The Riverlands
Daeron had landed Caraxes just outside the city walls and made himself comfortable beneath a tree, waiting for Lord Malister and his own and Malister forces to march out. Time passed slowly, and Daeron grew bored watching Caraxes, who lay contentedly in the sun. The Blood Wyrm disliked the cold night winds, and so, with daylight upon them, he preferred to bask in the open, soaking up the heat.
And what better time to enjoy the sun—after roasting a few hundred Ironborn? Daeron snorted at the thought and glanced up toward the sky. Luna, his eagle, was soaring high above the clouds, scouting the land below. With nothing better to do, Daeron decided to skinchange into her.
He leaned back against the tree trunk, closed his eyes, and soon he was seeing through Luna's eyes. She greeted his presence with a sharp, whistling cry. Caraxes raised his head, watching Luna for a moment with his golden eyes, then turned back to rest, snorting a puff of smoke.
Daeron was content to let Luna guide him, drifting on wind currents, wings outstretched. But as they neared the Blue Fork, something caught Daeron's eye through Luna's vision. With a mental command, he made Luna dive, and at the same time, he pulled out of her mind—only to dive into another.
There, grazing peacefully, was a black stallion. Daeron entered the horse's mind just as Luna swooped low overhead. The stallion spooked violently at Daeron's sudden presence, trying to kick him out. But the beast was no match for a skinchanger of Daeron's strength. It took him a few moments to wrestle control, calm the panicked mind, and assert dominance. Within minutes, he had the horse galloping toward his body beneath the tree.
Skinchanging into a horse was… novel. The rhythmic pounding of hooves against earth, the wind rushing past—there was a freedom in it Daeron hadn't expected. Seeing the world from different species was something Daeron decided he enjoyed very much. He guided the stallion—now named Shadow—through the clearing, weaving left and right before heading straight toward the familiar scent of dragon.
Shadow spooked again. Daeron saw through the horse's eyes what he already suspected: Caraxes staring at them, unblinking and wary.
But the dragon knew. Daeron was sure Caraxes sensed his presence in the stallion's mind. Slowly and carefully, Daeron coaxed Shadow forward toward the motionless form of his own body propped against the tree. Shadow hesitated, but Daeron's will overrode the animal's instincts.
Caraxes watched, smoke curling from his nostrils, his golden eyes tracking every step. As Shadow came near, Daeron slipped free of the horse's mind and immediately took the reins. It was a good thing—Shadow nearly bolted the instant Daeron left his thoughts. He mounted quickly, calming the horse with a pat on the neck.
Half an hour later, Daeron spotted Lord Malister riding toward him with the rest of the army. He stopped trying to befriend Shadow to Caraxes—who still hadn't decided whether the horse should be spared or eaten—and steered his new mount toward the approaching men. With a pull on the reins, Shadow galloped across the grass toward the army's vanguard.
At its head rode Lord Malister, Ser Arthur, Master Glover, Lady Mormont, and even Chief Tormund—Daeron chuckled inwardly at the thought—along with other Free Folk chieftains. All were mounted and armed, ready for the march.
"What took you so long?" Daeron asked as he pulled Shadow up beside Lord Malister.
"I beg your pardon, Your Grace," Lord Malister replied, bowing slightly in the saddle. "I was giving final instructions and assigning command to men I trust to hold the keep during my absence."
Daeron waved off the apology. "As I expected. Don't worry, Lord Malister. If the Ironborn ever attempted to return again, you'll have my full support in sending them back to their gods' watery halls. Once I'm done in the South, the first thing I'll do is cleanse the seas of their filth."
"A noble thought, Your Grace. And one long overdue," Jason Malister said, his voice steeped in rage. "There's no redemption for those scum. Even after your ancestors gave them a second chance, they clung to their old ways. It's in their blood—reaving, pillaging. Madmen, the whole lot of them."
Daeron looked to the Northern lords, who nodded in agreement. A Vale lord followed suit, while the Free Folk chieftains merely shrugged, glancing at Malister before returning their attention to Daeron.
"Well then," Daeron said with a small smile, "let's make haste for Harrenhal. Once the South is settled, I'll return and end the Ironborn to silence that Bronze Bell for good. Caraxes didn't like the sound of that bell, either."
Lord Malister's expression shifted slightly as he cast a wary look at the lounging Blood Wyrm, then gave the order to advance.
Their plan was to ride for the Twins, cross the Green Fork, and follow the King's Road to Harrenhal. There were other paths, but Daeron preferred the directness and relative ease of the main road. The alternative—marching through the marshes of the Blue Fork—held little appeal.
"What were you doing, Your Grace?" Arthur asked, curiosity breaking through his usual calm.
"I was trying to get Shadow here to befriend Caraxes," Daeron replied, patting the horse. "This here is Shadow."
Arthur shook his head, lips twitching in exasperation. Daeron scoffed, amused. He'd simply been bored—with nothing else to do, making prey befriend predator seemed like good entertainment to him.
Dragonstone, The Crownlands
Dragonstone, once the seat of the heir to the Iron Throne before the Baratheons took the reins of the realm from House Targaryen, remained a grim place—always would for those who were not Dragonlords or their mounts. Dark architecture in the shape of dragons adorned every corner of the ancient castle. The Great Hall itself was carved to resemble a colossal dragon lying on its belly, its heavy red doors set within the maw. Those who entered passed through the creature's gaping jaws beneath a row of obsidian teeth.
Since Stannis had left Dragonstone after raising his banner to take the Throne, the keep had been left almost undefended—just a few guardsmen and two archers keeping half-hearted watch. It was no different than in the days of the Targaryens, when they had dragons, save for one vital difference: the Baratheons had no crown stag to protect them from the fury of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen.
It took little effort for her to reclaim her ancestral seat. The red three-headed dragon once more flew from the castle walls, the banner restored after so many years. A week had passed, and Daenerys still visited the Great Hall every day, sitting upon the throne her ancestor Aegon had used both before and after he conquered the Seven Kingdoms. She whispered to herself that she was home—the home Viserys always spoke of. But her brother wasn't here with her. And perhaps that was for the best.
Her violet eyes turned toward the red doors of the Great Hall as they opened slowly, so like the home she remembered in Braavos—the one with the red door and the lemon tree. She had already given orders to plant lemon trees in Aegon's Garden. Dragonstone would become the perfect home, eventually.
Tyrion Lannister entered with small, unhurried steps. The Lannister dwarf never rushed—he knew moving quickly would only amuse others, not make him faster.
"Your Grace," he greeted.
Daenerys inclined her head. "Lord Tyrion."
Ser Barristan, standing like a statue at the foot of the throne, gave a respectful nod.
"As you commanded, I spoke with the Red Priestess," Tyrion began. "She was reluctant at first, demanding your presence—but when I suggested Grey Worm escort her out from the Dragonstone, she found her voice, though she never stopped glaring at me during the entire conversation." He smiled faintly, mismatched eyes gleaming.
"And?" Daenerys arched a brow. "What did she say? Why is she here?"
"She came to declare that Aegon—Young Griff—is a Black Dragon. She claims to have seen it in a vision. She also believes Daeron is Azor Ahai reborn, and urged you to ally with him instead. Apparently, she was sent by Daeron himself to arrange a meeting with you, Your Grace."
Daenerys rubbed her temple, wearied by what her House had become. Only three people now claimed the Targaryen name—two of them accusing each other of bastardy. Aegon had sent a raven just the day before, insisting Daeron was a bastard and not her brother's trueborn son.
"I intend to meet with both of them before choosing whom to ally with—or whether I will ally with either of them," she said.
Ser Barristan nodded, recognizing the wisdom in her choice. But Tyrion looked like he had something more to say.
"Speak freely," she told him. "You disagree?"
"I think you should not just sit here on Dragonstone and do nothing, Your Grace," Tyrion replied. "And I would also not recommend waiting here for them to come to you. You came to Westeros to claim the Iron Throne. Most of the realm has already chosen sides—Daeron holds three kingdoms, Aegon has two, and with Euron Greyjoy absent despite his brother's assurances, I suspect he intends to follow in Balon's footsteps. The Crownlands are fractured and offer little, but still the best hope for your support. You should send ravens there. As for the Reach—had it not been for Daeron's dragon, you might have secured it by marrying Willas Tyrell."
Daenerys had considered that. Marrying Willas would cost her the chance to ally with Daeron, who possessed three kingdoms, their armies, and a dragon larger than Drogon.
"Then what do you propose?" asked Ser Barristan, intrigued.
"Take King's Landing," Tyrion said plainly. "The city offers little but problems, true—but sitting on the Iron Throne while others come to you gives you the strongest position. It gives you time—time to rule, time to negotiate, time to be seen as Queen."
Daenerys liked the idea. At least for a while, she could rule as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms—even if only one kingdom behind her. And when Aegon or Daeron came to claim it, she would not meet them as a foreign aunt that they never knew or the best political marriage for them.
No, Daenerys Targaryen would be Queen, ruling in her own right alongside her nephew—not as his consort. She hadn't crossed the sea and left behind the cities she had conquered in Essos just to kneel before another man. Not when she had armies of her own. And not when she had dragons.