"What about Joffrey?"
The voice cut through the room like a bad joke at a funeral.
Daeron froze. Every head in the council chamber turned toward the source. There stood Tyrion, grinning like he'd just solved world hunger, his ugly little face lit up with pure mischief.
"Joffrey Targaryen," Tyrion said, spreading his hands like he was presenting a masterpiece. "Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"
The young king's voice dropped to ice. "Get the fuck out."
"Got it." Tyrion threw up his hands and scuttled out before anyone could throw something at him.
Daeron's temper flared hot. If it hadn't been an honest mistake, he would've booted the dwarf out of the Small Council for good. What kind of cursed name was that?
"The heir's name carries the weight of the realm's future," Tywin said calmly, clearly angling for the honor himself. "We shouldn't take it lightly."
Daeron didn't even look at him. "Inar. Inar Targaryen."
Tywin's eyes narrowed. "That's not a traditional Targaryen name."
"It has meaning," Daeron said.
He'd already decided.
The name came from the old ancestor who'd led the family out of the eastern continent and onto Dragonstone. The one they called Inar the Exile. Tywin was right—it wasn't a name people used much. In the family histories, Inar the Exile was a complicated figure at best. Some said he'd listened to his daughter's prophetic dreams and sold everything to flee the Doom. Others whispered the family had lost a power struggle with the other dragonlords and ran to Dragonstone to lick their wounds and wait for a chance to rise again.
Either way, the name carried the taste of exile and survival. Daeron wanted it for his son anyway.
Tywin studied him, waiting for the real reason.
Maester Aemon's eyes had that faraway look, like he already suspected.
Daeron met their gazes. "The last Inar led our family away from the eastern continent and brought us to Westeros to survive. My Inar will lead us back. We're going to take back everything we lost."
The chamber went still.
Then the ministers started nodding, voices rising in agreement. They understood. This wasn't just a name. It was a promise. The Targaryens were done hiding on their little island. They were going east again. Dragons would rule the skies over the old lands once more.
Tywin gave a single, approving nod. "Then it's a fine name."
The flattery started flowing. Daeron let it wash over him. His eyes drifted to the window, thinking of the campaign ahead, of the Valyrian peninsula waiting across the sea.
Maester Aemon reached over and took his hand, warm and steady. "This child's life may be difficult."
Daeron squeezed back. "Anyone who wears the crown has to stand tall enough to keep the rain off everyone else."
"Good boy," Aemon said quietly, and for a moment it wasn't king and maester. Just family.
---
Summer Sea, southeast of Lys
The two fleets passed each other in the open water and kept going.
"Prince, the Volantenes are gone," Mys said, holding out a sealed letter.
Rhaegar took it without a word. His mood had been black for days. Lyn Corbray's betrayal still burned. The man had stolen one of his dragon eggs in the night and run. Alex had gone after him, but the damage was done.
Rhaegar broke the seal. The handwriting was Doran Martell's.
He read it slowly.
Lyn caught. Dragon egg given to Rhaenys by Daeron's order. And Doran demanding the betrothal to Visenya be dissolved.
Rhaegar exhaled through his nose. So that was it. Daeron had squeezed Dorne hard enough that Doran folded. The Iron Throne wanted Martell loyalty, and they were willing to trade a marriage for it.
Rhaegar wasn't surprised. He'd used the Martells the same way for years. Now the bill had come due, and Doran was the one paying.
"Prince, should I send a reply?" Mys asked.
Rhaegar tore the letter in half and let the pieces fall into the sea. "No. Doran won't want to hear from me."
He turned to go below. "I need sleep. Haven't had a decent night in weeks."
Mys watched him go, then went to find someone to chase down the Volantene ships.
Rhaegar had barely reached his cabin when the deck lurched hard. A sudden gust slammed into the sails, nearly knocking him off his feet.
"Prince, look out!"
Mys's voice. Then someone tackled him flat.
Rhaegar hit the deck and twisted to look up.
A young black dragon with red membranes under its wings swept low over the fleet, wings beating slow and powerful. It climbed again without slowing, heading east across the Summer Sea.
Rhaegar stared after it, heart pounding.
A dragon. Out here. Flying east.
Toward the Smoking Sea.
He pushed himself up, still watching the black shape disappear into the clouds.
"Send word to King's Landing," he said. "Ask if any dragons are missing from Dragonstone."
Mys nodded and hurried off.
Rhaegar stayed where he was, eyes on the eastern horizon.
Something was waking up out there.
And he had the sick feeling he was already caught in it.
---
Driftmark
Lord Lucerys stood on the deck of his flagship, watching the black dragon vanish into the distance.
"Gods damn it," he muttered. "Dragons don't just appear over the Summer Sea for no reason."
One of his men cleared his throat. "My lord… do we still sail east?"
Lucerys thought about it for three seconds.
Then he shook his head. "No. Turn for Driftmark. We're done out here."
The victory feast was long over. The king's orders had been carried out. The Stepstones were secure. And if he went back now, he could still rub Tywin Lannister's nose in the fact that the Velaryons had earned the first real glory in the east.
House Velaryon had been loyal to the Targaryens for generations. Tywin was just a grasping lion who thought he could take whatever he wanted.
Let the old man choke on it.
"Raise sail," Lucerys ordered. "We're going home."
The fleet turned, white sails catching the wind as they headed back toward the Narrow Sea and the safety of home waters.
Whatever was happening in the east could wait.
Lucerys had already taken his share of the glory.