Tywin bolted for his life, twisting in the saddle to glance back at Robert charging on that nightmare elk.
The Lannister army had been smashed apart, but a handful of men still stuck with him.
He stayed low among them, using their bodies as shields against the arrows.
"Keep after them! The man in the red cloak is Tywin Lannister!"
Robert's booming laugh rolled across the battlefield. His eyes never left Tywin's flashy armor. He was already picturing the ransom he'd squeeze out of the Iron Throne and the entire Westerlands.
"Damn it all!"
Tywin cursed under his breath and tore off his proud crimson cloak.
The red fabric whipped away and slapped across a Lannister soldier's face, yanking the man clean off his horse.
Robert's giant elk leaped a full three yards high, clearing the tumbling rider and mount without breaking stride. Still locked on Tywin, he growled, "After them! The one with the beard is Tywin Lannister!"
Tywin's eyes went wide. He scanned the riders around him—every single one was a beardless kid.
Desperate now, he yanked the dagger from his belt, set his jaw, and sliced off his neatly trimmed golden beard.
Inside, the hatred boiled over.
That bastard Robert!
Did the oaf have any idea how much work it took a balding middle-aged man to keep a stylish beard?
"Short-beard is Tywin Lannister!"
Robert thundered after them again.
Tywin's blood pressure spiked. He snatched a strip of cloth from his horse's barding, wrapped it around his chin like a bandit's mask, and hid everything.
Fear had fogged his mind—he was trying to disappear.
Sure enough, the next shout came instantly: "Gold hair and gold armor—that's Tywin Lannister!"
Tywin nearly screamed. He finally realized the Stormlord was just toying with him.
"Block the gates!!"
Robert caught up to the main Lannister knot and had to slow down, but his eyes stayed glued to the one man who stood out like a golden beacon in the chaos.
Robert laughed from the bottom of his heart.
Did this fool really think anyone could wear that gaudy armor on a real battlefield?
Without real skill to back it up, who the hell would be stupid enough to dress like a walking target?
By now the entire town was on fire—inside and out.
The isolated Lannister force was getting shredded by Robert's vanguard. They were already breaking.
Kevan fought like a demon, cutting a path out of the gates with his personal guard.
But when he finally looked back, his older brother was nowhere to be seen.
"Where is he?!"
Kevan's eyes bulged with fury. He grabbed the nearest guard by the collar and roared.
King's Landing – Red Keep
After waiting nearly two weeks, Daeron finally met the red priestess Varys had promised.
"Honored Prince, faithful servant of the Lord of Light, Melisandre greets you with all sincerity."
The red woman bowed gracefully. Her figure was impossible to ignore—mature, sensual, her voice like warm honey.
"Rise."
Daeron lifted a hand, thinking, Yep. Definitely Melisandre.
She straightened, revealing a heart-shaped face, vivid red eyes, and long copper-red hair that screamed exotic beauty.
Daeron didn't underestimate her for a second.
He could feel the heat rolling off her—thick, overflowing fire-magic.
Different from the Vitality system… do fire sorcerers leak power like this?
He quickly dismissed the thought. Wisdom Rossart had carried some fire-magic too, but nothing this obvious. Daeron's own blood ran with steady, controlled flame.
She's just… overfilled. Like a cream puff about to burst.
Given her age, he could guess why.
Melisandre rested one elegant hand on her hip and smiled. "Honored Prince, you seem to have been expecting me?"
"Have I?" Daeron glanced sideways at Varys.
The Spider suddenly found the floor fascinating.
"Of course," Melisandre answered smoothly. She glided to the hearth like a mystic from legend, trailed a finger through the flames, and said softly, "This morning the Lord of Light told me you have many questions."
What a show.
Daeron knew exactly who she was. He treated her like a supercharged fortune-telling TV and cut straight to it. "Tell me your thoughts on the magic tide."
Here it comes.
Melisandre's red eyes flashed. First test—passed.
She gathered herself and spoke with perfect gravity. "I come from Asshai. The High Priest of the Red Temple there told me this tide is different from any before."
"It is… raging."
"Be more specific," Daeron said calmly.
Melisandre's expression turned solemn. "I can tell you this: the tide began building with the red comet more than a decade ago. It truly surged the moment you hatched your dragons."
"If nothing changes, the waves will soon reach the same height they held right before the Doom."
Daeron's face stayed blank. "How many dragons did the Freehold have back then?"
"How would I know? I wasn't born yet." She still gave an answer. "The Freehold was at its peak—four or five hundred dragons at least."
Varys sucked in a sharp breath.
Daeron shot him a look. I didn't even react and you're hyperventilating?
"Sorry," the Spider muttered.
The number was staggering.
During the Dance of the Dragons, the Targaryens had owned twenty-two dragons—and that was already considered a golden age compared to the later years.
But four or five hundred?
That was the power level before the Doom.
Melisandre smiled and said nothing more.
In truth, her order's calculations suggested the tide could climb all the way back to Valyrian heights.
Exactly how high? They still couldn't say.
That was why she had crossed the Narrow Sea—to win the Dragon Prince's favor and stand at the center of the coming storm.
Dragons were fountains of fire-magic.
Standing beside one would give her limitless power.
"Lord Varys, find Lady Melisandre suitable lodgings in King's Landing."
Daeron could see she wanted something, but he wasn't about to expose her yet.
She wasn't a good person. She'd commit any atrocity for her Lord of Light.
Still… she was here now.
He wasn't letting her leave.
Varys bowed. "I have a modest manse on Silk Street. Would that suffice?"
Daeron waved a hand—whatever.
Knock-knock-knock!
The door rattled under urgent fists. Ser Jon Darry's voice came through. "Prince! Bad news!"
Small Council chamber
Daeron sat in the Hand's seat, filling in for both his father and Tywin.
"Tumblestone has fallen," Maester Aemon read the fresh raven scroll, stunned. "Robert's rebels are marching straight on Deerfield."
Daeron's mind filled with question marks.
Robert's target had always been Deerfield. Why detour and take Tumblestone?
"Where's Lord Tywin?" Lord Corlton asked blankly.
Maester Aemon's frown deepened until he looked almost embarrassed to speak.
"I'll handle this," Varys said, taking the scroll. "The loyalist army was routed. Only Ser Kevan escaped with a remnant of Lannister troops. They're hovering outside Deerfield."
"Where. Is. Tywin?" Daeron's voice had gone dangerously flat.
Tumblestone wasn't even on Robert's route. How had Tywin managed to lose the town and scatter the army?
"Well…" Varys hesitated, then produced a second letter. "This came from Greenvale. According to Lord Meadows, Lord Tywin arrived alone on horseback beneath their walls."
"He couldn't confirm the identity, so Lord Meadows refused to open the gates and left him outside."
Daeron's vision actually went black for a second.
You have got to be kidding me.
Kevan was still tearing the countryside apart looking for his brother… while Tywin had sprinted solo all the way to Greenvale.
"Prince, we don't have time to worry about Lord Tywin's exact location," Lord Corlton cut in urgently. "The front is collapsing."
The Reach host was still days away from Deerfield—marching twenty to thirty miles a day at best. Robert's army might not wait that long.
Daeron drew a slow breath and made the call. "Raven to Randyll Tarly—light cavalry, day and night, reinforce Deerfield immediately."
"Raven to Ser Kevan—stop hunting for Tywin. Harass Robert's host from the Kingswood. Buy the Deerfield garrison breathing room."
"I'll write them now," Varys said, already scribbling.
Daeron stood the moment the letters were sealed and headed straight for the Dragonpit.
Distant reinforcements wouldn't arrive in time.
He and Caraxes were faster than any army on earth.
Deerfield
The hilltop castle was ringed in fire. Ten thousand Stormlands rebels surrounded it three layers deep.
Robert stood on a distant rise, scowling as his men battered the walls.
Westerosi lords built castles, not pretty Essosi palaces, for exactly this reason: comfort was sacrificed for defense.
Robert was a warrior, but he'd marched in a hurry. His army had no proper siege engines.
So he'd split his force—most of the Stormlanders were already racing toward Ashford while he personally led ten thousand to pin Deerfield down.
The castle was tiny; even ten thousand men had to rotate in waves.
"My lord, those three loyalist lords are about to crack," Lord Ralph Buckler said shrewdly. "They'll sally out soon."
The castle's greatest strength was also its greatest weakness. Three thousand men simply couldn't all fit inside.
Robert's lightning strike had caught them flat-footed. The initiative was his.
When the defenders' fear finally boiled over, they'd charge out.
That would be the moment to crush them.
"Hold the line here. When the gates open, send for me."
Robert was rough, not stupid. He'd already seen the trap forming. He just hated this kind of ugly siege.
These three lords were Stormlanders. Open battle, no matter the casualties, could be forgiven later. A long siege would leave scars that never healed.
The next morning at first light—
"Ram the gates!!"
Stormlands shock troops—thirty men carrying a massive log, shields overhead—charged the iron-banded doors of Castle Cafferen.
Arrows and stones rained down. They didn't care. They slammed the ram home again and again.
Boom! Boom!
The reinforced gates shuddered and began to buckle.
"We can't wait!" Lord Cafferen snarled after a day and night of defense. "The gate's about to fall."
The Iron Throne's help had never come.
Better to die fighting than cower inside.
"I'll lead the charge!" Lord Fell roared. The huge man wore full plate and swung a morningstar.
His son "Silver-Axe" Fell stood at his side, battle-axe ready.
Lord Grandison gave a silent nod, steeling himself for the bloody melee.
His uncle, the late "Aged Harlan Grandison," had once been a Kingsguard. House Grandison would not disgrace that name today.
Boom! Boom!
The Stormlands assault grew fiercer. The iron-banded doors were twisting and splintering.
"Put your backs into it! When Deerfield falls, we feast!"
Robert rode his giant elk onto the field, warhammer high, voice thundering over the roar.
The castle would be his in minutes.
Nothing could stop his army from sweeping south and smashing the Reach host.
"Ready!!" Lord Cafferen bellowed. His men packed tight behind the gates.
The second the doors gave way they would charge out and die like lions.
"One—two—three—RAM!"
The attackers' chant shook the stones. The gates visibly warped.
"Almost there!"
Robert gripped his hammer, flooding his muscles with Vitality, ready to end it.
Then a piercing cry split the sky.
"Huh?"
Robert looked up. A tiny red speck had appeared on the horizon.
The speck grew with terrifying speed, shattering the clouds as it arrowed straight toward them.
Robert's eyes widened.
A red dragon.
"DRAGON!!"
He roared the warning.
Daeron arrived on Caraxes at full speed, soaring over the jagged hills and straight above Deerfield.
He took one look at the slaughter below and didn't hesitate.
"Dracarys!"
Skreeeee—!
Caraxes screamed, molten-gold eyes blazing with murder. A volcano of crimson flame erupted from his jaws.
In a single heartbeat the front ranks of the Stormlands ram team became living torches, shrieking as they burned alive.
It didn't stop there.
Caraxes banked low and swept the entire siege line with a roaring curtain of fire. Screams rose in a hellish chorus.
"It's the dragon!"
Lord Cafferen's head snapped up. Pure joy flooded his face.
Lord Fell roared, "Prince Daeron is here! Follow me—charge!!"
The defenders smashed their own failing gates open from inside. Thousands of loyalist soldiers poured out like wolves, fear and exhaustion forgotten.
The tide of battle had just turned.