Fifth day of spring, Friday, a windy morning, 8:30 a.m.
Daeron rose early, yet still arrived late.
When he reached the treasury gate, Count Owen was already waiting.
"You're here bright and early, Your Grace."
Daeron greeted him with a grin.
Ever since running the Dragon Language Farm, he'd given up ordinary food, eating only one or two meals a day, each made entirely of special crops.
This morning he'd breakfasted with Shae and the others—braised beans and tomatoes with grilled steak.
Onions in the stew were swapped for leeks, and wild horseradish stood in for the steak's usual spices; it tasted excellent but took forever.
Count Owen beamed: "His Majesty commanded we start at dawn—no dallying."
After pleasantries, they came to the point.
Count Owen looked troubled and said hesitantly, "Prince, with the treasury so short, the Small Council has wrestled with the matter and offers you two choices…"
"I'm listening," Daeron replied calmly.
Owen hurried on: "The master of coin, Lord Chelton Costayne, proposes first: we supply stone and timber to build your castle, then levy the peasants for labor."
"If that won't do, Lord Chelton can instead pay you eight thousand seven hundred golden dragons—what a castle is worth."
The king spoke off the cuff; the council could only improvise.
Though prepared, Daeron had to laugh: "Eight thousand seven hundred—down to the last coin."
Count Owen gave an embarrassed chuckle: "For emergencies, that's the ready coin we can spare."
In terms of sheer speed, the councillors were already being generous.
"Forget the gold—show me these materials you speak of."
Daeron understood and decided to see for himself.
By Seven Kingdoms prices, eight thousand seven hundred dragons could build a fine lord's seat, but fell far short of a princely palace.
"This way, Your Grace."
Count Owen quickly agreed and produced a key.
Rumble—
The long-sealed treasury doors swung open; dust motes swirled like murky crystals in the shaft of sunlight.
"Ahem—"
Daeron coughed and looked around.
It was less a treasury than Warehouse No. 3.
The real coin vault lay inside The Red Keep; the rest were storehouses scattered about King's Landing.
Hence this one was vast.
"Mind your step, prince."
Count Owen waved away dust and lit a torch.
Along the walls stood piles of irregular white marble slabs, enough to fill the cavernous space.
"These are?"
Daeron asked, intrigued.
"House Butterwell of Whitewalls," Count Owen said. "You may have heard of them."
To spare the prince's memory, he painted the tale in full.
An old Riverlands house, the Butterwells had risen under Aegon IV "the Unworthy" and early in Daeron II's reign.
Lord Ambrose Butterwell made his fortune selling milk, his wealth once rivaling the Lannisters and Tyrells.
With coin to spare he tore down the ancestral hall and raised a new keep of white marble.
All white, it was called Whitewalls.
Locals dubbed it the Milkhouse.
Ambrose was also a courtier, serving Aegon IV as master of coin.
His method of currying favor was despicable.
The night Aegon V stayed at Whitewalls, Ambrose sent his two maiden daughters to the king's bed as paramours.
Aegon IV's lust sated, he gave a dragon egg as thanks the next morning.
"Paid for a dragon egg with your daughters—damn you!"
Recalling it, Daeron ground his teeth.
Didn't he know how hard it was for House Targaryen to find a dragon egg now?
Count Owen studied his boots, pretending not to hear, and carried on.
When Aegon IV died, his eldest son Daeron II took the throne and named Ambrose Hand of the King.
But greed is a merchant's nature; Ambrose still hungered more and secretly courted Daemon Blackfyre II of House Blackfyre.
He staged a grand tourney at Whitewalls, offering the dragon egg as prize.
The tourney was meant to rally lords who favored the Blackfyres and plot usurpation of the iron throne.
The plot was uncovered.
Daeron's great-grandfather Aegon V, then called Egg, was wandering the realm with Ser Duncan and exposed the Blackfyre scheme after the tourney.
Egg and Duncan stalled for time while Egg's father Prince Maekar marched with an army, sparking the Second Blackfyre Rebellion.
The dragon egg vanished—said to have been stolen by Brynden "Bloodraven" and locked away in some safe place.
Afterward Lord Ambrose was executed and the once-great Butterwells destroyed.
Even Whitewalls was razed on Bloodraven's orders; the stone was carted to King's Landing, the site limed so nothing would grow for a century, erasing every trace of the Butterwells.
"These marble slabs, prince, are what was salvaged," Count Owen said.
"So that's the tale."
Daeron pondered.
No wonder Father Aerys had proposed building a new city entirely of white marble on the south bank of the Blackwater—
So that was the root of it!
Leaving good stone untouched—hardly Father Aerys' way.
Count Owen gave a wry smile: "It's not that simple, I'm afraid."
When White Walls was demolished, every last stone was carted to King's Landing—plenty for a lofty keep, but a drop in the bucket for a great city with soaring walls and a modern sewer system.
It's like shopping with coins in your pocket: you start with ten gold dragons, meaning to buy an eight-dragon trinket; then you see an eleven-dragon one and it's finer; finally you spot a fifteen-dragon piece and it's perfect.
In the end, ten dragons in hand buys a thirty-dragon prize.
A petty lord can borrow; the iron throne cannot.
'Bargain of a lifetime,' Daeron thought with a grin.
Count Owen spoke carefully: 'Your Grace, if you've no objection, I can have the whole lot carted to your seat this very day.'
'Lord, a true dragon fears nothing.'
Daeron laughed, bright and easy.
Count Owen's face lit up. 'Excellent—then it's settled.'
The Small Council had voted; he alone must negotiate, risking the prince's anger and a complaint to the king.
If the business ended smoothly, so much the better.
'Prince, let me show you every crate of it.'
Count Owen brightened at once.
Daeron was of the same mind.
The Small Council might be Father Aerys's toadies, but they still knew their trade.
White Walls, raised a hundred and ten years ago, had been built of the finest white-veined marble—strong, durable, and fair.
Stored in the vaults, untouched by wind or rain, its quality had not slipped a whit.
Use it to raise a castle and the place would look newly quarried.
'Excellent indeed.'
Daeron ran a hand over a cool, smooth slab and felt deep satisfaction.
A keep of white marble would outshine The Red Keep, the Stone Drum Tower of Dragonstone, even burned Summerhall.
If he grew finicky, he'd be fobbed off with shoddy stone—far inferior to the first-rate blocks before him.
After a careful inspection, both men left the vaults well pleased.
As he stepped through the doorway, Daeron glanced back and noticed a squat block of wood in the corner.
'That's a golden-thread nanmu beam, said to have been joined by Eastern Continent craftsmen with peg-and-tenon work.'
Count Owen explained helpfully.
Daeron turned away, indifferent.
The backward glance had been pure reflex.
It's like walking down a street: you're not sure someone's watching, or perhaps you hear your name, so you glance back and catch a stranger's eye.
'Send it to my farm; it can serve as a stool.'
Daeron shrugged, finding the thing agreeable.
A stump of golden-thread nanmu was worth a tidy sum.
'Easily done,' Count Owen vowed, slapping his chest.
With everything arranged, the doors were locked for the night.
Daeron walked up to Ser Jon to discuss a site for the prince's palace.
'Wait!'
A lean, golden-haired youth strode forward, a squad of Lannister guards at his back … Council Chamber.
Aerys turned up unannounced and harangued the hall, spittle flying, demanding a New City Plan 2.0.
The Grand Maesters and councillors sat in mute misery, heads drooping.
'Almost time,'
Tywin sat alone at one side of the table, Hand of the King, facing Aerys.
He reckoned that his younger brother Jilian Lannister should, by now, be arriving to make the royal pupil's life difficult.
'Aerys, you fool.'
Tywin glanced at his tireless old friend, schemes turning.
Ever since Daeron had returned to King's Landing without calling on him, he had guessed the student now felt his wings grown and meant to cast off his tutor.
The single bright hope was that his daughter Cersei had met Daeron.
He still recalled her excitement at supper: how Daeron had slipped an arm about her waist, asked after her twisted ankle, sent flowers like a proper gentleman, and begged another meeting.
'Good—he shows taste.'
Tywin approved.
Thanks to his own labours, House Lannister was now the strongest in the Seven Kingdoms.
Cersei, his daughter, carried the highest marriage value.
And the girl was beautiful besides.
'Still, if he thinks a little gallantry will free him from my oversight, he underestimates me.'
Building the prince's palace was already fixed.
He could not stop it—nor would he.
To try would only drive Daeron irretrievably away.
Yet a small twist here, a delay there, would show the boy how rough the road could be without his former master's favour.
'He's clever; a light check on the reins will teach him the taste of discipline.'
Tywin sat back, already picturing Daeron furious but helpless.
Yet was that truly how matters would fall?
'Boy, the Hand himself signed this—stone from your lot is wanted to repair the Mud Gate harbour.'
Jilian waved the sealed order, swaggering.
He meant to sail and recover the lost Lannister blade Brightroar; once he secured funds to crew a ship, his brother Tywin would bankroll him.
'Do you know who I am?'
Daeron studied the arrogant youth—barely eighteen—and realised he'd never seen such naked provocation.
Jilian sneered: 'Sorry, I take my orders from the Hand alone.'
Knowing exactly what game this was, Daeron wasted no breath: 'I won't bandy words with you—you're not worth them.'
'Ser Jon—seize him!'
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