Evening, 6:00 PM.
The Mines, Level 100.
Creak!
Daeron looked like hell, panting slightly as he pried open the Level 100 chest.
A purple, star-shaped fruit floated into the air. As if drawn by a magnetic force, it drifted straight toward his lips. Daeron opened his mouth and crunched down on it.
Hummmm—
A mysterious energy surged through his entire body. Daeron's spirit lifted, his mind flooded with an indescribable aftertaste that made his very soul shiver with delight.
> [You found a Stardrop! It's strange, but the taste reminds you of Home.]
> [Your maximum energy level has increased.]
As the rush of euphoria slowly faded, Daeron snapped back to reality and realized his vitality had skyrocketed.
"Significant upgrade."
Daeron tried to recall the stats. In Stardew Valley, a farmer's starting energy was 270 points. Each Stardrop increased that by 34, capping out at 508.
That meant his overall vitality had increased by roughly one-seventh.
"Hell yes."
Daeron spun the Obsidian Edge in his hand. The dark blade flashed, and for a split second, the sword seemed to breathe.
It was a brand new sensation—a specific way of channeling his vitality.
Daeron paused, then tried to coat the blade with his energy again. Nothing happened.
"It was just a spark of inspiration," he muttered. "Not a passive skill I've mastered yet."
He closed his eyes, focusing inward.
The Obsidian Edge and Neptune's Glaive were completely different beasts. One was the essence of fire, solidified; the other was an heirloom of the sea. The former had a rapid, aggressive resonance stabilized by the crystal, while the latter was heavy, powerful, and carried the cold hardness of iron.
Before this, Daeron had never sensed these nuances.
The Stardrop is the key to unlocking vitality, he realized.
He looked at the Obsidian Edge again, thinking, Special weapons have a 'breath' that resonates with the user.
What about ordinary weapons? Or other items? Special crops, gems, materials... do they hold similar power?
Vitality was a treasure vault he was sitting on, but until now, he hadn't had the pickaxe to break it open.
"The Valley had Wizards and the Adventurer's Guild," Daeron mused. "There has to be a way to harness supernatural power here, too."
---
The Next Day.
Daeron was still researching vitality development and special weapons when his father, King Aerys, summoned him to the Dragonpit.
The structure was a fortress, with high, thick walls arranged in a massive ring.
Skreee!
"Toothless" lit up as his vertical green pupils locked onto Daeron. The dragon flapped his broad wings and dove straight for him.
Daeron: !!
A split second before the dragon tackled him, Daeron side-stepped, dodging by a hair's breadth.
"You missed."
Daeron grabbed the hatchling's head and rubbed it vigorously.
Toothless's eyes flashed with annoyance. The dragon slammed his head into Daeron's stomach, the massive force knocking the Prince flat on his back. Daeron felt like he'd taken a warhammer to the gut as Toothless pinned him to the ground.
Skreee!
Toothless roared, looking incredibly pleased with himself.
"Hahaha! Well done!"
King Aerys stepped out from the shadows, clapping loudly and cheering for the charcoal-black dragon.
Daeron: "..."
Sometimes, I really understand Rhaegar.
Caraxes appeared then, roaring at Toothless and startling the younger dragon into flight. Daeron rubbed his arm, sighing. His vitality might be higher, but it didn't make the hits hurt any less.
Father and son found a corner near a brazier and sat facing each other.
Aerys looked him up and down, suspicion clouding his eyes. Suddenly, he asked, "Boy, do you want to take Rhaegar's place as heir?"
Daeron's expression darkened. Here we go again.
Aerys continued, "Help me tame that black dragon, and I will strip Rhaegar of his birthright and name you Prince of Dragonstone."
"I support my brother," Daeron said, for what felt like the thousandth time.
"Who doesn't want to be King?"
"I have a dragon," Daeron replied calmly.
He knew exactly what his father was doing.
Aerys was convinced the Tourney at Harrenhal was a plot by Rhaegar to usurp the throne—which, to be fair, was true. Daeron had heard that his father was already discussing canceling the Tourney. Some ministers supported it; others opposed it.
Aerys wasn't asking for advice, nor was he actually offering the crown. He was trying to bribe Daeron into taming a dragon for him, and he wanted to set Daeron up as a target to block Rhaegar's momentum.
Aerys scowled, furious. "Rhaegar is definitely making a move at Harrenhal to steal my crown, and you do nothing!"
Ungrateful brat! It's all that bastard Rhaegar's fault. He's turning this one against me too.
Daeron played dumb. "I thought you planned to stop the Tourney?"
"No!" Aerys declared self-righteously. "I am the King! I have a dragon now. I want the lords and smallfolk of the Seven Kingdoms to witness my glory and cheer the name of Aerys II."
Daeron looked at his father.
Physically, Aerys was recovering well. Aside from the lingering madness in his eyes, he actually looked somewhat regal.
"I support that," Daeron said, poking the coals in the brazier with a stick.
Someone had convinced his father to attend Harrenhal—Lord Owen. Daeron had given the order himself.
The Tourney at Harrenhal was a historical turning point. The lords would see the King's madness firsthand and reach a consensus that a regime change was necessary. Rhaegar would meet Lyanna, sparking the "Year of the False Spring." Too many events stemmed from this one tourney.
Blocking it was impossible; it was better to guide the flow. With personalities like Aerys and Rhaegar, disaster was inevitable. Daeron just needed to be there when the dam broke—when Rhaegar met Lyanna, when the Starks marched South, when Robert rebelled. Those were the nodes where he could change history.
As for the Iron Throne? If Rhaegar made a fatal error, his succession would naturally be shaken. Daeron wouldn't be polite about stepping in then.
After a long silence, Aerys, annoyed that he hadn't tricked his second son, stormed off in a huff.
Daeron walked out of the Dragonpit.
Ser Jon approached and whispered, "Lady Cersei is here. She brought Jaime Lannister with her."
Daeron rubbed his temples and went out to face them.
"My Prince!"
At fifteen, Cersei was already blooming, her figure radiating a confident, dangerous charm. A self-assured smile played on her lips. The Dragonkeepers blocked her path, so she waved from thirty yards away.
Daeron nodded slightly, signaling the guards to let them pass.
"My Prince, I brought you a dish I cooked myself—a Western specialty. You simply must try it," Cersei said, holding up a food basket with a playful, demanding tone.
Dominance was in her bones.
Daeron rejected her casually. "No thanks. I only eat dishes made from special crops."
Cersei was prepared. Her smile didn't waver as she opened the basket. "I knew you'd say that. That's why I had this made with special ingredients purchased from the Eastern Continent."
What a joke. That's not a Western dish at all.
Daeron glanced inside. It was a Pumpkin Pie. Judging by the color and quality, it was made from the Silver Star pumpkins he had been selling across the Narrow Sea to fund his princely expenses.
"Eat up, my dear Prince." Cersei held the basket with both hands, challenging him to find another excuse.
Refusing again would be rude. Daeron picked up a small fork and took a bite.
Soft, glutinous, and sweet. It suited his palate perfectly.
Two thoughts popped into his head immediately:
1. Cersei didn't bake this. She handed it off to servants again.
2. The cooks in the Red Keep need to be replaced; they're leaking my taste preferences.
"Not bad," Daeron smiled. "Delicious."
Cersei's face lit up instantly. "As long as you like it, my Prince."
Behind her, Jaime Lannister looked dumbfounded. He was grinding his back teeth so hard they might crack.
Those were the pumpkins he bought in Pentos.
That was the pie he hired a chef to bake.
She didn't give it to him. she gave it to Daeron.
She forced it on him!
"Won't you invite me inside for a look?" Cersei asked, standing on her tiptoes to peer at the Dragonpit gates now that the Prince had accepted "her" pie.
Since the Dragonpit's restoration, the raising of the hatchlings had been a state secret. Even the King was stopped by the guards if he tried to enter without protocol.
Daeron declined. "Can't. The hatchlings are feral; they attack strangers on sight."
I knew it.
Cersei was used to this. In fact, she almost enjoyed the repeated rejections—it made the challenge of conquering him more thrilling. Men who obeyed her were boring.
She actively changed the subject. "My brother, Jaime Lannister. He just returned from Pentos across the Narrow Sea. He's seen quite a bit of the exotic East."
Jaime: "Huh?"
"Wait," Cersei smiled, turning her head to give Jaime a silent, withering glare while keeping her voice sweet. "Tell me and the Prince about your travels in the East. We're both very curious."
A knight can be killed, but not humiliated.
Jaime's chest heaved. He grabbed Cersei's shoulder and physically turned her back around, his voice squeezing through clenched teeth. "That's right... I know the East very well."
If he looked at Cersei's beautiful, duplicitous face for one more second, he might draw his sword. He never should have come back. He should have just left with Uncle Gerion.
---
Noon, 12:30 PM.
Daeron saw the Lannister twins off.
Cersei was practically skipping, clutching a bouquet of Gold Star Daffodils. She walked as if she were dancing, revealing glimpses of her pale ankles beneath her exquisite gown.
She was betting with herself that she would taste the young Prince first. Before Princess Shaena, before that Martell princess, and definitely before the Dayne girl standing next to the Martell princess.
She viewed every woman Daeron came into contact with as a rival. But they wouldn't get the chance to marry the Prince. She would beat them to it.
Because she was Cersei Lannister. She came from the wealthiest family in the Seven Kingdoms, with a father who was Hand of the King—second only to one, above everyone else.
The Prince accepted her pie and gave her a gift in return. By the unspoken rules of the nobility, the next step was sharing a bed.
Grind... grind...
Jaime followed behind her, watching his sister acting like a lovestruck maiden, grinding his teeth to dust.
He didn't even have the standing to stop it.
---
A few days of peace later, something big happened.
Ser Harlan Grandison, "The Grey," a Kingsguard who had been bedridden for a long time, finally passed away.
At the Small Council meeting:
Tywin Lannister spoke with a solemn expression. "Ser Harlan served in the Kingsguard longer than any of us, but he has been ill for some time. I hope he went peacefully."
Grand Maester Pycelle stood to the side, bowing his head. "Yes, my Lord Hand. We found him passed away in his sleep. The Silent Sisters are attending to his remains."
The ministers murmured their condolences.
King Aerys, surprisingly present at the meeting, slumped in his chair, muttering, "Old Harlan is gone..."
Everyone assumed the King was grieving the loss of another old friend.
But Aerys's mood shifted instantly. He waved his hand dismissively. "Well, since he's dead, find a replacement immediately. Fill the empty spot."
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