Daeron liked to think his "good fortune" came from ridding the realm of Pycelle. When you killed vermin, the gods paid you back in luck.
He clutched his new treasures—the crescent-shaped Lucky Ring on his left finger, the glowing Neptune's Greatsword in his right hand—and grinned.
"You and I," he told them, "will build something great."
Rings allowed for two at a time, but a sword—only one. And this one was weighty.
He tested its heft. "A bit heavy. Not for dual-wielding."
The sword was longer than a knight's standard longsword, forged of deep-sea steel infused with blue-gray magic. Its blade shimmered ocean-bright; its hilt dark as a storm tide. It wasn't just a weapon—it was art.
Still, the prince-farmer had no time to admire trinkets.
Tomorrow, Spring 13, was festival day. Strawberries needed sowing, work awaited in both his fief and the capital. He couldn't afford to lose days watering the fields.
Untended crops stopped growing. Growth delayed, profits lost.
But with Neptune's Greatsword, everything changed.
Once strawberries were planted, he would dive into the mine's 60th floor, smelting copper and iron bars for sprinklers—one copper bar plus one iron bar built one sprinkler.
Automatic irrigation.
Freedom for the farmer.
He smirked. "Let's see Valyrian steel beat that."
Curious, he compared weapon weight and balance. With his life-force enhancing each strike, Neptune's blade shattered a steel longsword like dry twigs.
Valyrian steel might still surpass it—lighter, sharper, able to cleave armor—but for a Level 5 weapon, Neptune's sword was a miracle.
His grin faded only when he heard approaching footsteps. He quickly slung the blade away. The empty treasure chest disintegrated into harmless splinters—as all system loot did once opened.
"Your Grace," called Ser Jon Darry. "Lord Owen asks that you inspect the final delivery of marble."
Daeron rose at once.
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They arrived at a broad, flat field east of the hills. To the north and south stretched the royal forest and the Blackwater Rush; westward, open plains rolled to the horizon.
Stacks of white marble gleamed under sunlight. Scores of masons and laborers stood ready, awaiting command.
Lord Owen Merryweather approached, bowing. "Prince, might this location please you?"
Daeron looked around slowly—hill at his back, river to the east, and enough land for a small town's heartbeat.
"Perfect."
His fief was vast—hills cutting east to west, Blackwater and woodlands dividing it from the sea. The farm lay northeast, close to both river and shore.
Building directly on the coast, as King's Landing had done, was tempting—but impossible here. The southern bank's river mouth was too fierce, the coastline narrow.
A stronghold must stand inland.
He pointed across the grassland. "The castle will rise on Bluegrass Hill. We'll call it Harvest Hall. Later, the town can expand westward."
Bluegrass Hill—named for the soft bluish meadow grasses that carpeted the plain.
Harvest Hall—a name rich with promise.
Where others dreamed of grandeur—Summerhall, Harrenhal—Daeron dreamed of abundance. Of soil that yielded more each year, of farmlands and orchards heavy under sun.
Harvest Hall would be his heart, the future city's seed.
He didn't share his father Aerys's fantasies of a new marble capital, but he'd use the idea as blueprint.
His fief sat perfectly between realms: King's Landing to the north, the royal port of Blackwater Bay to the northeast, and endless trade roads south through the Kingswood to the Stormlands.
All trade from Storm's End to the capital would cross his land.
"One day," he murmured, "people will pay tolls to walk these roads."
Owen hesitated. "Your Grace… a castle alone will take years. A town? Without population or trade?"
"Build the castle first," Daeron said calmly. "The rest will follow."
He smiled faintly. "There are always later generations—or later plans."
Despite the name *Hall*, it would be a castle, not a palace. Grand palaces burned easily; castles endured. He'd learned enough history to know that much.
The walls would keep out bandits and assassins. The gates would protect a new city.
And when he thought of manpower, he already had a plan.
King's Landing overflowed with street orphans and beggars. Once he commanded the City Watch, he could take them in—train them, house them, set them to work.
Reclaim land. Build homes. Raise markets.
One step at a time.
With Dragon-Tongue Farm feeding his dream, he would turn his fief into a realm of plenty.
Lord Owen's skepticism softened. "I see. A start for the generations to come."
"Exactly." Daeron nodded.
He turned to leave. Owen caught the moment and hurried forward.
"Your Grace, regarding architecture—I've a visitor who can assist. Allow me to present Ser Aliser Thorne."
A grave-faced man stepped forward, tall, lean, and hardened by training. Gray-black curls, sharp cheekbones, and eyes like polished obsidian—handsome in a severe way.
Daeron narrowed his eyes. "And you are…?"
The knight bowed. "Your Grace, of House Thorne of the Crownlands. At the Lannisport tourney I defeated three opponents and was knighted thereafter."
Recognition flickered.
That Alyser Thorne—the future Night's Watch instructor.
The sarcastic drillmaster who'd once tormented Jon Snow.
Daeron almost laughed. Fate was full of irony.
The Thornes had long served House Targaryen—from the Dance of the Dragons to Aerys's own mad reign. It was a Thorne who'd died protecting a lost prince at Bitterbridge, and another who had fought to defend King's Landing from Robert's rebellion, earning a choice between execution and the Wall.
A loyal family—and a useful one.
"Interesting," Daeron thought.
If this Thorne sought patronage through Owen, he'd found the right target.
"We'll talk as we walk," Daeron said pleasantly.
Surprise flickered in the knight's eyes. "Yes, Your Grace!"
He straightened, hand resting proudly on his hilt, and followed the young dragon toward the site where a castle—and perhaps a kingdom—would begin.
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