For the next three days, Daeron lived by the rhythm of the farm.
Up before dawn, watering the seedlings, feeding hens, collecting eggs—and then spending the rest of the day in the mine, pickaxe rising and falling.
It was exhausting. But it worked.
That morning he sat on the farmhouse steps, watching four furnaces glow like tiny suns as they smelted the copper he had clawed from the rock.
He'd reached Level 17 in the mine now.
Elevator checkpoints sat at Levels 0, 5, 10, and 15.
Between mining and fighting off monsters, his stock of stone and ore had nearly run dry, but he managed to produce six copper bars—and four more were melting now.
Ten in total. A real accomplishment.
"I'm basically a goddamn superhero," Daeron muttered, stretching his back.
Digging deeper had proven far harder than the game had implied. It wasn't just about finding the next shaft; it was about staying alive. The deeper he went, the stronger the monsters became, and with only a rusty sword and a battered steel one, even the slimes left him bruised.
He decided to slow down. Survive first.
Still, the gains were undeniable.
[Farm Status]
Farmer: Daeron Targaryen
- Farming: Level 1
- Mining: Level 3
- Foraging: Level 1
- Fishing: Level 0
- Combat: Level 2
Mining and fighting constantly had strengthened more than his muscles.
Daeron flexed his fingers, focusing until the faint warmth of life force spread evenly from his palm to each fingertip.
Control — sharper again.
He understood it better now: eating special crops and leveling up didn't directly add to life energy. It simply expanded his vessel.
The stronger the body, the more life energy it could hold.
Like water in a growing jar.
Constant battles and mining honed precision.
Special crops refilled what he spent.
The cycle fed itself.
Farming produced power; mining increased mastery; combat ensured safety; food restored strength.
A perfect loop — the prince‑scientist's path to transcendence.
"If I keep this up," Daeron laughed to himself, "I'll be sword‑dueling Robert and hammering Rhaegar in no time."
He opened his interface again.
Spring, Day 9 — Tuesday — Clear skies — 7:30 a.m.
Gold: 240
"Today's no mining day. Today, we harvest."
He stretched, grabbed his tools, and strode into the field.
The potatoes were ripe.
Pop! Pop‑pop!
Every pull from the soil came with that satisfying sound only farmers understood.
He couldn't resist humming. "Potato harvest~ potato harvest~"
One string of silver‑star green beans, ten common potatoes, seven silver‑stars. No gold‑stars yet — his farming level was too low.
Still, a good yield.
Ding!
[You might want to reflect on a few things today.]
His farming level rose. And right on cue, his spirit felt lighter.
After selling the crops through the shipping chest, he counted what he'd have tomorrow.
Silver beans: 50g each.
Common potatoes: 80g.
Silver potatoes: 100g.
All together: 1,550 gold.
Add his current savings of 240 — that made 1,790 gold in total.
"Four days left until Spring 13… hmm."
Payouts came at 2:00 a.m. the next day, so no quick cash.
The shortest‑growth crop, parsnip, still needed four days from seed to harvest.
Which meant no more planting — not before the Egg Festival.
Because that festival sold something far better: strawberry seeds.
Each seed cost 100 gold and took eight days to mature, but after that, produced fruit every four.
Two harvests before spring ended.
Regular strawberries sold for 120 gold, silver for 150, gold for 180.
Two harvests of twenty plants would mean forty berries — even at base price, worth 4,800 gold.
That alone could fund a barn full of cows or another flock of hens.
He smiled. "Less than two thousand short. If I can't farm, I'll just forage and fish till I drop."
Just then, Jon Darry entered the yard with reins in hand. "My prince, I've fed the mare."
"Good. I need to ride out," Daeron said, brushing dust from his tunic.
He was heading to King's Landing.
Partly to confirm his City Watch post.
Partly to procure healing salves for his next round in the mines.
"Mind the deliveries, Ser Jon," he added. "Keep the marble safe."
"Yes, my prince."
Jon Darry stayed behind to oversee the steady stream of white marble being brought south from the royal stores — stone once meant for the King's mad city project, now repurposed for Daeron's future castle.
King's Landing — The Red Keep
The air inside the Hand's Tower was heavier than forge smoke.
Pycelle's knock came timidly. "My lord… you sent for me?"
Tywin Lannister didn't look up. He sat behind his desk, burning wax and pressing the seal onto a letter.
Without glancing at the old man, he said, "There's a letter to be delivered by raven to Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun."
Pycelle blinked. "May I ask—"
"You may not," Tywin cut him off smoothly. "Just send it."
"Of course, my lord." Pycelle bowed low, shuffling backward as fast as his creaking knees would let him.
When the door clicked shut, the Hand exhaled slowly.
"Old fool."
The so‑called Grand Maester held no real power — king's pet in name, errand boy in truth.
He was just another piece on the board.
And Tywin had no patience for cowardly pieces.
When Pycelle had gone, Tywin leaned back, eyes tracing the sigil stamped on the cooling envelope.
Since the Defiance of Duskendale, the realm's balance had begun to shift.
He knew what most did not: Lord Jon Arryn of the Vale had taken in two wards — Robert Baratheon of Storm's End and Eddard Stark, second son of the North.
Meanwhile, Eddard's father, Rickard Stark, had just arranged a marriage between his heir and Lord Hoster Tully's eldest daughter.
Aerie to North, North to Riverlands.
The stag tied to both through fosterhood and alliance.
The wolf, the fish, the stag, and the eagle.
The only great houses not aligned were his own — and the throne.
They're building a bloc, Tywin thought, eyes narrowing. Against the crown — and therefore, against me.
But he didn't intend to stop them.
No, he intended to join them — on his terms.
His mind was already a web of moves ahead. His eldest son, Jaime, currently squired for Lord Sumner Crakehall at Crakehall Keep.
Tywin had already sent orders that Jaime accompany a raven‑run to Riverrun, bearing a diplomatic letter to Lord Hoster himself.
On the surface — harmless courtesy.
In truth — the first step of a proposal.
If all went right, Jaime would charm Hoster's younger daughter. A Lannister‑Tully union would seal the alliance perfectly.
Five Great Houses intertwined, forming one quiet confederation — one the Iron Throne could never face down.
Let Aerys rage and call himself king. The realm would stand with him.
He allowed himself the smallest ghost of a smile.
"With Jaime's looks and charm, he'll have that girl besotted in a week," he murmured.
The lion didn't hunger for the throne.
Only for the power to cage the dragon.