8:30 a.m.
"You two better start laying soon," Daeron said, crouched outside the chicken coop, gently petting his pair of plump little hens.
The chicks were growing quickly — their downy fluff thickening into soft feathers.
"Cluck, cluck," cooed Coconut, the white one, nestled happily against his chest with her eyes half-closed.
Daeron chuckled, setting her down and dusting off his hands. "That's enough for today. See you tomorrow."
He had plenty to do.
After selling his first harvest of potatoes, he'd kept three for his next few meals — two silver-quality and one normal — and sold the remaining seven. The payment wouldn't deposit until the day's end, but that was fine.
For now, he pruned a few trees, cut down stray weeds, and made sure to pet the chickens while they roamed the pasture.
It wasn't glamorous — but this, he realized, would be his everyday rhythm for a while.
"Check the mail, send a reply or two…" he muttered, gathering his things.
He grabbed Count Owen's gift basket, now repurposed as his delivery tray, tucked two sealed letters inside, and set off toward the road.
The first new letter was from the farm's mailbox — an invitation to the beach, 7.5 kilometers east, to collect a fishing rod.
The two outgoing ones were his own — one written last night, another this morning.
Leaving Dragon-Tongue Farm, Daeron followed the forested trail. Down at the foothill, he spotted Ser Jon training shirtless, sword flashing in the early light.
Daeron didn't interrupt — just smiled faintly and kept walking.
Lately, he'd felt subtle changes in his body — sharper senses, steadier breathing, a growing awareness of something deeper inside. Life energy.
And it seemed the world itself pulsed with it; wildflowers, grasses, even fallen leaves shone faintly to his perception.
Time to put that sensitivity to use — foraging would build yet another skill.
9:30 a.m.
"Good morning, Ser Jon."
Daeron walked into the small clearing beside the camp. The knight looked up, startled mid-bite as he roasted a fresh rabbit over the fire.
"Your Grace! You're safe?" he asked quickly, standing and bowing. "The King would have my head if you'd vanished from the mountain last night."
"The cottage was warm, and the fire steady," Daeron replied with an easy laugh, sitting down beside the fire and setting the basket down.
He pulled out two sealed envelopes.
"What are those?" asked Jon.
"A favor," Daeron said. "I need these delivered back to King's Landing."
He pointed to the first. "This one goes to Grand Maester Pycelle. Tell him to dispatch a raven immediately — to Dragonstone. It's for my brother."
At the mention of Rhaegar, Ser Jon's posture straightened. "At once, my prince. And the other?"
"For my teacher," Daeron said calmly. "Lord Tywin."
Jon froze. His mind blanked.
Teacher? Tywin?
He knew those words separately — but together, they made as much sense as wildfire raining from the sky.
"You… you mean the Hand of the King?" he asked, pale.
Daeron nodded without hesitation. "Lord Tywin is my tutor. My father — your king — is… not in the best state to instruct me. Tywin is."
He spoke evenly, almost casually. "It's thanks to him that I even have my fief. Every bit of my success so far — I owe him guidance."
Jon just stared, eyes wide.
That was not the answer he'd expected from the quiet, soft-spoken prince he'd guarded these past two months.
"Ser Jon," Daeron said gently. "I trust you."
He handed over the letters. "You've guarded me for two months and fifteen days. I think that earns you a little trust, don't you?"
The subtext was clear — you're one of mine now.
Jon stared silently at the boy — no, the young man — before him.
Daeron slid the fruit basket toward him. "Inside are special crops — from Lord Owen's estate. I'm giving them to you."
That hit a nerve.
"My prince, I am a Kingsguard," Jon said sharply, his face hardening. "We don't take gifts."
Daeron lifted a hand calmly. "Please. I'm not foolish enough to think a basket of fruit could buy the honor of a White Knight."
Gold could buy obedience — but not loyalty.
Jon frowned. "Then what, Your Grace? Bored of royal luxury already?"
There was genuine irritation in his voice. Under normal circumstances, Ser Jonothor Darry never snapped — he was known as the most even-tempered of the White Cloaks. But this… was different.
Daeron sobered, meeting his eyes squarely. "Because I trust you," he said simply. "That's all. My gift asks nothing in return."
The words carried a quiet truth.
Jon's anger faded, replaced with discomfort — and then with understanding. "My apologies, my prince," he said at last, bowing his head. "A knight guards his honor by instinct. I spoke out of turn."
Daeron smiled. "No apology needed." He pushed the basket gently back toward him. "I also heard Ser Oswell Whent, with help from the others, has mastered the control of life energy. You wouldn't want to fall behind, would you?"
Jon hesitated, eyes narrowing slightly. "Oswell… Whent?"
Daeron saw the flicker of interest and hid his grin.
The Kingsguard had always been seven strong. Of Aerys II's current seven, one aged Stormlander had been bedridden since last year — likely not long for this world.
That left six knights still active:
Gerold "the White Bull" Hightower, Barristan the Bold, and Jonothor Darry in King's Landing;
Arthur Dayne, Prince Lewyn Martell, and Oswell Whent serving Rhaegar on Dragonstone.
No wonder Aerys simmered with paranoia.
Half his protectors follow his son — and heir, in name only.
Daeron almost laughed. "Bold of them," he thought. "And Father wonders why Rhaegar's ambitions disgust him."
Jon cleared his throat. "My prince, I—"
He stopped himself. Despite his loyalty to Rhaegar as Crown Prince, his oath bound him to the King first — and by extension, the King's blood.
In truth, he admired Rhaegar, respected him deeply… but had never felt close to him.
Arthur and Lewyn were both Dornish; Oswell was Rhaegar's lifelong friend; and Jon, well — someone had to stay behind to protect the Mad King.
He hesitated, then said quietly, "My prince, I… don't know if—"
Daeron interrupted softly. "Ser Jon. I told you, I expect nothing in return. But if this helps you strengthen yourself — it helps protect me, and my father."
A long silence passed.
At last, Jon exhaled, shoulders loosening, and nodded. "Then… thank you, my prince. I'll accept."
He glanced down at the basket, lips tightening in slight embarrassment. "And I'll train harder. I can't let the others pull too far ahead."
Daeron's eyes glinted.
A small victory — subtle, quiet, but meaningful.
As the morning light rippled over the hills of the Riverlands, the young prince turned back toward his mountain home, smiling to himself.
He wasn't just cultivating land anymore.
He was cultivating people.
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