Spring 22 — Monday — Clear Skies — 11:00 a.m.
King's Landing, The Red Keep – White Sword Tower
A shaft of sunlight filtered down through the arched windows, glinting off silver-gold armor.
Daeron bent over a spread of parchment, feather pen gliding steadily. The city defense map of King's Landing came alive under his hand.
He wore full armor today — a prince's armor.
Silver engraving traced the curves of the chestplate; a rich purple silk shirt gleamed beneath, the same hue as the sash that draped from his right shoulder. A golden rope tassel gleamed at his chest. The polished boots were the leather treasure he'd found in the mines, fine enough for command.
The result was striking: the boy-prince looked no longer like a scholar or farmer, but like a commander in miniature — the calm of nobility hardened by discipline.
He had to look the part.
Deputy Commander of the City Watch — a position that required armor not for ceremony, but survival.
In King's Landing, blades were cheaper than bread, and rebellion could start over a broken loaf.
A soft voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Your Grace, the ointment for frostbite is ready."
Maester Harvey spoke barely above a whisper.
Daeron didn't answer immediately; the scratch of the quill continued.
Harvey shifted uneasily in the shadows, clutching his vial, glancing now and then at the young man whose will had rewritten his life.
Prince Daeron had elevated him — a common maester — to Acting Grand Maester of the realm.
Until the Citadel chose a permanent one, his word in King's Landing was law.
Eight days ago, he'd been a near-blind janitor, scrubbing floors and emptying chambers.
Now, he stood taller, with health and color returned to his face, and newly fashioned glasses made from two concave lenses and frames Daeron himself had gifted him.
He owed his sight — perhaps his future — to this boy.
"The Prince works too hard," Harvey murmured, mixing herbs by the firelight.
Lately his requests for salves and healing potions had soared. Every evening brought new bruises or cuts from some training or patrol.
He also ordered steady batches of a new sedative for King Aerys — a safe one, to replace Pycelle's poisonous milk of the poppy.
At the table, Daeron finally straightened and placed his pen down.
"That should do it."
He admired the finished map — every gate, every watchpost, every sewer route of the city pinned down with precision.
"Eight days," he said quietly, "and the groundwork is done."
While rumors claimed he hid away in the White Sword Tower for comfort, he'd done the opposite. He'd been building a system.
---
Dragon-Tongue Farm — Report:
Harvests: Strawberries picked on Spring 18, 21, and 22
Yield: 61 fruits (45 common, 15 silver, 1 gold)
Milestone: First Gold-Star crop. Farming Level 5 achieved; new profession [Tiller] — +10% crop value
Revenue: 7,590 gold from sales
One gold-star strawberry for himself, a few silver for his mother and sister, and the rest to market.
He kept the coin. He would need it soon enough.
Mining progress: Reached Level 45 with Neptune's Greatsword and Lucky Ring; began extracting iron ore; crafted three sprinklers.
Challenge: Past Level 40, the caverns became frozen, air numb with ice — torment for a Targaryen whose blood burned against cold.
---
"Prince," Harvey asked shyly, breaking the silence, "Manly of House Stokeworth visited while you worked. He said the new knights joining the City Watch are causing tension — the older captains are very unhappy."
"Good."
Harvey blinked. "…Good?"
"Conflict means they're afraid," Daeron said calmly, rolling the map and tying it with string. "Let them bark. They'll show me who the rotten ones are."
The truth was ugly.
A corrupt force with 2,000 men on paper — barely 1,200 in armor.
Ghost pay, bribes, extortion, and false recruitments had hollowed it to the core.
Lord Manly was loyal but soft, a man more caretaker than leader.
Rot this deep needs a blade, not a bandage, Daeron thought.
---
A knock on the door.
A young Lannister page bowed. "The Hand requests your presence."
"Lead the way."
Before he left, he told Harvey quietly, "Keep working on the remedy. The King must be weaned off the poppy milk."
Harvey nodded fervently, eyes bright behind thick glass. He'd die before failing the dragon that had lifted him up.
---
The Tower of the Hand
Tywin Lannister sat behind piles of parchment, the lines on his brow etched deep.
"You're here, boy."
Daeron inclined his head. "My lord Hand, how may I serve?"
The title was formal. Tywin's eyebrow ticked up, but he let it go.
"I'll be frank. Your appointment was the King's will, not mine. Since then, you've been making moves without consulting me — drawing attention you don't need."
Daeron's expression didn't change as Tywin slid a document across the desk.
A petition — a joint accusation, laced with ink and spite — charged him with nepotism, favoritism, and disturbing the Watch's "unity."
Daeron glanced over the names — minor captains, city merchants, petty nobles — and set it back down.
"Small men," he said simply.
Tywin's jaw tightened. "Small men can serve great lords. Ignore the flies and you miss the beast that feeds them. You need to steady the ground under you. Soften this tension — make a public gesture. Earn loyalty."
Daeron looked up, smiling without warmth.
"Beast? My lord, I see only sheep."
Tywin's eyes hardened. "Stokeworth is a sheep, boy — but the lords behind these 'flies' could flay you alive and devour you in pieces. You think titles make you safe? A crown means nothing without the will of men."
Daeron rose slowly, placing his hand on the file.
"In my eyes," he said quietly, "they are all sheep."
Tywin stared at him — and for the first time in years, the Lion of Casterly Rock did not know what to say.
Daeron met his gaze evenly, the hint of a smile at the edge of his mouth.
"Tell me, my lord. When a lion eats a sheep, does he ask its permission?"
He turned, cloak sweeping behind him, and walked to the door.
"I'm a Targaryen," he said over his shoulder. "A true dragon does not care for sheep."
The door clicked shut.
Tywin Lannister sat motionless, the words echoing in his mind like a threat and a prophecy both.
For the first time, he realized the boy he'd mentored was no longer a student — but a force in his own right.
And the realm had not seen a dragon's wrath in a long time.
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