Robert’s Second Chance: Dance of Dragons Rewritten

Daeron

"Is it me, or does the air stink of shit?" Ormund asked as they stared at the blurry outline of the Red Keep in the distance.

Daeron chuckled. "No, cousin, your nose does not deceive you. I smell it too." But foul as it was, the stench made him smile. He was nearly home.

The march from Oldtown had not been an easy one. Rather than the simple trek they expected, they had very nearly not made it past Honeywine. But they had, claiming a victory against Houses Tarly and Beesbury, and the rest of the trek had mercifully been smooth after the Tyrell forces joined up with them to escort them the rest of the way to the capital. He even saw his little niece Jaehaera on the way, her host escorting her and her young dragon Morghul to Highgarden. 

Ormund smiled at Daeron, clapping him on the shoulder. "You left this city a child. You return a knight, Ser Daeron the Daring."

Ser Daeron the Daring. It still didn't seem to fit. He knew he had earned it, him and Tessarion both, but rather than feeling like a badge of honor, it chafed at him, like new, ill-fitting clothes.

Perhaps because he still heard their screams in his nightmares. Screams of Black soldiers as they burned alive in cobalt flames. Soldiers from House Beesbury and Tarly, two Houses he thought for certain would ally with the Hightowers after such a long history of good blood…

Sensing his gloom, Ormund patted his back again. "War is never easy, Daeron, and I'm sorry you needed to do what you did. But it's for the best that we blooded you early. There will be more fighting to come. Ser Criston Cole has already led his men to reclaim the Crownland Houses in service to the false queen, but there will be more fighting. Your brother will need you."

My brother. The King, Daeron thought as he looked up to where Tessarion was flying protectively over their massive host.

I should be returning to King's Landing for a celebration, not a war. Aegon is father's eldest son. The throne is his birthright. Instead, he was returning to bring Fire and Blood to his faction's enemies.

"I hate them," Daeron confessed. "Rhaenyra. Daemon. All of them. How many people am I going to have to burn because Rhaenyra decided to challenge Aegon to steal his rightful crown? In every other House in every other fucking one of the Kingdoms, it would be understood without question that the eldest son is the heir. If she had just bent the damn knee and taken our offer, no one would need to die. Aegon would…"

Well, the truth was that Aegon probably would have fucked off and drank wine somewhere while his council did the actual ruling, but Daeron didn't want to say that.

"Aegon could have ruled over another fifty years of peace and prosperity," he settled on instead. "I don't want to kill anyone else. I shouldn't need to kill anyone else. And neither should Aemond; he's going to need to fight too. I hate them! I fucking hate them for making me do this!"

Ormund grabbed him by the shoulders, wheeled him around, and met his gaze fiercely.

"Good," he half-growled. "Remember that. Remember that hate, and show them no mercy on the battlefield. Because I know your uncle, and he sure as fuck is not going to be showing any for you. Not after what he tried to do to Aegon's children."

Sending assassins after babes…Daeron balled his fist, while above them, Tessarion let out a fearsome roar.

Shaking him, Ormund added, "We have four adult dragons. We have a damn near united Reach now that Princess Jaehaera has been betrothed to House Tyrell. We have the Stormlands, the Westerlands, and now most of the Riverlands thanks to your brother Aemond. We have everything we need to bring them to their knees, and we will."

I hope you're right, he thought. Because if you're not, this war could drag out for years, and all of Westeros may be littered with burned corpses to feed the crows. Just like Honeywine…

Robert

"A pity you have no more of the poison," Otto mused as he poured a cup of water, handing it to Robert before pouring a cup for himself.

The Hand hadn't even asked before pouring water instead of wine. Robert had not avoided the drink completely since waking up in Borros's body, but he limited it to a cup or two with meals, never touching the stuff before discussing anything of militant importance. It was hard enough keeping up the Borros playact sober; drunk, he was bound to make a mistake.

"Indeed," Robert agreed. "But perhaps we should be grateful it's rare. The plant can only grow in the Shadowlands Beyond Asshai, and the amount we needed to kill Meleys used up their entire stock."

A lie. It had been a conventional poison from a plant that was uncommon but not truly rare. But Robert would take that secret to his grave. He had spread the lie about the poison's origins (careful not to take responsibility for the act himself), hoping that the common man would believe that only a rare poison from a magical land could kill a dragon.

"Agreed," Otto agreed, sitting across from Robert at the table in his quarters. "If the poison were more easily accessible, the Blacks might replicate your trick. Or worse, if it became public knowledge, Aegon might win the war with his sister only to face a rebellion six months later, his dragons assassinated."

Which is why no one but me can ever know that it was not a mysterious, 'magical' poison from a magical land.

"While I do wish the poison had been used on Caraxes, I can't deny that you've yet again given us a tremendous advantage," Otto said, smirking. "My grandson was getting restless and agitated with the Velaryon blockade, but now without Meleys guarding it, the Triarchy is willing to put our plan into action faster. Especially with the Arbor and House Manderly communicating with them to coordinate their efforts."

Another wasted opportunity in the original timeline. The Arbor had sworn fealty to Aegon early in the war, and they had a powerful navy, and yet they did nothing but sit on their asses while Aegon desperately needed naval support. Now (after some urging to either shit or get off the pot), they were willing to send their ships.

"We'll take Caraxes out of the equation in due course, my Lord Hand," Robert assured him.

As for how I'm going to do that? I have no earthly idea. In the original timeline, getting rid of Caraxes had cost them Vhagar, and that simply was not an option. Vhagar and Aemond would both need to live, at the very least until the fighting was over and Aegon's reign was secure. She was their most valuable asset, and unlike in the original timeline, Robert intended to use her to her fullest potential.

Otto nodded, his eyes glazed over as he stared into the fire. "Daemon is our greatest enemy, even more so than Rhaenyra herself," he admitted. "I believe she might have been willing to negotiate if not for him. Instead, the only 'offer' we got from Rhaenyra was one step down from a threat."

Abandon your dragons and go back to Oldtown, and I promise not to kill you. Robert snorted. She might as well have spit directly in Aegon's face. And after all the work Robert had done convincing Aegon to make a diplomatic offer in the first place. 

But at least I've mitigated the worst of the damage, Robert thought. Without the loss of his son, Aegon had not devolved into senseless fury. Meleys's death and their growing list of allies made Aegon feel like progress was being made, and so he had not dismissed Otto as his Hand. Criston Cole was marching for Duskendale as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, not as Hand of the King, and Aemond should be returning from Winterfell any day now.

But for how much longer will I be able to rely on my advantage of hindsight, he wondered. For now, surely things had already changed greatly.

I have a few more tricks left up my sleeve, but soon enough, we will be in completely uncharted territory. Then, I will have to rely on my warfare experience to see me through.

But fortunately, for Robert and for the Greens, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was a damn good military leader.

Jace

"It's alright, Vermax," Jace soothed in High Valyrian, stroking his beloved dragon's wing. "Be calm. The injury is…" Fuck, what's the word for small? Gods damn it, his High Valyrian was absolute shit.

Not that it mattered much. His words had the desired effect of soothing Vermax's pained grunts as Jace broke the arrow and gently removed it. Though the anxiety in Jace's gut would not be soothed, his intestines clenching.

House Manderly turned him away without even receiving his message as an envoy, their ships proudly displaying Aegon's Sunfyre banner. The sight of it nearly triggered a blood rage in Jace, and it took every ounce of self-restraint he had not to start burning every ship in White Harbor.

The Sistermen had been even worse. Technically, the Three Sisters were part of the Vale, so Jace had been hopeful that they would follow Lady Jeyne in supporting the Blacks, but when Jace and Vermax flew in too close, they'd been met with a volley of arrows. They'd dodged most of them, but one had struck Vermax's wing, piercing the membrane. It was a minor injury, no worse than a splinter for a human, but the implication was heart-wrenching.

House Manderly and the Sistermen are supporting Aegon. Just like most of the Riverlands. Just like the Westerlands, and the Stormlands, and the Reach…What chance did Rhaenyra have of winning the war now, especially with Meleys dead? Her throne, her birthright, her place in the Targaryen dynasty would be stolen, and Jace's as well. And his fucking cunt of an uncle was going to live happily ever after, enjoying his stolen boon.

I must win over the Starks, he said, checking Vermax's wing one last time before getting back into the saddle. I must. Otherwise, what few allies we have will be slaughtered by the thousands…

Aemond

I'm going to vomit, Aemond feared as he plunged his hands into the stinking carcass. I'm going to vomit. I'm going to vomit. I'm going to vomit…

Miraculously, he held it in as he continued removing the elk's entrails.

Aemond had been on hunts before, both in the Crownlands and the Riverlands, and the wealthy nobles merely enjoyed the thrill of the hunt while leaving the dirty work for the servants. But the North was different. Here, no servants accompanied them, and the nobles were expected to do all the work of butchering the animal themselves. Aemond was responsible for cleaning it, while Cregan Stark skinned it, and then some of the other men would butcher it into manageable pieces and prepare it for transport back to Winterfell.

As foul as the task was, he silently thanked Lord Borros again for warning him that he might have to do it. Doing it without complaint had very clearly been another step towards earning Cregan's respect.

"You're a good shot for a man with one eye," Cregan praised as he peeled back the elk's hide, exposing the red flesh beneath.

Aemond nodded grimly. "I trained thrice as hard to compensate for it. Not only with the sword, but with the bow and my knives as well. It's awkward, and you have to learn to aim in a completely different way, but sadly, we live in a brutal world and I could not risk being at such a grave disadvantage."

"A brutal world indeed," Cregan agreed, slipping his knife further to free another few inches of hide. "I'm learning that more and more with every passing year."

Cregan's reception had been frosty when Aemond first arrived at Winterfell. He was fresh off his own succession crisis, where his uncle tried to take Winterfell from him, and he was skeptical of both the Greens and the Blacks, but Aemond liked to think he was slowly but surely winning the young Lord's trust.

"And about to become far more brutal," Aemond said, remembering Borros's advice to be direct and upfront rather than charming. "War is looming, Lord Stark. We did everything we could to avoid it. We attempted numerous times to sue for peace, even after Rhaenyra's assassination attempt. But it's become undeniable that our sister will not settle for anything less than my brother's throne."

Cregan hesitated. "A throne that was promised to her…"

"Before my brother was born," Aemond corrected as he pulled out the elk's liver, cut free the arteries and veins, then handed it to one of the other hunters to wrap. "Before Aegon's birth, Rhaenyra was indeed the rightful heir in accordance with inheritance law. Daughters come before uncles. It is that way in the North as well, is it not?"

Cregan grunted his agreement. "Even so, it was your father's duty to communicate any change in his wishes. Which he didn't do."

Don't argue with his honor, Borros's words echoed through Aemond's mind. Appeal to it. But remember, no fancy shit. That will make them lose respect for you.

"I agree it's a nuanced issue. We can debate inheritance custom vs law for hours, and we may never come to a consensus," Aemond conceded. "But at the end of the day, what matters most is what's best for Westeros."

Cregan smiled appeasingly as he moved onto the Elk's legs, a much harder area to skin. "And you believe that to be your brother?" 

"I know that to be my brother," Aemond corrected, reaching into the cavity once again to scrape away some squishy gunk that he didn't even want to identify. "For the entirety of my father's reign, it was my grandfather, Otto Hightower, who did most of the actual work of maintaining decades of peace and prosperity that my great-grandfather established. And it is Otto Hightower that has groomed Aegon to rule, and who is helping him to rule now. Whereas Rhaenyra's most influential councilor is Daemon."

To Aemond's relief, Cregan flinched. "I've heard disturbing stories of the Rogue Prince," he muttered. "I suppose I would hate to think we were trading decades of peace and prosperity for…well…him."

Yes! But Aemond masked his excitement, nodding grimly. "Not only that, but we already have secured the loyalty of much of the realm," Aemond continued. "If you lend us the support of the North as well, then we may be able to force Rhaenyra into a surrender and minimize the bloodshed."

Remembering another tip from Borros, he added, "It is the smallfolk who will suffer the most if this conflict continues. It is our duty, the duty of all the Lords of Westeros, to put their needs first."

Aemond's words hit Cregan exactly where he wanted them to, if the grim expression in the young lord's eyes was any indication.

"And if the North supports her, there's a greater chance of army after army ripping each other apart, drawing this out for years," Cregan finished. "What's best for the realm vs. what honor demands," he mused, then looked thoughtful. "Though admittedly, what honor demands is a bit murky at the moment, what with the succession law a debatable matter."

Yes, Aemond cheered for himself. He'd been worried, coming here with no marriage pact to offer. Cregan had only a son, and Jaehaera had already been betrothed to Highgarden. Alicent pitched the idea of betrothing Jaehaerys to a future daughter of Cregan's, but curiously, Borros adamantly argued against it. Aemond wasn't certain what Borros's argument would have been, because Aegon voiced his own opinion first.

"My Queen and I are attempting to conceive another child, and we are hopeful that the gods will bless us with another daughter," he said. "It is my hope that we might betroth her to Jaehaerys. We do not want to risk diluting the Valyrian blood of the next generation of House Targaryen. Not when Rhaenyra already has the advantage over us there."

And so the matter was dropped, and Aemond had come with a much less grandiose offer of a renegotiated tax agreement instead. Still better than arriving empty-handed, but even he knew it was a rather dull gift.

Dull or interesting, it seems I might have convinced him anyway…

But of course, Aemond had begun to celebrate prematurely.

"Dragon!" one of the lookouts cried.

Fuck! Aemond leapt to his feet, eye scouring the sky. The dragon could not be one of theirs; Helaena and Aegon circled King's Landing daily to discourage any attacks while Vhagar was away from the capital. Daeron would still be in the Reach. It must be a Black dragon.

"Vermax," Aemond said darkly, looking up at the sky to see him circling in for a landing. But mercifully, he was not the only one who knew the smaller dragon was approaching. A thunderous roar from about a hundred yards off told him that Vhagar had caught their enemy's scent and was on her way.

Hurry, Vhagar, he urged her silently, disliking how helpless he felt without her by his side. I'd put nothing past him.

Perhaps it was the roar of the approaching Vhagar. Perhaps it was the fact that Aemond was standing directly next to Cregan. Whatever it was, Jacaerys did nothing but glare at Aemond threateningly for several long seconds before dismounting, feet thudding against the ground before he strode confidently forward, towards Cregan.

"Lord Stark," Jace greeted him formally, still glaring murderously at Aemond.

The feeling is mutual, bastard, Aemond thought, keeping his face cool and impassive.

His hatred of Jace did not run as deeply as it had for Luke, but Aemond despised him nonetheless. This was the man who had tried to stab him to death over an insult. The man who had attacked him four against one. The man who had bullied him during his youth…and yes, Aegon had bullied him too, but they had come to a truce, and his brother had been nothing but loving with him these past several years.

And now you are here to help your mother steal my brother's throne.

Aemond forced himself to remain silent while Jace delivered Rhaenyra's message. Forced himself to behave like the perfect, dignified prince while his enemy was speaking. But he could not hold back his satisfied smirk when Vhagar landed in their clearing, roaring threateningly at Vermax. The smaller dragon, to his credit, tried to roar back, but it was like a kitten trying to intimidate a tigress.

My girl is an almost-two-hundred-year-old war dragon. If Vermax tries anything, he's dead. But Aemond could not be the one who struck first. Not when the Starks placed such a high value on honor. Not when Cregan's loyalty was not yet secured.

But when Jace called Aegon a usurper, Aemond could no longer hold his tongue.

"My brother is no usurper," Aemond said darkly. "My brother is the eldest son of King Viserys Targaryen."

Jace glowered. "And my mother is the eldest child," he countered.

"Which might mean something, if this were Dorne," Aemond responded, almost subconsciously stepping into a battle stance. "But everywhere else, Aegon has the stronger claim, and to date, four of the Kingdoms have agreed. The only Kingdom to side with your mother is the Vale." He snorted. "A Kingdom that would not have pledged loyalty but for their blood tie to Rhaenyra."

Jace balled his fists. "Having an army of traitors at your back does not make you right, Aemond."

"And wearing the Velaryon name does not make you trueborn, Lord Strong," he spat back.

Jace's face burned a deep maroon, rage sparking in his eyes exactly as it had the last time Aemond had seen him. And exactly like last time, Jace charged towards him, raising a fist…

Until Cregan Stark blocked his way.

"I will not tolerate violence on my lands," he roared, scowling. "Not during a parlay. Lower your fists and step back, Prince Jacaerys, or otherwise get back on your dragon and return to Dragonstone."

Ha!

But before Aemond could feel too smug about it, Cregan turned and fixed him with a sharp glare as well.

"Prince Aemond," he said. "I have done you the courtesy of hearing your petition. I must now do the same for Prince Jacaerys. As you yourself have stated, the most important factor is what is best for Westeros. I must consider both sides before making my decision." 

Fuck…FUCK. He'd been hoping that Cregan would agree outright, without hearing the Blacks' petition. If Jace got a chance to sell his version of events, Cregan may decide that honor prevailed over reason.

I can't let that happen…But what could he do? If he disobeyed Cregan's order, that would all but assure that they would lose Northern support.

Fuck…

"Of course, Lord Stark," Aemond said woodenly.

"My lord," one of the other hunters addressed Cregan. "We can finish with the elk, if you wish to take Prince Jacaerys back to the castle."

If you think I'm sticking my hands back in a dead animal when Cregan isn't here to be impressed by my commitment to teamwork…But he gave no argument when Cregan accepted the offer and went to mount his horse while Jace mounted Vermax. However, as soon as they were out of earshot, the hunter grabbed Aemond by the elbow.

"My prince," he whispered secretively. "Most of those among us know that your brother is the rightful king, and I believe that in his heart, Lord Stark knows it as well. But if you wish for the North to be loyal to the Crown, you must show him that the Crown is in turn loyal to the North. Your offer to renegotiate taxes will help the Northern economy, but I fear a stronger display of loyalty might be required."

Easier said than done. Aemond was a member of the royal family, but he did not have the ability to negotiate on Aegon's behalf. Not beyond what his brother had already offered.

"Any suggestions," he asked, half sarcastic, half hopeful.

But to his surprise, the hunter nodded, smiling darkly.

"As it just so happens, my prince, we've been struggling with a nomadic group of wildlings that made it past the wall. A vile band of rapists and raiders. Lord Stark ordered them executed, and we've been trying unsuccessfully to track them…but we do not have the advantage of being able to search from the sky…"

Jace

It was well into the evening before Jace sat down with Cregan in his study to discuss his mother's proposal. The Northern Lord insisted he be fed, watered, and given the opportunity to settle into his guest suite before they spoke. Aemond never returned to the castle for supper, not that Jace objected. He had no desire to ever lay eyes on Aemond again…not unless his head was on a spike outside of the Red Keep. Fucker.

"Lord Stark," Jace urged him, "my words are true. Despite what the Greens claim, my grandfather never intended for Aegon to be his successor. He always steadfastly upheld my mother's claim. When I was six years old, he lifted me into his lap while he sat on the Iron Throne, and he promised that one day, it would be mine. He always, always, intended for the future of House Targaryen to run through her. Through the blood of his first wife, Aemma Arryn. Aegon was only meant to be a prince, like so many other second sons throughout the realm."

"But Aegon is not a second son," Cregan argued. "He is the first son. Hence the succession conundrum."

Jace opened his mouth to argue, but Cregan held up a hand.

"Prince Jacaerys, I'll be blunt. Your uncle said it best. What's most important is not the minutiae of the law; it's what's best for Westeros."

Jace frowned slightly but didn't comment. I always heard the Starks were all about honor…but honor is a complex thing, I suppose.

"And with some of the things I've heard, I'm not so certain that your mother is what's best for Westeros," he continued. "I've heard Aegon made several attempts to open peace negotiations, but your mother moved straight into calling her banners. When she finally did make a peace offer, it was two steps shy of a threat. And then there was the attempted kinslaying. Kinslaying of very young children at that."

Jace forced himself to take a deep, shuddering breath, soothing himself before he spoke.

They dare, DARE, call us kinslayers? He couldn't mention his mother's stillbirth; he had no proof that was the Greens' fault, even though it clearly was. But he'd be damned if he let his brother go forgotten.

"We never wanted any of this," he said. "We never wanted a war. We never wanted to hurt anyone, let alone our own blood. We are not kinslayers, and we are not child murderers. The only kinslayer and child murderer in our family is Aemond, for what he did to my brother Lucerys!"

Cregan looked at him skeptically. "Aemond told me that Lucerys crashed into the rock formations in Shipbreaker Bay. That he was an inexperienced rider flying on a very young and small dragon during a violent storm. Lord Borros Baratheon backs his claim. Unless, of course, you have proof to the contrary? Aside from the fact that Lucerys and Aemond were in the same place at the same time?"

Fuck. "If I had proof, Lord Stark, Aemond would be dead right now."

The way Cregan's eyes narrowed told Jace immediately that he fucked up.

"When Rhaenyra attempted to kill Aegon's children, his response was to make another attempt at peace for the good of the realm," Cregan reminded him slowly. "When one of Rhaenyra's children died, her response was to attempt to rip three babes from their mother's arms, and then slaughter them. Even though she had no proof that the Greens were responsible."

Cregan leaned back in his chair. "That, coupled with your mother's refusal to enter peace negotiations? Why should I believe that your faction is what is best for Westeros?"

No…this isn't right…that's not how it happened…

"Lord Stark, my mother did plan to offer the Greens peace terms," he insisted. "She is not bloodthirsty. But we had no idea how much support we would realistically have. My mother was not calling her banners; she was trying to get a head count. Then, once we knew our strengths and weaknesses, we could offer terms. Making an offer without knowing would have been premature. And her initial offer was not a threat. It was just a starting point; she fully expected them to counteroffer."

Cregan still looked skeptical, and so Jace leaned in closer.

"Lord Stark, please, we are not the villains of this tale," he pleaded. "My mother was promised the throne, and if the Greens had let her ascend peacefully, we would have treated them with dignity and respect. All of this has happened because they coveted something that was not rightfully theirs to take."

Cregan cracked one of his knuckles. "Dignity and respect?" he challenged. "Like when Aemond lost his eye, and rather than apologizing or expressing concern, Rhaenyra demanded that he be tortured? A twelve-year-old boy? Her own brother? Whose face was still sliced open?"

Jace flinched. You weren't there…

Tensions had been high that night. Rhaenyra was fighting all by herself to defend him and Luke. She knew fully well that Viserys would never agree to it; she was just trying to scare Aemond into talking and Alicent into backing off. But none of that would convince Cregan. Not when the Greens had done such a good job of distorting the facts in their favor.

"Yes, Lord Stark, dignity and respect," Jace repeated. "Even now, despite their claims, we are still open to peace negotiations. True peace negotiations. The only thing she is unwilling to do is give up the throne that was promised to her solely because Aegon has a cock and she doesn't."

For a long time, Cregan said nothing, looking away from Jace to stare into the fire wordlessly. The air between them was tense and thick, but Jace was fearful to break it, less the unreadable expression on Cregan's face turn sour.

"The hour is late," Cregan finally said. "And I am contemplating a decision that will lead to the deaths of hundreds, or even thousands of men, regardless of who I support. I need a night to sleep on it, and I need to speak to my advisors. You and Prince Aemond are both here as my guests, and your rooms are on the opposite ends of the castle compound. I trust you can keep from fighting?"

Fuck. But it was better than an outright refusal…or so he thought.

No sooner did Cregan open the door than a messenger approached the study, bearing a burlap sack that stunk of charred meat.

The messenger bowed respectfully. "Lord Stark, Prince Aemond did not wish to risk a disturbance by coming to you himself, but he asked me to bring this to you," he said, extending the sack. "A gift."

Cregan frowned. "What is it?" he asked, opening the sack…then frowning deeper. "Or I suppose I should ask who is it?"

Cregan opened the sack wide enough for Jace to see the severed head inside. A severed head covered in blackened flesh and reeking of dragon smoke.

The messenger nodded again. "Yes, Lord Stark. I asked the same thing. Apparently, Prince Aemond was informed about our problem with the band of wildling raiders, and he took it upon himself to resolve the matter for us."

Cregan blinked incredulously, looking into the sack again. "The wildling raiders…the ones we've linked to more than three dozen deaths just this season? Gods only know how many rapes and raids…"

"The very same, Lord Stark," the messenger confirmed. "Aemond found them swiftly on Vhagar. And once he did, they were no match for her flames."

Fucking hell, Jace bit back his growl of anger. Now the North was going to see that evil fucking cunt as some sort of hero. We didn't even know about the raiders! We could have done the exact same thing!

But they hadn't, and the look on Cregan's face as he studied the charred head told Jace that his chances of winning the North were slipping through his fingers like water through a sieve.

I pray House Stark will do the right thing, Jace thought. But I must prepare for them to side with Aegon.

But as bleak as it looked, all hope was not lost.

Aegon the Conqueror had less than we have now when he claimed the Seven Kingdoms, Jace told himself as he wished Cregan goodnight and retired to his suite. Less…and more. He didn't win the kingdoms with armies; he won them with dragons.

They had more than the Greens. And while it was true that the Greens' dragons were larger and more battle tested than all but Caraxes, all hope was not lost.

I must pitch my last idea to mother when I get back to Dragonstone tomorrow, Jace decided. We must find riders for Vermithor, Silverwing, and the wild dragons…