Early May.
King's Landing.
The bustling capital of the Seven Kingdoms. From the Gate of the Gods into the cobbler's square, red-brick houses lined both sides of the street while three-headed red dragon banners fluttered everywhere.
Silk Street opened ahead, its bluestone roads gleaming. Black dragonstone statues of dragons stood tall in the square, symbols of Targaryen rule.
Clip-clop.
Church bells rang as hundreds of lords' cavalry thundered through the streets, hooves clattering toward the main keep beside Blackwater Bay.
The Red Keep.
The throne hall was packed. Hundreds of lords, nobles, and landed knights from across Westeros crammed inside.
Three-headed red dragon banners hung on every wall.
The Iron Throne loomed twisted and tall before the crowd, facing the heavy doors.
:
Kingsguard kept order. White Cloaks guarded every gate.
Eddard Stark carried Ice on his back and held Catelyn Tully's hand, standing stiffly near the front.
"Today's going to be crowded."
Worried his wife felt out of place, Eddard forced a smile and tried to sound steady.
He couldn't help it.
His father and brother had died in this very hall. He might be Lord of Winterfell, but he'd lost half his lands and become a crown vassal.
No grudge. Just a weight he couldn't shake.
Catelyn's face stayed grim. She ignored him and searched the crowd for her brother Edmure Tully.
Edmure stood young and quiet among the Riverlands lords—Roote, Frey, Darry.
On the Vale side, Lord Yohn Royce kept a stern face, eyes flicking toward Eddard now and then.
The Starks and Royces had always gotten along. During the four-kingdom rebellion they'd admired each other from opposite sides. After the war they reconnected.
Both houses worried how the crown would treat defeated lords, so they came together for safety.
Their rivals were the Boltons and Cobrays. Friction still simmered in the North and Vale.
Right now every lord stayed silent. No one dared step out of line.
Everything ran smooth. All for today's coronation.
Dragon Prince Daeron Targaryen's crowning.
Noon.
The first sunlight cut through stained glass and spilled into the throne hall.
:
Aerys sat rigid on the Iron Throne, face blank, eyes fixed on the black floor.
Lords from every corner of the realm stood in perfect rows, barely breathing. The air felt thick.
A king stepping down. An heir taking the throne.
No Targaryen precedent.
Everyone had wanted Aerys gone, replaced by someone better.
Now that the moment had come, they stayed quiet as mice.
Thump-thump-thump.
Urgent drums rolled. Two Kingsguard appeared at the doors.
Every head turned.
The young prince they expected didn't walk in.
"Where is he?"
"Why isn't the prince here—"
Just as murmurs started—
"Hiss-graa—!"
A streak of blazing red tore across the sky, blotting out the sun. It swept over Blackwater Bay, circled King's Landing, then flashed past the Red Keep and cast a brief shadow over the hall.
Caraxes, long and serpentine, circled with a deafening shriek.
A blue dragon and a black one appeared, chasing the red one around the keep.
"Hiss-graa!"
"Hiss-graa—!"
Shaena soared high on Tessarion. Daeron kept pace on Caraxes through thin clouds, his massive red wings spread wide over her blue ones.
Toothless, black as coal, flew tight behind them and flashed past the church bell.
The bells rang louder.
Before the lords could react, a dark tide of heavy cavalry thundered up to the Red Keep gates.
Three hundred Dragon-Tongue Knights in black plate poured in like a living wall.
They cleared the space and rolled out a six-hundred-foot red carpet.
Boom!
Caraxes landed first. His wings whipped up a gale that sent noble horses rearing. Riders went pale.
The Dragon-Tongue Knights stood rooted like two black walls along the carpet.
Caraxes lowered one shoulder. Daeron dismounted and helped Shaena down from Tessarion.
Hand in hand, they walked into the Red Keep.
..
Thump-thump-thump!
The drums grew louder, shifting the mood from tension to excitement. Sweaty palms gripped sword hilts.
Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stepped forward and boomed:
"Daeron of House Targaryen, Regent Prince, Heir to the Iron Throne, Prince of Dragonstone, Prince of Summerhall, Warden of the Realm, Prince of Storm's End, Governor of the Trident, Guardian of the Vale—"
A long roll of titles for the man of the hour.
Two Kingsguard led the way.
Daeron entered hand in hand with Shaena.
Three more Kingsguard followed in tight formation.
The lords stared.
Daeron wore splendid black robes with red lining showing at the sleeves—matching the banners hanging everywhere.
His face was calm, violet eyes steady. No nerves. Just quiet certainty.
Shaena walked beside him in a simple red gown, the hem brushing the floor like fresh crimson flowers.
The sight reminded everyone of Jaehaerys the Conciliator and Good Queen Alysanne—young, dragonriders, perfectly matched.
They reached the front.
Daeron stepped to the base of the Iron Throne and turned to face the hundreds of lords.
"In the name of the Seven, Aerys Targaryen the Second announces his abdication—"
The High Septon, robed in crimson, stepped forward with the seven-pointed star and began the coronation prayer.
"From this day forward, Daeron Targaryen, Heir to the Iron Throne, Prince of Dragonstone, shall succeed—"
He paused for the holy oils.
Daeron glanced once at his father on the throne, then at Maester Aemon, and gave a calm nod.
The anointing finished. The ceremony was nearly done.
"Prince, allow the Seven to crown you."
The High Septon lifted a larger golden crown from the tray.
It was the one Daeron had chosen—Baelor the Blessed's crown.
Aerys wore Aegon the Unworthy's.
"Hold!"
A voice cut through the hall.
Every head turned.
From the Dornish section, Lord Anders Yronwood strode forward, tall and golden-haired, a pack over one shoulder.
He dropped to one knee and pulled out a black crown.
Jet-black Valyrian steel, circular, rippling like water, ringed with equal rubies.
The Conqueror's Crown.
Maester Aemon's eyes widened. Even he stepped forward.
This was Aegon the Conqueror's crown—Visenya had placed it on his head herself. Maegor had worn it. Jaehaerys had replaced it with gold. The Young Dragon had worn it again before it was lost in Dorne.
Anders held it high.
"Prince, when you first came to Yronwood after becoming heir, I swore I would bring you a gift worthy of you."
"I found the Conqueror's crown in the Dornish sands. I brought it back for you."
"Gold cannot match your worth. Only this crown—Valyrian steel, worn by Aegon himself—suits the future king of the Seven Kingdoms."
His voice rang clear.
Anders had paid fortunes and used threats to reclaim it from the Ullers at the Gate of the Sun.
Maester Aemon beamed and looked at Daeron.
Daeron pushed the golden crown aside and walked straight to Anders. He took the black crown, felt its warm, silky weight, and studied the fine scratches left by every king who had worn it.
Satisfaction flickered in his eyes.
"Lord Anders, your loyalty moves me. Words aren't enough."
He met the man's gaze. "You and House Yronwood will always be friends of House Targaryen."
He pulled Anders to his feet.
Before the entire realm, Daeron scanned the crowd, turned his back on the frozen High Septon, lifted the Valyrian steel crown high, and set it on his own head.
Thunderous applause exploded.
"Daeron the Third!"
"Dragon King Daeron!"
"The new Targaryen king!"
Lords shouted until their voices cracked. They called him Dragon King Daeron—different from the Young Dragon Daeron I. This was the true Dragon King Daeron III.
The man who brought dragons back. The living dragonrider. The Valyrian dragonlord of the age.
Even at the same young age as Daeron I, no one questioned him.
Daeron smiled and drew Dark Sister. The cheers grew louder.
He stepped back and took Shaena's hand.
Maester Aemon announced their betrothal. They would be husband and wife in all but name.
"Hiss-graa—!"
Outside, Caraxes felt his rider's joy and soared with a piercing cry.
Tessarion and Toothless rose with him, circling the Red Keep, their roars like a symphony celebrating the new king.
Three days later. Mud Gate.
A single royal ship sailed out, Davos at the helm, bound for Dragonstone.
Aerys was aboard.
Two suns cannot share the sky. Two kings cannot share a realm.
Westeros had no retired emperor. Once Aerys stepped down, he was simply Aerys Targaryen—former king, father of the new king.
Daeron sent him to Dragonstone with Dragon Guards to keep him out of trouble.
Knock knock knock.
The council chamber door opened. The Small Council filed in.
Lord Corlton led the way, nearly tripping as the others shoved him forward.
"My lords," Daeron said, eyebrow raised. "You have business?"
"You speak."
"No, you speak."
They deferred to each other. No one wanted to go first.
The king had just sent his father away. His mood was probably foul.
Daeron sighed. "Lord Corlton. You first."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Corlton cleared his throat. "It's like this. You ordered preparations for the Long Summer. The Citadel spread the word, but most nobles aren't taking it seriously."
"You've just been crowned and betrothed to Princess Shaena—two major matters settled."
"We thought, while the celebration is still fresh and the lords are still here, we should hold a tourney."
"One, to celebrate your crowning and show the realm's strength."
"Two, to gather the great houses and push the Long Summer stockpiling forward."