"Fool!"
Tywin didn't even have the energy to curse him further. He simply waved a hand to dismiss him. "Get out. Do not disturb me again."
Jaime looked bewildered. "You were the one who summoned me."
"I said, get out! NOW!"
At Tywin's lion-like roar, Jaime scrambled out the door in a rather undignified manner.
It was clear the boy had infuriated him to no end.
After a long while, Tywin composed himself, looking down at the letter on his desk. The words were filled with veiled resentment. "A perfect match, utterly ruined by that boy."
After this fiasco, joining the alliance of the Great Houses was no longer possible.
His eldest son's betrothal had failed, and he couldn't exactly offer his daughter next. Not only did the other Great Lords lack an heir of suitable standing, but he—Tywin Lannister, Lord of the Westerlands—would never debase himself by begging someone to take his daughter.
"In the end, I still have to rely on that boy," Tywin muttered, calming down as he thought of how Cersei clung to Daeron.
Even though Daeron had refused him—refused House Lannister—who could truly resist the allure of the Blood of the Dragon and living, breathing dragons?
Tywin asked himself this, and he knew even he could not.
History had proven it. The Hightowers had married into the royal family, creating the height of power seen during the Dance of the Dragons.
"Looking back at previous Hands... Ser Ryam Redwyne was fit only to be a Lord Commander of the Kingsguard; he had no head for governance. And Otto Hightower was too consumed by self-interest to be worthy of the office."
Tywin compared himself to them, his confidence absolute. "If I stood in that position, my grandson would already be King."
And the Seven Kingdoms would be orderly.
However, the thought of his daughter, Cersei, made him frown deeply. He felt a sense of powerlessness; she was too old to spank, yet too stubborn to scold.
"Cersei and Jaime are too close. Jaime's unauthorized return to King's Landing likely had Cersei's whispering behind it."
"I will have Jaime accompany Gerion across the Narrow Sea. Let him stay away for a year or so before returning."
Tywin made up his mind quickly. It was the optimal solution.
Gerion was impulsive and reckless; without supervision, who knew what trouble he might find? Throwing Jaime to his uncle would ensure they kept each other in check.
They would both return safely.
With the decision made, Tywin called out, "Guards, summon Gerion."
---
Dragonstone.
The usual clamor of the island had died down, and a gloom hung over the castle.
Rhaegar sat alone on a window ledge, plucking at a silver-stringed harp. The melody was sorrowful, a dirge for his friend, Jon Connington.
He had received the news.
Lord Whent had turned cloak, throwing his support behind his brother, Daeron. Oswell Whent and Myles Mooton had been imprisoned, and Connington... Connington had been burned alive by a blue dragon hatchling.
He didn't know the specific details of Connington's death, but he could guess enough.
The grief and resentment in his heart transformed into the haunting notes echoing through the room.
Creak.
The door was pushed open gently. Elia, supporting the obvious curve of her belly, walked slowly into the room.
The harp music stopped abruptly.
Rhaegar's expression smoothed into calmness. "You should be resting."
"You need rest more than I do," Elia said, concerned for her husband. "We all grieve for Lord Connington, but you must take care of yourself first if you are to take care of us."
She gently stroked her stomach through her yellow gown.
Sensing the small life inside his wife, Rhaegar was moved. "Is there something else?"
A flash of disappointment crossed Elia's eyes, but she hid it quickly, forcing a composed look. "My brother sent a letter."
A letter from Prince Doran.
It had been sent after Daeron revealed the hatchlings and after Elia had announced her pregnancy.
Elia held onto the table for support as she sat on one of the cold stone stools unique to the Stone Drum.
Her brother, Prince Doran, doted on her as always. Upon learning of her pregnancy, he had spent a fortune acquiring a batch of "special crops" and had them shipped to Dragonstone on a large Dornish vessel.
Though the quality wasn't quite as miraculous as what Daeron produced, it was enough to supplement her needs during pregnancy.
"Prince Doran?"
Rhaegar took the letter. His face was neutral at first, but it grew heavy as he read.
Elia was puzzled. "What did my brother write?"
"A marriage alliance," Rhaegar enunciated clearly.
Prince Doran had stated two things.
First, he was sending his brother, the "Red Viper" Oberyn Martell, to King's Landing to take a position at court.
Second, he was notifying Rhaegar that House Martell intended to propose a betrothal to the King. The bride was Doran's four-year-old daughter, Arianne. The intended groom was either the King's third son, Jaehaerys, or his fourth son, Viserys.
Elia was shocked. "My brother wants Arianne to marry one of them? How can that be?"
It was unheard of—a niece marrying her uncle, or a cousin marrying a cousin of a different generation. Besides, the King had always disliked the Dornish.
Rhaegar shook his head. "I cannot decide the marriages of my brothers."
He was distant from his family.
If Doran had asked for someone else—like his second brother, Daeron—there might have been some feasibility.
"I will refuse him for you," Elia offered, wanting to share his burden.
Rhaegar stood up and embraced his wife's frail body, showing a rare tenderness. "Do not worry yourself with these matters. Just take care of our child."
Elia closed her eyes peacefully.
But from an angle she could not see, the warmth in Rhaegar's eyes faded, leaving only a cold, calculating glint.
The contents of Prince Doran's letter revealed House Martell's ambition.
Connington was dead. House Whent had defected. Rhaegar's own power base was severely damaged, while the Dornish faction was growing unchecked.
Outside, there was Daeron. Inside, there were the Dornish.
The pressure on Rhaegar was immense.
---
Meanwhile, Daeron was quite relaxed.
Afternoon.
He led his men to meet Lord Mooton of Maidenpool.
Lord Mooton was also young. At first, he was indignant about his brother's treatment. But after the three dragon hatchlings flew out and burned a goat to ash right in front of him, Lord Mooton became very humble.
"Prince, I will take my foolish brother home immediately. House Mooton thanks you for your mercy."
Lord Mooton bowed deeply.
Barristan Selmy, standing nearby, had to stifle a laugh.
The Mootons of Maidenpool were an ancient house, famous for the healing waters of "Jonquil's Pool." They were a prestigious noble family in the Riverlands.
However, their military strength was average.
Lord Mooton was loyal to the Crown and leaned toward Prince Rhaegar. But faced with Daeron's three dragons, he immediately yanked the steering wheel in the other direction.
"A man cannot fight a dragon!"
Lord Mooton uttered this famous line before departing.
---
That Night.
Daeron returned to the farm to celebrate the autumn festival as per routine.
Fall 27th: Spirit's Eve.
Two jack-o'-lanterns sat before the cabin door, and a garland of green leaves, bat wings, and bone fragments hung from the eaves.
Daeron had set this up specifically for the occasion.
There were two festivals in Autumn: the Stardew Valley Fair on the 16th, and Spirit's Eve on the 27th.
He had been at Harrenhal on the 16th, so he had missed the Fair completely.
It didn't matter much.
The requirement for the Fair was to display nine agricultural products to be judged against others. The winner received 1,000 Star Tokens.
1 Star Token = 10 Gold Dragons (in value, roughly). Star Tokens were only valid on the day of the festival and were used to exchange for special items.
Among them was a Stardrop, the most critical item available.
According to Stardew Valley rules, there were seven obtainable Stardrops. Every time a farmer ate one, their maximum energy increased permanently.
Translated to reality, this likely meant a massive boost in vitality and life force.
The Stardrop at the Fall Fair was considered the easiest one to get.
"I'll just wait for the 16th of Fall next year," Daeron thought without regret.
Dragon's Rest Farm was still in its startup phase. He lacked a variety of high-quality produce and couldn't scrape together nine distinct items of top tier.
But then again, no one else in Westeros could produce any magical crops.
No matter how you calculated it, he was guaranteed to win.
He just had to be patient for a few months, and he would taste the flavor of a Stardrop.