Night shrouded Dragon-Tongue Farm.
Inside the cabin, the fire burned low in the hearth. Daeron lay on his bed, a red dragon egg resting on the pillow beside him.
Tomorrow, the thirteenth of Spring—festival day—would bring new beginnings.
The coffers were ready. Fishing treasures had yielded more gems than he'd dared hope; his purse was heavier now than any farmer deserved.
Cradling the egg against his chest, he whispered, "How can I wake you?"
Nearly a week had passed with no sign of life. No warmth, no sound—only silence.
"You'll hatch," he said stubbornly. "I'm just doing it wrong."
He turned the egg carefully in his hands, its ruby scales glinting faintly in the dying firelight.
If the stories held true, blood sacrifice was the key—the way Daenerys had done it, decades from now.
Daeron grimaced. No. He wouldn't walk that path. Too dangerous, too uncertain, and he had no fire mages nor blood priests to guide him. One mistake and he could end like his great-grandfather Aegon V—burned with those he sought to save.
"Blood magic reawakens dormant life," he mused aloud. "By slaughter, life for life… or by something gentler."
He stared into the coals, thinking. Farming had its own magic of rebirth, did it not?
The panel must know something.
In Stardew Valley, dragons existed only in fragments—hidden artifacts, scaled fossils, mysterious quests. Maybe he simply hadn't reached that level yet.
"I need the mines first," he told himself. "Ore leads to bars, bars to sprinklers—freedom to expand the farm."
He exhaled slowly and wrote his plan in his mind:
1. Hatch the dragon.
2. Perfect the farm.
Two goals. The path to both was patience.
"Dragonstone and Oldtown one day," he murmured, "two eggs, maybe three… One will hatch."
Rational, methodical—that was his way.
He had already asked Lord Owen Merryweather to keep watch for a ship, any ship—seaworthy or not.
The royal fleet wouldn't help him; its ships were under Rhaegar's command, and his father would never approve of the younger son sailing off.
So he would build his own.
"Strawberries first… sprinklers next…" he whispered drowsily.
Sleep took him.
---
2:00 a.m.
The farmhouse was silent except for the soft tick of the cooling fire.
Moonlight slipped through the window onto his hand—and onto the Lucky Ring glimmering faintly on his finger.
The golden crescent etched into the band pulsed once, sending a warm hue across the room.
It washed over the dragon egg, making the crimson scales shimmer like molten glass. The golden flecks brightened; the black spiral deepened in shade.
Something within stirred.
Daeron dreamed on, unaware, while the invisible interface tallied his day's earnings:
Farming: 0 gold
Foraging: 60 gold
Fishing: 752 gold
Mining: 1,900 gold
Other: 40 gold
Total: 2,552 gold
---
Spring 13 — Saturday — Clear Skies — 6:00 a.m.
"Cluck, cluck!"
At the rooster's cry, Daeron sprang up with a smile. Today was the day he'd been waiting for—the festival, the market, his future fortune of strawberries.
He opened the panel.
Total Gold: 4,542
1,790 from potatoes. 2,552 from fishing.
Most of his catch was cheap fish (725 gold), but the real profit had come from the gems inside the treasure chests—two diamonds (750 each) and two emeralds (200 each). A perfect haul.
"Four and a half thousand," he whistled. "That's forty-five strawberry seeds!"
Grinning, he hurried outside and dumped his money into the shipping bin.
Clink—clatter—shh!
Moments later, a cascade of golden coins spun back, and his balance dropped to 42.
In his hands: 45 strawberry seeds.
"Today's Easter egg-hunt day," he laughed. "But business first."
He set to work—clearing weeds, turning earth with the hoe while sunlight spilled over the fields.
From his storage chest, he pulled flat stones and crafted a dozen smooth Stone Path Tiles.
Six rows of two, each surrounded by freshly tilled soil, forming a cross shape that would later frame his sprinklers.
When set, each sprinkler would water four tiles—north, south, east, west—at dawn.
He stepped back, admiring the geometry. "Perfect grid. Future-proof farming."
This was efficient science, not luck—or maybe another kind of magic.
He wiped sweat from his brow. Time check: 8:30 a.m.
The Festival of Rebirth would begin soon with its famous Egg Hunt. The winner received a mystery gift and boasts for a year.
He intended to win.
According to his mail alert, contestants needed to form teams—age limits applied: under the legal marriage age, 22 for men, 21 for women.
He grinned. "Perfect excuse to bring the brats."
His siblings.
Shaenie and the two little troublemakers.
---
By midmorning, the fields were neat, the hens fed, the eggs collected. He was still clearing a patch of old logs when he heard the growl of wagon wheels.
A carriage pulled up the hill, the Targaryen banner fluttering in the wind.
Ser Jon Darry jumped down first. "Your Grace, they've arrived."
Daeron dusted off his hands and smiled. "Let's see them."
A gloved hand lifted the curtain; a cascade of silver-gold hair spilled into the sunlight, followed by an elegant face.
"Shaenie," he said warmly.
"Charge!"
"…"
The next voice was a battle cry. Viserys leapt out after her, brandishing a tiny wooden sword.
Daeron rubbed his temple. "Of course."
Jaehaerys leaned out next, smiling shyly. "Second Brother."
"I've got you," Daeron said, grabbing the boy by the waist and setting him down lightly.
Then he turned to help Shaenie—who paused, measured the height from carriage to ground, and opened her arms with a tiny smile.
He lifted her down carefully.
"Was the road clear?" he asked Ser Jon.
The White Knight was still checking the harness. Before he could answer, Shaenie spoke softly.
"Smooth enough. Father was with Mother, so no one noticed us leave."
Then she added, almost anxiously, "We did meet Cersei Lannister on the way. She insisted on coming too."
Daeron froze mid-smile.
"…Of course she did," he muttered.
Some people were like bad pennies. They always showed up where fortune waited.
---