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The morning light over King's Landing had barely kissed the Blackwater docks when a thunderous cheer ripped through the city.
Fruit-peddling vendors forgot their calls. Women clutching bolts of cloth stopped dead in their tracks. Even the gold cloaks on patrol froze mid-step.
The royal herald stood on the Red Keep plaza, blood-stained parchment held high, his voice cracking like lightning over the crowd. "Victory in the Marches! Dornish Sand Snake Obara Sand launched a night raid on the allied camp and was ambushed and crushed by Lord Boremund Baratheon of Storm's End and Lord Donnel Tarly of Horn Hill! The Sand Snake fled into the Dornish desert with a handful of survivors—she didn't even dare approach the Red Mountains!"
The roar that answered shook the streets of King's Landing.
Kids waving makeshift crowned-stag banners from the last tourney sprinted past. Tavern keepers rolled out their best barrels of ale for free. Blacksmiths hammered their anvils in rhythmic celebration, turning the city into one giant party.
On the eastern side of the plaza, a cluster of old Stormlands veterans who'd fought under Lord Rogar back in the day grabbed one another in bear hugs. One grizzled man jabbed a finger at the "Baratheon" name on the proclamation, eyes wet. "Lord Rogar held the Marches with the king thirty years ago. Now Lord Boremund's done it again! The Baratheon stag is the shield of the Marches!"
The news flew on wings. By the time Daemon stepped out of the intelligence room, Rayford was already sprinting toward him, scroll in hand, face lit up like a lantern.
"Your Highness! Word from the Marches—Lord Boremund won! Obara Sand slipped away, but the allied force lost fewer than a hundred men and captured twenty Dornish supply wagons!"
Daemon took the scroll, fingers brushing the words ambush and crushing defeat. A slow grin tugged at his mouth.
He remembered Borros back at Mistwood bragging that the Stormlanders would teach the Sand Snakes what real men were made of. Looks like his father Boremund had beaten him to it with a textbook-perfect trap. Not only had he driven the Dornish off—he'd bought the Iron Throne another thirty years of peace on the border.
"Come with me," Daemon said, already turning toward the royal apartments. "His Grace and the queen will want to celebrate this one in style."
Grey Ghost came trotting after him, a little pale-grey dragon with a silk handkerchief embroidered with Dreamfyre's sigil clamped in his jaws. Gael must have dropped it during one of her visits to the intelligence room; the little guy had turned it into his new favorite toy.
The Red Keep's great hall was already buzzing.
Servants in crisp new livery laid out silver platters of roast boar, cherry pies, and honeyed pastries. On the walls hung fresh tapestries—Jaehaerys riding Vermithor to support Lord Rogar Baratheon in the third Dornish war. Fresh logs crackled in the hearths, filling the stone chamber with warm, golden light.
Queen Alysanne sat by the window, directing Alicent and the Red Keep maids as they arranged fresh flowers down the long table. When she saw Daemon she waved him over with a bright smile. "Little Daemon, perfect timing. Your grandfather heard the news at dawn and has already ordered a full feast."
King Jaehaerys sat on the high seat, clutching Boremund's report, silver beard trembling with pride. The moment he spotted Daemon he beckoned him close, voice thick with satisfaction.
"Boremund hasn't disgraced the Baratheon name! His father Rogar held the Marches for thirty years—now the son has given us another thirty years of peace with one brilliant ambush!"
Prince Baelon stood beside him, violet eyes shining with approval. "Lord Boremund set the perfect trap. He let the allied camp look vulnerable, then had Lord Donnel Tarly circle around with the Reachmen and hit the Sand Snakes from behind. Obara's raiders never stood a chance. She took heavy losses—she won't dare test the Marches again anytime soon."
Right on cue, Gael swept in, lifting the hem of her pale-violet gown. Brienne Tarth and Lia Osgrey flanked her; Mysaria and Johanna Swann followed, carrying a food box between them.
"Father. Mother." She curtsied gracefully, eyes sparkling as they landed on Daemon. "We just came from the dragon pit to see Dreamfyre. When we heard about the victory, I had the kitchens bake fresh honey cakes for everyone."
Alysanne took her youngest daughter's hand and pulled her down beside her. "Always thinking of everyone, my sweet Winter Child. Your father heard the news and immediately started craving something sweet."
She opened the box. The rich smell of warm honey cakes rolled out—each one stamped with tiny crowned stags and three-headed dragons, made specially for the celebration.
By mid-afternoon the nobles still in the city for the victory feasts began arriving.
Tymond Lannister strode in wearing a golden-lion robe, wine cup already in hand. He bowed to Jaehaerys. "The Westerlands toast Lord Boremund's triumph, Your Grace! The smiths of Lannisport are already forging victory medallions for the heroes. They'll reach the Marches in a few days."
Corlys Velaryon arrived in gleaming silver armor, seahorse cloak draped over one shoulder, brass spyglass in hand. "With the Marches secure, trade from the Sunset Sea to the Summer Sea—and across the Narrow Sea—will flow smoother than ever. I've already dispatched three silver ships with supplies for Lord Boremund and a look at the border defenses."
Borros Baratheon was last, still in dark-green leathers, left shoulder fully healed. He dropped to one knee the second he crossed the threshold, reciting the speech Lorent Grandison and the others had drilled into him all morning.
"On behalf of my father, Lord Boremund, the Stormlands thank Your Grace for this victory!"
He thumped his chest. "When we return to Storm's End, I'll train with my father and brothers. Next time any Sand Snake dares raid the Iron Throne's borders, I'll personally put Obara Sand's head on a spike for you, Your Grace!"
Jaehaerys laughed so hard his crown tilted. "Rise, lad! That's the Baratheon fire I like to see! Sit with Little Daemon and the Rogue Prince tonight—you young wolves can swap battle stories."
The feast kicked off in earnest. Tables groaned under roast boar, smoked salmon, cherry pies, Arbor gold, and Summer Isles amber wine.
Jaehaerys raised his cup, voice ringing through the hall. "Tonight we celebrate two things: Lord Boremund Baratheon's great victory in the Marches, and another generation of peace on our southern border! I decree: three thousand gold dragons to Lord Boremund, one thousand to Lord Donnel Tarly of Horn Hill, and three gold dragons to every soldier who fought!"
A fortune in any era—back before Robert Baratheon started throwing ten thousand dragons at tourney prizes like they were copper pennies. A full suit of good plate and mail cost barely four dragons. One gold dragon bought thirty silver moons or two hundred and ten silver stags or nearly twelve thousand copper pennies. In the villages, a roasted sausage and a mug of ale cost one copper.
"Long live the king!" The cheer shook the rafters as cups crashed together.
Daemon clinked his cup with Borros and the Rogue Prince, then glanced across at Gael. She was delicately eating a honey cake with a tiny silver fork, violet eyes dancing. When she caught him looking she lifted her cup in a private toast.
Tymond Lannister took a sip of wine and leaned toward Corlys. "Boremund's victory doesn't just push Dorne back—it brings the Reach and Stormlands closer together. Lord Donnel Tarly is a practical man. Westerlands-Reach trade should flow even smoother now."
Corlys nodded, gaze sweeping the younger generation filling the hall:
Eric Dondarrion trading war stories with Roland Connington. The Fell brothers arguing Dornish terrain. Ellyn Redwyne quietly schooling his little brother Horas and Rickard Rowan. The two Daemons and Borros laughing over their cups.
These were the men who would guard the Seven Kingdoms tomorrow.
Daemon set his cup down, warmth spreading through his chest.
From the Stepstones sea battles to the Iron Islands' submission to today's Marches triumph, the realm's fragile peace finally felt real.
He thought of Gael's promise—their wedding on Dragonstone—and Vaegon's words about the stars. This victory felt like the perfect gift.
Grey Ghost curled happily at his feet, gnawing on a fallen cherry tart.
Under the table Gael slipped him another honey cake. He took a bite; the sweetness melted on his tongue like the feeling in his heart right now.
He looked at her. She smiled back, violet eyes reflecting candlelight, warm as winter sun.
Halfway through the feast Jaehaerys spoke again, voice rich with pride. "Lord Boremund and his father before him have always been true swords of the Iron Throne. Rogar held the Marches against countless Dornish attacks. Now Boremund has written the next chapter. But with loyal lords like him, with all of you here, and with the next generation of Westeros rising—I believe the peace we've won today will last thirty years, sixty years, maybe forever."
Queen Alysanne squeezed the king's hand. "When Lord Boremund returns to court, I'll sew him a new cloak myself—crowned stag and three-headed dragon side by side, to show the eternal bond between Storm's End and the Iron Throne."
Cheers and applause rolled through the hall.
Daemon looked around at the joy, the unity, the future sitting at these tables and felt something settle deep in his bones.
Dorne had retreated. New challenges would come. But as long as the crown and the lords stood together, as long as men like Boremund still drew breath, the peace of the Seven Kingdoms would endure.
Night deepened. Candlelight still blazed in the great hall.
Laughter, toasts, and the clink of cups spilled out the open windows, blending with the revelry filling the streets of King's Landing below.
Daemon took Gael's hand and stepped to the window, looking out at the star-filled sky.
The Marches were safe. The last piece of this year's wars—the Iron King Goron Greyjoy personally laying his crown at the Iron Throne—would close the book.
Then it would be time for their betrothal.
Vaegon said next month's stars were perfect for a wedding. When that day came, the peace of the Marches and the quiet of the Narrow Sea would be the most beautiful backdrop any Old Valyrian ceremony could ever have.