The warmth of the Small Council meeting still hung in the air. On the long oak table in the Red Keep's council chamber, the fleet roster and the Stepstones map lay open, damp with morning dew.
Daemon Targaryen had his arm slung around Daemon's shoulders, already yapping about the new Arbor sweet wine that had just hit the taverns on the Street of Silk.
Grey Ghost trotted between their boots, still chewing on the Tyroshi seashell he'd brought back, his pale-grey scales brushing Daemon's ankle every few steps until Daemon finally reached down and scratched the little dragon's head.
"C'mon, Little Daemon, if we don't move our asses those new bottles are gonna be gone before Borros and the boys get there!" the Rogue Prince shook his empty wineskin, the scarlet dragon emblem on it catching the light. "Last time we got back, old Tymond threw that feast on the Golden Lion. Borros the brute nearly ripped my cloak off trying to steal the last cup."
Before Daemon Targaryen could finish, the sharp clank of white armor echoed from the hallway.
Ser Harrold Westerling strode in, white cloak flapping, visor still down, voice tight with urgency. "Princes! The guards at the River Gate just reported—an Ironborn delegation is outside the city walls with tribute. They're begging an audience with His Grace and the heir. Say it's urgent!"
"Iron Islands?" Daemon stopped in his tracks, fingers absently stroking the hilt of Blackfyre.
His mind flashed back to the tour of the Seven Kingdoms—Eagle's Point, the sea around Seagard stained red, Uragon Greyjoy's ships burning under dragonfire, the black smoke over Lannisport—Dagon Greyjoy's raid that had turned the Westerlands' jewel into a funeral pyre. The Lannisters still ground their teeth every time it came up.
Baelon, stepping out right behind them with a fresh stack of council scrolls, paused. A knowing glint flashed in his violet eyes. "The Triarchy just bowed. The ironmen sure picked their moment."
He turned to Viserys. "Fetch your grandfather. And have someone bring Lord Tymond and Lord Corlys back—ironmen kneeling isn't small news."
It didn't take long. King Jaehaerys returned leaning on Grand Maester Arryn and Maester Vaegon's assistants. Tymond Lannister, Corlys Velaryon, and the others filed back in. Even Borros, who'd already reached the Red Keep gates, spun on his heel the second he heard, still clutching a half-eaten honey cake and muttering, "If those ironborn try any shit I'll split their envoy with my axe."
The doors swung open again. A man in rough Iron Islands wool stepped inside—fiftyish, gray hair neatly combed, a rusty short blade at his belt. Clearly not a fighter.
He dropped to both knees the moment he crossed the threshold, the crack of bone on stone loud enough to make everyone wince. Both hands lifted a sharkskin-wrapped scroll.
"Most humble servant of the Iron Islands, envoy Theon Harlaw, begs audience with the Bronze Fury himself, the wise King Jaehaerys the First! With the wise Hand of the King and bold Spring Prince Baelon, heir to the throne! And with all you noble lords!"
Two ironmen servants behind him carried heavy wooden chests. When they opened them, gold and silver plate, jewels, and Summer Isles silk gleamed—clearly fresh tribute from the new Iron King, Goron Greyjoy.
Theon's eyes swept the room and locked on the Blackfyre sword at Daemon's hip. His pupils shrank. His voice shook a little more. "I… I speak for my lord, the new Iron King Goron Greyjoy. We come to atone for the insults of Princes Uragon and Dagon!"
"Atone?" Tymond Lannister cut in, golden lion ring spinning fast on his finger, eyes cold. "Last year your third son Dagon Greyjoy burned Lannisport to the ground—the pearl of the Westerlands, the Lannister family's own backyard. One word of 'atone' and you think that blood debt is paid?"
Theon's forehead instantly glistened with sweat. He banged his head against the stone again. "We would never presume! My lord has already bound every ironman who took part in the burning. They're outside the city with the delegation—yours to punish! And every coin and treasure stolen from Lannisport has been recovered and returned!"
He motioned; more chests opened. Sure enough, Westerlands silverware, silk, even bolts of the Lannisters' signature crimson cloth.
Daemon stared at the loot and his mind drifted back a year to Lannisport. Sunset sky turned blood-red by smoke, Dagon Greyjoy standing on the burning docks, golden cup looted from the Lannisters in his hand, laughing about "the glory of reaving."
Gael had ridden Dreamfyre down with him, pale-blue dragonfire snapping the ironmen's ship spears. He'd leaped from The Cannibal onto Dagon's flagship, Blackfyre flashing, ironmen dropping like wheat. Dagon tried to jump overboard but The Cannibal's spreading fire drove him back. In the chaos he'd vanished—until later when Tymond found Daemon privately and said with a cold smile, "Rest easy, Your Highness. That Dagon is in the bowels of Casterly Rock now, repenting every day for burning Lannisport and disturbing your visit to our lands."
"You ironborn also owe House Mallister," Corlys Velaryon's voice pulled Daemon back. The Sea Snake tapped his brass spyglass on the table. "When your second son Uragon attacked Eagle's Point he didn't just kill twelve guards—he turned the whole cape into a sea of fire. How does your king plan to make that right, Envoy Harlaw?"
Theon bowed lower. "My lord has already written Lord Leemon Mallister a personal letter. Five hundred gold dragons in compensation, plus ten ironborn shipwrights to help rebuild the burned docks! And every man who fled back with Prince Uragon has been rounded up and delivered to Seagard—yours to do with as you please… exactly as Prince Blackfyre and Lord Mallister did on the shore that day, facing the Iron Islands."
Borros and Lorent couldn't hold back their laughs. "Oh? So you ironborn heard about that too! Last year in the Stormlands we got the story—Little Daemon dragged Uragon's men to the Eagle's Point beach, facing your islands, and chopped their heads off one by one. After that none of you ironborn dared sail near the cape again!"
Daemon stayed quiet, just watching Theon. "Why is your king submitting now? A year ago, when his two dear brothers—one dead, one missing—he didn't make a peep."
Theon's head sank even lower, voice trembling. "My lord had not yet taken the crown. He was trading in the Summer Isles when it happened. By the time he returned and claimed the Seastone Chair… he heard what you princes had done."
He swallowed hard. "You crushed the Triarchy. Their admiral Redip Introlos's son, Vice Admiral Redip Introlos—dead. High Admiral, fleet commander, Prince of Myr, the Crabfeeder Craghas Drahar—taken alive and locked in the Dragonstone dragonglass cells. Even the Myrmen won't ransom him. The famous pirate queen of the Narrow Sea, the King of the Narrow Sea Racallio Ryndoon—captured. The iron-fisted Archon of Tyrosh, Sylas, who murdered his predecessor Alequo—he burned his own city, got overthrown by his nobles, and immolated himself in the Weeping Tower."
Theon's voice cracked. "My lord knows… if the Iron Islands don't bend now, the glorious Targaryen royal house and the wrath of the true dragons will fall on Pyke itself."
He wasn't lying, and he knew it. No lie survived dragonfire.
The Triarchy—those three daughters who had smashed Volantis at the Battle of the Borderlands, driven them out of the Disputed Lands, ruled the Narrow Sea, and wiped out the Stepstones pirates—had been shattered by the newly formed United Fleet of the Seven Kingdoms and House Targaryen. Even their Dornish allies, the Sand Snakes led by Obara Sand—bastard daughter of the old "Mad" Prince Maron Martell—had lost their fortress Ghaston Grey and were now cowering in the Red Mountains, hiding behind the Prince's Pass and the Boneway, reduced to cheap border raids.
Theon pulled out another scroll with both hands. "This is my lord's personal letter of fealty. He offers to come to King's Landing himself and lay his crown before the Iron Throne. From this day the Iron Islands swear eternal loyalty. Every year we will pay three-tenths of all plunder taken in the Summer Isles as tax—and…"
He gestured. Servants opened a third chest. Summer Isles parrot feathers, spices from Slaver's Bay, and a jewel-studded Valyrian steel scimitar whose sheath bore the Greyjoy kraken of Pyke.
"My lord bought this blade in Slaver's Bay—said it once belonged to a Volantene noble. He believes Prince Blackfyre is worthy of it. If the hilt displeases you, change it at your pleasure."
In the ironborn mind, this mysterious black dragon who had twice—without even trying—destroyed their princes while they were "reaving the old way" was clearly the most terrifying of all the Targaryen royals.
Daemon looked at the scimitar and thought of Racallio Ryndoon's ruby-hilted short swords and Archon Sylas's Weeping Tower blade. All those weapons that once terrorized the Narrow Sea were now war trophies of the Iron Throne. The Iron Islands' submission was just another footnote.
"Goron Greyjoy sure knows how to cash in," Daemon Targaryen quipped, leaning against a pillar and still playing with his Caraxes-scale badge. "Two younger brothers—one dead, one missing—and he's made a fortune with that Summer Isles–Slaver's Bay triangle trade, selling Summer Islanders into slavery and shipping spices back. Raking in the gold dragons, I hear?"
Theon's face flushed crimson, but he didn't dare argue. "My lord… did what he had to for the islands' survival. We've always believed reaving beats farming. But since Aegon the Conqueror took Westeros we've only raided the Summer Isles. Except for those two fools, we've never touched Westerosi waters again. Fighting true dragons… is suicide."
King Jaehaerys tapped his scepter once. His gaze settled on Theon. "Goron Greyjoy's sincerity is accepted. Tell him to bring his letter of fealty and his crown to King's Landing in three days. The Iron Throne will grant him an honorable title—but remember: raid Westerosi waters again and dragonfire will not give the Iron Islands a second chance."
"Thank you, Your Grace! Thank you!" Theon kowtowed until his forehead rang against the stone. "I will carry every word to my lord!"
The moment the envoy and his servants left the chamber, Borros burst out laughing. "This Goron Greyjoy is smarter than his two brothers. Knows when to bend the knee instead of getting Pyke burned to ash."
Tymond Lannister gave a cold snort, ring finally still. "Smart? Just scared. If Dagon ever learns his brother used slave-trade gold to pay reparations and handed over all the men who escaped with him, he'll probably choke to death in the Casterly Rock dungeons."
He glanced at Daemon. "If Your Highness and Princess Gael hadn't reached Lannisport in time, the Westerlands would still be eating dirt under ironborn boots."
Daemon shook his head. "That was everyone's victory. I just happened to be touring the West with my brothers and did what needed doing."
He looked at Baelon. "With the Iron Islands kneeling, the Narrow Sea trade routes are finally secure. Stepstones taxes can flow on time, and Night's Watch supplies can ship straight from Westerlands ports. Win-win."
Baelon nodded, fingers brushing the old scar under his ribs. "Next up is Dorne. Obara Sand is still stalling on the Marches and House Martell hasn't sent a single envoy. Looks like they still don't get the picture."
"When Goron Greyjoy comes to lay down his crown, let the Dornish watch," Daemon said quietly. Blackfyre's scabbard caught the light, cold and sharp. "Show them even the ironborn have submitted. If Dorne keeps resisting, the Iron Throne's dragonfire can reach Sunspear too."
Outside the chamber the sun had slid toward afternoon. Grey Ghost curled at Daemon's feet, now chewing on a spice stick Theon had left behind, occasionally bumping his hand for pets.
Daemon looked at the tribute piled on the table and suddenly remembered Racallio Ryndoon's sails disappearing toward the Summer Isles.
The mad "King of the Narrow Sea" was probably drinking coconut wine right now. The Iron Islands' submission, the Triarchy's defeat, Dorne's standoff—all of it promised that the fragile peace in Westeros was finally real, no longer a mirage.
"Little Daemon!" Daemon Targaryen sidled up again, somehow already holding a fresh wineskin. "Ironborn business is settled. Time for that drink, right? Tymond swears the new Westerlands vintage is killer!"
Daemon gave his namesake cousin an exasperated look, then caught the encouraging glances from Jaehaerys, Baelon, Viserys, and even Corlys. He sighed and nodded. "Fine. But if you pass out again, I'm not carrying your ass back this time."
Borros and the rest had already slipped out the second Theon left, trading winks with Daemon Targaryen and leading the way.
Grey Ghost heard "going out" and immediately hopped up, the spice stick forgotten, circling Daemon's ankles in excitement.
Outside, the Kingsguard's boots rang on stone. Ser Harrold Westerling waited to escort them. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, stretching the shadows of three men and one dragon long across the flagstones like a warm painting.
Daemon knew the Iron Islands' submission was only the beginning. Dorne's standoff, Otto's schemes, the realm's undercurrents, the conquests across the sea, the northern lights—they all still waited ahead.
But right now he just wanted to set it all aside for a little while, share a cup of Westerlands ale with his brothers, think about the new charm Gael had embroidered, and picture the Old Valyrian wedding waiting on Dragonstone.
Those warm, worth-protecting things—that was why he fought.