"You're arresting a criminal?"
Lord Owen Merryweather stepped forward, seeing at once that the young prince's attention had caught on the scene—and, being a wise man who knew his master, hurried to assist.
Two Gold Cloaks snapped to attention.
"Yes, my lord. A smuggler. His ship's full of contraband."
"A smuggler?" Owen repeated, striding toward the black-sailed rowboat.
He lifted a tarred canvas—revealing sacks of onions and a pile of beef haunches.
The man in chains quickly protested, voice edged with panic.
"My lord, those are my family's supplies! Not—not stolen goods!"
At the word rubbish, Daeron noted the way the fellow's jaw tightened—less fear than offense. A man with pride, then.
"Lies don't feed your family," Owen snapped. "Hundreds of pounds of onions and fifty of beef? Do you eat like a Lion of Casterly Rock? Or are you stocking the undercity?"
He was no idiot—nor was Daeron.
The sea-stained man started to speak again but was silenced by a gloved hand over his mouth. Had Owen not been there, the guards would have beaten him.
Daeron stepped closer instead.
"Your Grace," Owen said confidently, bowing a little, "the evidence is clear. A smuggler, caught red-handed."
Daeron nodded. From the look of the boat, it was obvious. No honest fisherman could afford so much beef.
Still—he motioned for the guards to loosen their grip on the man.
The prisoner spat out cloth, panting, and looked up into the face of the prince.
"Thank you, my lord—my prince."
Daeron tilted his head. "If we're to be proper, it's 'Your Grace.'"
"Apologies, Your Grace!"
Daeron's tone was casual. "What's your name?"
The man blinked, caught off guard that royalty should care to ask.
"Davos," he said at last. "Davos Seaworth, Your Grace."
---
At that moment, a Gold Cloak clambered up from the rowboat, a wooden box in hand.
"Found this, Your Grace."
Before he could open it, the smuggler surged forward, panic breaking through his polite mask.
"It's for my children—a gift—please don't—"
The guard ignored him and pried it open.
Inside lay a pale root veined with blue—cold mist curling from its skin.
"A special wild plant," the soldier murmured, already offering it to the prince.
Daeron's eyes kindled.
"Snow Yam."
It was small, white with a faint ice-blue core, pulsing with life essence like the winter rare-crop from his memories of another world.
The same—almost impossibly so.
Behind him, Davos felt the floor drop out from under him.
This was it—the final nail. Caught with contraband produce.
He was finished.
Daeron shut the box gently and tossed his purse to the guards.
"Split it between you."
Then to the shocked man:
"Your name brings me luck, Davos Seaworth. I'll remember it."
He smiled—pleasantly.
"Take him. Keep him alive."
The guards snapped to attention. "Yes, Your Grace!"
Davos was dragged off, bewildered and terrified. It was a bad day to smuggle—and a worse one to get noticed by princes.
Then again—fortune was a dragon's friend.
As the man was hauled away, Daeron watched him go, a curl of amusement on his lips.
The Onion Knight, he thought. What a find.
Davos Seaworth—the name of a man history would one day praise for his honor, wisdom, and unyielding loyalty. A common smuggler now, but destined for more.
Daeron closed the box with the Snow Yam inside and handed it to Owen.
"When they repair the ship, use him. He looks like an old sailor—he'll know the ropes."
Owen nodded obediently, though it was clear he understood nothing.
Daeron just laughed and strolled away, whistling—a beer-hall tune from his farming days—box tucked under one arm.
---
### The King's Bedchamber
"Ha-ha-ha! Magnificent, boy!"
King Aerys II Targaryen sat on his bed, hair wild, robes half-open, eyes blazing with delight.
News of his son's actions had reached him: the slaughtered corrupt watchmen, the cleansing of the streets, the rescued orphans.
He was ecstatic.
"Finally," he crowed, "someone guts those leeches off my city, and shows the people the fire of their King!"
Lord Colten Chestyr had already fled, leaving two men in the room—Ser Gerold Hightower and Varys.
The White Bull stood like a statue, expression grim. To him, Daeron's purge was well-meant madness—one that would haunt the city for months.
Half the dungeons are bursting, he thought. It is a warning, not a victory.
Varys waited, face placid, mind alive with unspoken fear.
The Mad King was beyond reason—and now too pleased by what his son had become.
When Aerys finally stopped laughing, he said abruptly,
"Bring me Daeron. His King wishes to see him."
Varys bowed and all but fled. Even a spider knew when its web was shaking.
---
### Noon, 12:30 p.m.
Daeron emerged from his father's chamber hours later, exhaling deeply.
"Convincing a mad king is an art," he muttered. "Surviving him is a miracle."
Behind him, Ser Gerold Hightower slipped out, closing the door gently.
"The King sleeps again," he said.
"Good. You deserve rest as well, Ser Gerold."
"Duty is its own rest," the knight replied, then hesitated before producing a sealed letter.
"Prince Rhaegar asked me to deliver this."
Daeron blinked. "My brother?"
He broke the seal. This time, the flowing, spare script was unmistakably Rhaegar's own.
> Brother,
> I only recently returned from overseas and learned you wrote me long ago. Elia answered in my absence out of worry that silence would breed hurt between us. Now that I am home, I ask you to come to Dragonstone and speak with me yourself.
> — R.
Exactly as he'd guessed.
"Brother at sea?" Daeron murmured, frowning. Since when did Rhaegar take to voyages?
Still—the Red Comet had already shown before its time. In this world, nothing followed the script.
He folded the letter, then shot a look at Ser Gerold and smiled wryly.
"Well then, Ser Gerold the Loyal—so loyal you serve two masters at once?"
The White Bull colored slightly but did not deny it. In two years, he would ride to the Tower of Joy on Rhaegar's orders—and die defending a secret.
For now, he only bowed his head.
"My oath is to the realm, Your Grace."
Daeron laughed softly.
Soon, he would accept his brother's invitation—and the "Onion Knight" he'd accidentally caught that morning would help him do it.
Fate, it seemed, had a wicked sense of humor.
---