Daeron froze for a second as the implications hit him.
A Long Summer. He knew exactly what that meant.
In this world, summers could stretch for years—sometimes two, sometimes ten or more. The climate here was already chaotic, especially in Westeros, but the Long Summer and Long Winter were the real game-changers. Both had been uncomfortably close in recent decades.
There had been a brutal three-year winter from 273 to 276 AC, followed by another full year in 279. Daeron still remembered huddling by the hearth with Shaena and the boys during those endless cold months. The last few years had finally felt normal again—proper seasons, predictable weather.
Until now.
He dug through his memories of the "original" timeline. After the War of the Usurper, Westeros had entered a Long Summer that lasted nearly a decade. The timing here was off by about five years.
If the Long Summer was arriving early… what did that mean for the Others?
Daeron's mind sharpened. In the original story the Others had started stirring while the Long Summer was still going. If this version was starting five years sooner, then the Long Night might arrive sooner too.
He let out a dry laugh. "Great. So the Long Summer is the dragonlords' power-up phase, and the Long Winter is the Others' version? The gods really do love their balance patches."
Ten years of summer instead of fifteen. That was five fewer years to prepare before the dead started walking.
Not exactly good news.
Maester Aemon took over the discussion in his calm, measured way. "A Long Summer lasting several years can be just as dangerous as a Long Winter. We should begin stockpiling grain and medicine now, in case of drought, heatstroke, or outbreaks of plague."
Lord Corlton frowned. "It might not last that long. What if it's only one or two years?"
Davos spoke up for the first time. "We've had two harsh winters in quick succession. By Westerosi patterns, this summer should run at least three to five years. The smallfolk will feel it."
Mace Tyrell, Lord Staunton, and Lord Lucerys all nodded. Everyone understood the pattern: long winter followed by long summer. The real danger came at the end, when the heat became oppressive and the air turned thick and humid—the so-called "ghost summer" that bred disease.
Tywin's expression grew grave. "Maester Aemon, the Conclave is certain this Long Summer will last three years or more?"
"The Conclave does not make mistakes," Aemon said quietly. "And my own instincts tell me it will last even longer than they predict."
Tywin's jaw tightened. He had guided the realm through two Long Winters during Aerys's madness. This would be an entirely new challenge.
Daeron made the decision. "Then we stockpile. Start with King's Landing, Lannisport, and Oldtown. Buy grain and medicine in bulk. Prepare for the final years of summer—and whatever comes after."
Tywin nodded. "We'll also open the spring and autumn hunts in the North and the Vale and buy up furs at fair prices. We'll need warm clothing if winter follows."
Davos added, "The royal treasury won't hold that much. We'll need new warehouses across the Crownlands."
"Build one in King's Landing and three on my fief," Daeron said. "If that's not enough, we'll build more."
The meeting shifted from betrothal and coronation to full war footing against the coming Long Summer. For the first time in weeks the entire Small Council worked in perfect unison, hammering out a comprehensive plan.
Only Lord Corlton looked like he was watching his life savings burn. Tens of thousands of gold dragons—gone. He felt like the Prince was preparing for an invasion rather than a season.
---
When the meeting ended, Daeron grabbed Varys before he could slip away and headed straight for Melisandre's quarters. He wanted a second opinion on how long this summer would actually last.
The red priestess stood before a brazier, staring into the flames. Sweat beaded on her forehead. After a long silence she spoke in a tired voice.
"This Long Summer will last a very long time. I cannot see the exact number of years, but it will not be short."
Daeron nodded to himself. Longer summer meant more time for dragons to grow. That part was good.
Melisandre drank a vial of something dark and her color returned. "The Lord of Light showed me something else. The arrival of this Long Summer confirms that the tide of magic is rising again."
"How high?"
"To levels not seen in a hundred and sixty or seventy years."
Daeron's eyes narrowed. A hundred and seventy years ago was the height of the Dance of the Dragons—when House Targaryen still had nineteen living dragons. That had been the last great surge of magic before it faded for over a century.
Now it was returning to that level.
And it was still rising.
Melisandre stepped closer, her red robes whispering across the floor. "I was going to seek you out today even if you hadn't come. This Long Summer is both danger and opportunity. Which one it becomes depends entirely on those who live through it."
Daeron studied her. She was beautiful, mature, and carried an aura that matched his own growing hunger for power. For a moment the air between them thickened.
Then Varys coughed loudly from the corner.
Melisandre shot the eunuch a withering look and stepped back, pulling her robes tighter.
Daeron exhaled quietly. For the first time he was genuinely grateful for Varys's presence.
They left the silk merchant's house together. Varys glanced sideways. "I didn't interrupt anything important, did I?"
"You did well," Daeron said.
Varys smiled thinly. "The red priestess is dangerous. Best to keep some distance."
Daeron gave him a sideways look. You're one to talk, Master of Whispers. Still, the warning felt genuine.
They walked through the cleaned streets of King's Landing. Daeron spoke casually. "Lord Varys, you hear everything from both sides of the Narrow Sea. Any word on dragon eggs?"
"Dragon eggs are extremely difficult to find," Varys replied carefully.
Daeron didn't bother with subtlety. "Keep your ears open. The world is changing fast. I don't want any eggs slipping out of reach."
Varys stopped walking. "You trust me with this?"
Daeron met his eyes. "History doesn't move backward, Lord Varys. Some things belong in the dust. The Blackfyre cause died with the last male heir. Who would support them now?"
Varys went very still. "You know who I am."
"I do. And I'm choosing not to kill you for it—yet. Your head is useful. Use it for House Targaryen and for Westeros. Blood alone won't fix old hatreds."
"Like Baelor the Blessed making peace with Dorne?"
"No," Daeron said. "Like how I spared Stannis and Renly and left a thread of Baratheon blood alive."
Varys fell silent for a long moment. He knew exactly what that meant—Renly was living comfortably in Pentos under Illyrio's old protection. Daeron was telling him he knew.
Then Daeron added, almost casually, "Prince Rhaegon still owes me an explanation. When I have time, I'll collect it."
Varys's mind raced. So the Prince suspects Illyrio's child is hidden with Rhaegon in Pentos. He suddenly felt very exposed.
Daeron waved a hand. "Focus, Lord Varys. We're almost at the Red Keep."
They continued walking. Daeron spoke again. "Rhaegar wants to found a new branch in Lys. Who knows—one day the Blackfyres might even be welcomed back into the royal fold as a new Valyrian-blooded house."
Varys let out a bitter laugh. "You don't need to test me, Prince. The Blackfyre male line is truly gone."
Daeron turned his head. "Really? I don't believe you."
Varys spread his hands helplessly. "Truth and lies. Who can truly tell anymore?"
Daeron decided to accept it—for now.
They reached the gates of the Red Keep. As they parted, Daeron couldn't resist one last jab.
"Lord Varys, when you say the Blackfyre male line is extinct… does that include you?"
Varys's face darkened. He turned and walked away without another word.