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Chapter 97: The Realm
Sunspear, Dorne
The sunlight filtered softly through the open lattice of the Tower of the Sun, warm winds trailing in from the sea. Doran Martell sat beneath the carved dome, a scroll in his trembling hands. His daughter, Arianne, stood beside him, arms crossed, her expression unreadable as her father read the words again.
"So… it's true," Doran said at last, his voice thin. "Renly is defeated. King's Landing has fallen. The dragons now sit the Iron Throne once more."
"They say Daeron did it with hardly any bloodshed," Arianne said, barely hiding her intrigue. "He took Renly alive. And the smallfolk welcomed him. The dragon's done what the lions and stags could not."
Doran nodded, though slowly. "Oberyn was right. This boy… this Daeron… is no fool. He's carved his name into history before half the realm even knew his face."
He sighed, then folded the letter.
"We cannot afford silence now. Dorne has waited too long in the shadows. The dragons once betrayed us, but this one may yet prove different. It is time we moved."
Arianne turned toward him, one eyebrow raised. "You mean to ride to King's Landing?"
Doran shook his head with a faint smile. "No. My health is no longer what it was. You will go in my place. You, and a hundred spears, bearing the banners of our House."
Arianne's eyes gleamed. "To bend the knee?"
"To pledge peace, and to watch," Doran said softly. "Learn what kind of man this new king is. And if he is worthy of the loyalty he now demands."
Arianne bowed her head. "As you command, Father."
Dragonstone
The sea crashed against the rocks below Dragonstone's black fortress, but Tyrion Lannister hardly noticed. He leaned back in the hard chair of his chamber, a goblet of sour red in his hand, and reread the raven's message for the third time.
"Daeron Targaryen," he muttered aloud. "Victorious. Crowned. And with a dragon no less. Seven save us."
He shook his head in disbelief.
A knock came at the door. Lord Monford Velaryon entered, armored and direct. "You've heard?"
Tyrion waved the letter. "Hard not to. What now?"
Monford clasped his hands behind his back. "The king commands the presence of all notable persons in Dragonstone. You, Lord Stannis, and the children."
Tyrion tensed slightly. "Tommen and Myrcella are barely more than babes."
"They are Lannisters. The son and daughter of a usurping queen. Their fates are not mine to decide."
"And Stannis?"
"The King wants all pieces on the board in front of him. Alive. For now."
Tyrion swirled the wine. "How Targaryen of him."
Monford said nothing. He turned and left the room, leaving Tyrion staring into his cup.
"Dragged to King's Landing like trophies," Tyrion muttered. "Let's hope this dragon has a better sense of justice than his ancestors."
Pyke, the Iron Islands
Balon Greyjoy stood at the top of the Sea Tower, the wind howling around him, tugging at his damp grey cloak. Salt spray lashed the stones below, but he did not move. His face was carved from grief and fury.
The raven had come hours ago, but he had not spoken since. He'd read the words. Again and again. A dragon now ruled the mainland. Victarion was dead. His daughter, the last of his line, was a captive in the north. His ironborn had returned shattered and broken, half their strength gone in his invasion of the North.
Balon dropped the letter and raised his fists to the sky.
"Drowned God!" he roared. "Hear me!"
The wind answered, howling louder, as if mocking him.
"This dragon! This false king with his wings and fire—curse him! Curse his house! Burn him in your depths! Let his wings rot, let his flames drown!"
He dropped to his knees, the wind tearing at his hair, salt stinging his eyes.
"Why do you take my sons and leave me this shame?" he whispered. "Where is your justice?"
But the sea gave no answer. Only the crashing of waves, and the far cry of gulls.
Balon Greyjoy, once proud, now knelt on the stone tower, screaming into the wind as the world moved on without him.
Red Keep, King's Landing
The great hall of the Red Keep stood silent.
Dust motes danced in the early morning sun filtering through the stained glass, casting fractured colors across the black stone floor. The Iron Throne loomed at the far end of the hall, jagged and twisted, forged from the blades of a thousand conquered foes. It had witnessed centuries of kings, tyrants, and fools—and now, it waited once more.
Daeron stood alone before it, cloaked in dark velvet, his raven black hair barely moving in the stillness. At his side sat Ghost, quiet as ever.
He said nothing for a long while, only stared. The throne had always seemed distant in his mind—a symbol, a goal, a curse—but now it was real, sharp and cold and close.
He stepped forward.
Each footfall echoed through the hall as he climbed the steps slowly, deliberately, as if testing each one. Ghost padded behind, stopping just short of the base. Daeron paused at the final step. For a brief second, he hesitated.
Was this it?
The weight of it all pressed on him—his victories, his sacrifices, the names of the dead whispered like ghosts behind his eyes. He thought of Uncle Ned's quiet strength, Robb's trust, Rhaella's wisdom, Viserys's faith, Daenerys's wide-eyed wonder. He thought of the men he'd spared, and those he hadn't.
Then he exhaled—and sat.
The Iron Throne did not cut him. The jagged metal did not groan beneath his weight. It accepted him.
Ghost moved softly staring at Daeron, as if sensing the moment.
Daeron looked out over the empty hall, the seat of power now beneath him. It didn't feel triumphant. It didn't feel like conquest.
It felt like duty.
He leaned back slightly, resting one hand on the cold steel of the throne.
"I am Daeron of House Targaryen," he whispered to the hall, to the realm, to himself. "Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."
In the ruins of the Dragonpit, Lyrax roared.
The dragon's cry echoed across the city, and the realm held its breath.
The Dragon King had taken his rightful place.