Back at the quiet lake by the mines, Daeron walked beside Ser Aliser Thorne.
The more they spoke, the more he understood the knight.
Born a lesser branch of House Thorne, Aliser had pride but no place to show it.
"You're skilled with a sword?" Daeron asked.
The man blinked, caught off guard, his hand unconsciously tightening on his hilt. Daeron had noticed it from the start — how the knight never let go of that weapon, the calluses on his fingers and the bow-string scars near his index.
A man whose entire sense of worth lived in his craft.
"Yes, Your Grace," Aliser said firmly.
Being a landless knight was no worse than being nameless; he'd known the chill of indifference from nobles and smallfolk alike.
He despised useless lords who wore titles like wine cups and believed, fanatically, that status must be earned through steel.
He had read the prince well — a young lord favored by the throne, warrior and visionary both. And so, for a single audience with him, Aliser had sold his warhorse and bribed Lord Owen Merryweather with all his remaining coin.
A desperate gamble for one chance.
And the prince had rewarded him.
"I'll soon take command as Deputy Commander of the City Watch," Daeron said. "I intend to reform the capital's guard — but loyal men are scarce.
"Ser Aliser Thorne, you claim mastery of the sword. Will you lend that blade to your realm and your prince?"
The man didn't hesitate.
He dropped to one knee in the soft grass, drew his sword, and raised it with both hands.
"By the Seven, I swear myself your sword," he said solemnly, "to cut down every obstacle in your path."
"Rise."
Daeron drew the weapon from his hands and laid the flat of its blade across his shoulders — left, right, crown.
"I accept your fealty."
From this day, Ser Aliser Thorne became the prince's first sworn knight after Ser Jon Darry.
When he stood again, Daeron asked quietly, "Tell me, Ser Aliser, how much do you know of life force?"
The knight's confidence flickered. "I tried to awaken it, Your Grace, but without the aid of rare crops… I could not."
Daeron nodded. Even the simplest life-infused vegetables were traded like gold among lords — far beyond a lesser knight's reach.
"Very well. See Ser Jon," Daeron said. "He'll give you something to help your body remember its strength."
"My prince…" Aliser's voice caught. It was as if he'd been offered a dragon's egg. "Truly?"
Daeron only waved it off. "Whether you succeed depends on your own spirit. I can only nudge the door open."
A loyal man deserved such a gift.
Daeron knew Aliser Thorne's story — in the future that might have been, the knight fought to the last man in the sack of King's Landing and later, wearing black, became the bitter teacher of a bastard who was no bastard at all.
The man had courage and skill enough to stand beside legends.
And every great venture began with faith.
"Go," Daeron said. "Prove you deserve it."
Eyes bright, Aliser hurried away, clutching his hope.
---
Ser Jon soon arrived. Daeron handed him the prize of that morning's fishing — a fresh, half-meter largemouth bass.
"Give it to Ser Aliser," he said.
Jon blinked. "A fish? That's rather costly."
"Special enough to awaken a man's life force," Daeron said lightly. "And worth the price. He's the first to kneel. We can't be stingy."
Jon sighed. "As you wish, Your Grace."
Daeron smiled faintly. "Have Lord Owen come later. I'll cook us a fish stew. No favorites."
A prince showed kindness sparingly — but always when it counted.
When Jon left, the lake fell silent again, and Daeron turned his thoughts inward.
Plans.
His new office was easy enough.
Lord Manly Stokeworth, commander of the City Watch, was loyal and careful — a steady man. If Daeron treated him with respect, he'd find solid ground.
The gold cloaks beneath them would require less diplomacy. A prince could lead with words or with a single decisive punch.
But another vacancy loomed larger — the Grand Maester's chair.
An advisor and physician, the position was half influence, half triviality — an empty seat filled by hidden hands. Every maester that mattered had a family backing him, whispering to the King behind the Throne.
Better he control that seat before Oldtown chose its own.
"Harvey won't do," he muttered. "Too young."
Then his mind sparked.
There was someone perfect — wise, unusable by others, and bound to Targaryen blood by faith and love.
Aemon Targaryen.
The old maester of Castle Black — the brother of King Aegon the Fifth, Daeron's great-grandfather and uncle to his own father's line.
If Aemon was Daeron's great-granduncle, then by blood, his right to advise the Crown was beyond question.
Aemon was eighty-two now — older than Pycelle had ever been, yet far healthier, with two decades of wisdom still burning bright.
Few would dare manipulate a Targaryen that old and that revered.
"If I bring him home," Daeron thought, "the position is ours — and he'll finally serve the family he was meant to protect."
He remembered the tales of Aemon at his end — how he wept on his deathbed to hear of Daenerys and her dragons, too frail to reach her.
"Dragons have three heads," the elder maester had said through tears.
"I am too old. Too weak. I should have gone to guide her, but these bones can scarcely rise."
Aemon had waited his whole life for one last chance to serve his house — and died watching that hope fade.
If Daeron could intervene early…
"Maybe I should sail north," he murmured. "Bring him back myself."
---
The idea opened a wider map in his mind.
The Long Night. The White Walkers. The tides of frost and fire that would one day devour the world.
That storm was still years away, but he knew it was coming. And he would not face it alone.
For that, he needed every potential ally — living and dead, human or otherwise.
Including the one who had already touched his dreams.
The Bloodraven.
Brynden Rivers.
Daeron remembered that night — the dream of the crow, the echo of burned wood and hidden eyes — and the next day, how he had found a dragon egg in the marble once touched by Bloodraven's hand.
Coincidence was for fools.
The Three-Eyed Crow was watching him.
And that made him uneasy.
If Bloodraven was still truly alive in the far north, he was dangerous — brilliant beyond measure, but bound to no mortal king.
"I'll not seek him until I must," Daeron decided quietly.
But the Wall…
Yes, the Wall was worth travel for another reason entirely. Somewhere near it lay a Targaryen heirloom lost for centuries.
The Valyrian steel sword Dark Sister.
The blade of Visenya Targaryen. Aegon's conqueror-queen.
If Bloodraven had taken it beyond the Wall, perhaps it still slept there in ice.
He let out a slow breath. "Still too soon. One step at a time."
Yet one thing was certain — a ship.
A ship was freedom.
With a ship, he could sail north to the Wall or south for trade, even west to the unknown. He could turn his fief into the heart of Westerosi commerce.
With a ship, he could leave when the realm burned.
His eyes lit with mischief. "A ship will come first — before the sword, before the wars."
He smiled. "After all, they say prosperous farmers go to the Ginger Islands."
It was a thought half from memory, half from some inner game. If there was ever a real "Ginger Island," a place of fertile soil and tropical rain, he would find it — and claim it.
Maybe even Dragonstone itself hid answers.
Rhaegar's silence gnawed at him.
"Still no reply, dear brother?" Daeron murmured. "Well then — when the seeds are sown and the harvest waits, I'll simply come see you myself."
He cast his line again into the still water — and watched the ripples spread like rings of destiny, ever widening toward the sea.
---