Lord Merryweather blinked, then broke into a delighted grin. "My prince, you're coming back?"
Lord Tytos hurried forward at the news.
Daeron moved faster, clasping the older man's sword-calloused hands with both of his own. His voice was thick with genuine regret. "Uncle Tytos, I can't thank you enough for everything these past months."
Tytos was a vigorous middle-aged man, his frame hardened by years in the saddle and the training yard—the very model of an old-fashioned nobleman.
"King's Landing isn't safe," he said bluntly. "You'd be better off staying at Raventree until I can knight you properly. I'll speak to His Grace on your behalf."
Tytos never minced words or played politics. It was one of the things Daeron genuinely liked about him.
Daeron smiled ruefully. They really did get along.
His use of "uncle" wasn't just courtesy—there was actual blood between them, however distant.
His great-grandfather Aegon V had been called "the Unlikely King." Some people still called him "Egg" behind closed doors, a nickname from his youth when he'd lived as a hedge knight's squire—a story that would be told for generations.
After becoming king, Aegon V had married Betha Blackwood.
By the family tree, Tytos would call Betha his great-aunt, and Aerys would call her grandmother. That made Daeron and Tytos... well, something like distant nephew and uncle, if you squinted at it right.
Whether the relationship actually meant anything depended on whether both parties chose to acknowledge it.
Aerys certainly didn't. He couldn't care less about the Blackwoods' ancient marriage ties.
But Daeron had managed to leverage that connection, though it had taken some creative maneuvering.
The Blackwoods and the Brackens—the Riverlands called them "the Double B's."
Their feud stretched back a thousand years. They might not have brawled every week, but they were definitely fire and water.
The year before Rhaegar's wedding, the two houses had clashed again. The reason didn't matter—there was always a reason.
Disputes between bannermen should have been handled by House Tully, Lords Paramount of the Trident.
But the Tullys owed their position to the Targaryens and lacked the clout to rein in two houses nearly their equal in power and prestige.
Simply put: not enough respect, not enough authority.
Lord Tully had followed protocol and reported the matter to the Iron Throne.
Aerys heard the complaint and immediately forgot about it. If you can't even manage your own bannermen, what good are you?
The matter eventually landed on the Hand's desk. Lord Tywin investigated and determined the Blackwoods were in the right.
When Tywin reported his findings to the king, Aerys flew into a rage.
Everyone says you're so wise and just, Tywin Lannister. They say the Hand is the real king while I just sit pretty and reap the rewards. Well, isn't that something!
You say the Blackwoods are right? Then I'll back the Brackens instead.
He'd been ready to send men to the Riverlands to enforce his spite.
In the original timeline, this very incident had alienated House Blackwood—traditionally staunch royalists who simply stayed home during Robert's Rebellion.
If Daeron didn't act, history would repeat itself.
So he'd stepped in.
Favoritism? Nobody understood favoritism better than him.
Aerys adored his second son. When Daeron sided with him, the king had been overjoyed.
Daeron seized the opportunity to leave King's Landing.
Once he reached the Riverlands, he'd dragged the ineffectual Lord Tully out of Riverrun and called both houses to a meeting.
Publicly, he supported the Brackens—satisfying his father's absurd decree.
In practice, he ordered the Brackens to return the pastureland they'd seized from the Blackwoods and compensate them for lost grazing and wounded men.
Would the Brackens agree?
They would. They had to.
The Crown had spoken. With Daeron backing Lord Tully's authority, no Riverlords dared object.
The move naturally won the Blackwoods' gratitude.
When Daeron explained his situation and mentioned their blood ties, Lord Tytos had been happy to take him on as a squire.
The whole affair had shown Tytos exactly how incompetent the king was—and awakened his protective instincts toward the young prince. He'd been happy to help.
Not out of ambition, though. Like every other lord in the Seven Kingdoms, Tytos had his hopes pinned on the renowned crown prince Rhaegar. Even someone as politically disinterested as Tytos now counted himself among those eager for Rhaegar to take the throne.
"I'll be fine, Uncle Tytos." Daeron squeezed the man's hands reassuringly, glancing past him toward Lord Merryweather. "Besides, my father plans to reward me for this."
Merryweather nodded eagerly. "Indeed, my prince."
This wasn't his first visit. He'd already relayed the prince's hidden condition to both the king and the Hand.
A fief of his own!
Merryweather could hardly believe the boy had the stones to ask for it. But he had to admit—the prince had guts.
"Well then, I can rest easy." Lord Tytos's weathered face relaxed.
The next morning, Daeron packed his belongings and joined the royal party heading back to King's Landing.
At their parting, Daeron clasped Tytos's hands again, urging him repeatedly to take care of himself, dress warmly in the lingering cold, and watch what he ate and drank.
The gruff warrior's composure cracked slightly. His jaw worked, but he only managed a tight nod.
Five days later, the walls of King's Landing rose on the horizon.
Daeron rode a white palfrey in the middle of the column. Ahead rode the White Bull with his distinctive horned helm. To his left was Ser Jon Connington; to his right, Lord Merryweather.
"My prince, we're nearly there."
Merryweather offered a waterskin, pulling Daeron from his thoughts.
Daeron shook his head politely, declining.
With no one close enough to overhear, Merryweather leaned in conspiratorially. "My prince, His Grace values you so highly. Why ask for a fief at all?"
For House Targaryen, being named Prince of Dragonstone was the traditional mark of an heir.
He didn't understand why Daeron would pass up a chance at Dragonstone for some other holding.
Daeron gave him a flat look. "Dragonstone is Rhaegar's seat now. Do you think he'd give it to me?"
"Ah... well..."
Merryweather had no answer to that.
Daeron spurred his horse forward, putting distance between them.
When he drew level with Ser Gerold, the implacable Kingsguard turned his head slightly and gave Daeron a small nod of acknowledgment.
Daeron returned the gesture. They didn't speak.
Why ask for a fief instead of fighting for Dragonstone? First, because he didn't want to fight. Second, because he'd lose.
But the real reason...
Daeron's vision flickered. A translucent panel materialized before his eyes, displaying five bold characters: [Stardew Valley System]
A system interface. His personal golden finger.
The name "Stardew Valley" reminded him of that farming simulator game—the one that promised to free you from urban 9-to-5 drudgery, only to trap you in a beautiful 6-to-2 AM farming schedule instead.
And somehow, just thinking about it made his body ache with that peculiar satisfaction of exhausting work well done.
The system's activation requirement was simple: own a farm of his own.
That was why he needed a fief.
"My prince, we've reached the Red Keep."
Ser Gerold's gravelly voice drew Daeron's attention forward.
Ahead, weathered black iron gates loomed against the sky. Red dragon banners snapped in the wind on either side—three heads on a field of crimson.
The Red Keep. Home.
"Brother! Brother, I'm up here!"
High on the battlements, a silver-haired boy of six or seven bounced excitedly, waving both arms and shouting.
Daeron grinned, dismounting and walking through the castle's outer courtyard.
"Brother!!"
A small, warm body came sprinting toward him, yelling the whole way before slamming into his chest like a cannonball.
Daeron caught him easily, scooping him up with a genuine smile.
His little brother Jaehaerys—the one whose infancy Daeron had watched over so carefully.
Jaehaerys was over the moon to see him. Words tumbled out in a rush. "You're finally back! Was the Riverlands beautiful?"
"Very. Green hills and flowing rivers everywhere."
"..."
The brothers chatted easily as they walked inside, ignoring the stares of servants and guards.
"Brother," Jaehaerys said quietly as they entered Maegor's Holdfast, his small brow furrowing. "Father's been in a foul mood lately."
Daeron's expression didn't change. "It's fine. He's angry at Rhaegar, not us."
Jaehaerys nodded thoughtfully and snuggled closer without another word.
"Ha ha!"
"You can't catch me!"
Girlish laughter and squealing echoed from somewhere nearby.
Daeron glanced down through one of Maegor's ornate stained-glass windows. In the gardens below, three pretty girls were chasing each other, their elegant gowns swirling as they played.
All three were lovely, their figures budding into womanhood beneath their fine dresses.
The blonde being chased was especially striking—skin like cream, extraordinarily beautiful, with green eyes that held a subtle invitation, as if they could speak without words.
"Brother." Jaehaerys tugged at his sleeve.
Daeron looked away, offering a slight smile. "Never mind them. Let's go."
"Okay!"
Jaehaerys perked up immediately.
The Throne Room
A thousand swords from defeated enemies, melted by dragonfire into one Iron Throne. Blades jutted from every surface, twisted steps climbing awkwardly upward—one misstep meant a nasty fall.
The base was even more vicious. A forest of steel edges kept everyone at bay while isolating the monarch above.
Daeron came alone to meet his father.
On the Iron Throne sat a gaunt man with long silver-gold hair hanging loose around his face. His head was bowed so low his features were hidden. He muttered something under his breath.
Daeron couldn't make out the words. He approached casually, used to this.
Shing! Shing!
When he reached the edge of the blade forest surrounding the throne's base, two Kingsguard half-drew their swords, barring his way.
Ser Gerold and Ser Jon.
Daeron stopped, taking stock of everyone present.
On the throne's steps stood another Kingsguard, broad-shouldered and solid, one hand resting on his sword hilt as he guarded the king.
No other white cloaks were visible.
To one side of the hall stood two men, positioned several feet apart despite being on the same "team."
One was elderly and stooped, with white hair and a grey maester's robe.
Grand Maester Pycelle.
The other was bald, draped in fine black robes, his face powdered and rouged.
This man wore a gentle smile, hands tucked into his sleeves. When Daeron's eyes found him, he bowed slightly with perfect courtesy.
The Master of Whisperers. "The Spider." Lord Varys.