the parchment. The Seahorse sigil of Driftmark was stamped clearly. " The Velaryon fleet awaits the Crown Prince's command."
The decisive actions of the Crownlands lords surprised everyone. Clearly, they knew of this plan before Daemon, Rhaenys, or Gael.
Following this, the dominoes fell. The other coastal lords had no reason to hesitate.
Mathos Tyrell looked at the "trade tax reduction" clause and smiled at Garlan. "Looks like we'll be selling more Reach wine across the Narrow Sea."
He signed, stamping the Golden Rose bright and clear.
Tymond Lannister stared at the word "Lannisport," remembering the fires of summer. His finger paused, then pressed down hard as he signed. The Golden Lion stamp landed heavy. "The Western fleet will not lag behind."
Brandon Stark didn't even read the details. He grabbed the quill. "Northern longships may not be as fast as your galleys, but House Manderly of White Harbor will support this. From the Bay of Ice and Sea Dragon Point to Blazewater Bay in the west, and from the Bay of Seals to the Bite in the east... the men of the North fear no challenge!"
Boremund Baratheon, Yorbert Royce, Jason Mallister... one by one, the lords signed. The scratching of quills on parchment, interweaving with the distant dragon roars and the crackle of candles, became the most solemn melody of the feast.
Lord Sunderland of the Three Sisters, along with his vassals Lords Borrell, Longthorpe, and Torrent, caught Daemon's affirming nod and stepped up to sign as well.
Daemon watched the scene, gently squeezing Gael's hand.
He knew this United Fleet wasn't just to fight Ironborn or Dornishmen. It was for the future—to defend against the Triarchy's counterattack, and to stabilize the foundation of the Seven Kingdoms against storms to come.
Gael felt his strength and looked up, smiling tenderly. The golden rose crown on her head sparkled in the candlelight.
When the last lord had signed, Lyonel Strong collected the scrolls and presented them to Jaehaerys with a bow.
The Old King flipped through a few pages, smiling with satisfaction. He looked at Baelon. "My son. Read the oath."
Baelon stepped forward, taking the scrolls. His deep voice, amplified by the horn, carried the authority of the Prince of Dragonstone.
"We swear by the Old Gods and the New of Westeros—"
Every lord stood, right hand over their heart, eyes burning toward the dais.
"United Fleet, to guard our seas;"
"Dragonfire as witness, blood and fire as one;"
"Together against the enemy, no division between us;"
"Peace as our purpose, from generation to generation!"
The oath shook the flames. Dragon roars from outside merged with the voices, a war song echoing across time.
King Jaehaerys stood and raised his goblet. "To the United Fleet! To the peace of the Seven Kingdoms! Cheers!"
"Cheers!" The lords raised their cups. The clinking was louder than before, the laughter more solemn, stripped of casual revelry. The minstrels played a more stirring tune. The scent of roast meat mixed with ink—the smell of a pact sealed.
Daemon clinked cups with Gael. The mead was sweet on his tongue.
He looked at Jaehaerys, at Baelon, at the lords raising their cups. This feast was not an end, but a beginning.
The banner of the United Fleet would eventually fly over every sea of Westeros. And in the future, he and The Cannibal might lead that banner with the sharpest sword and the hottest fire.
The Black Dragon from a century later spread his wings again, and the storm he stirred swept across the continent of this era once more.
Endless black fire would follow this storm, spreading to both shores of the Narrow Sea, forming a monstrous sea of flame that would eventually become a dragon connecting two continents.
Night deepened. The lights of the Red Keep remained brilliant.
The lords' chatter turned to fleet logistics—which ships to send, which sons to recommend for command. Even Brandon was arguing with Borros about who would get to fight the Ironborn first.
Only Daemon noticed Corlys Velaryon quietly walk up to Baelon and whisper something.
Baelon nodded, a flash of sharpness in his eyes—the look of the "Spring Prince" and Hand of the King.
Daemon knew there was a deeper strategy behind this fleet. Perhaps against the Triarchy, perhaps against Dorne and the Iron Islands, or perhaps for the trade of the Narrow Sea. Whatever it was, he was ready.
Outside, the dragon roars faded, but the candles burned bright. This feast would become a mark in the history of the Seven Kingdoms—the moment when, beneath the guise of peace, the curtain rose on a war of defense.
Of course, the King's speech wasn't truly over. A new storm was brewing, one that would sweep the coasts of Westeros, blow toward the Ironborn in the west and the Sand Snakes in the south, and finally point straight across the Narrow Sea.