Dragonspeak Farm, two weeks after the Tourney at Harrenhal.
6:00 AM. Perfect weather. Zero nobles in sight.
Daeron stood in the middle of his prize patch wearing a simple linen tunic and straw hat, hands on hips, admiring rows of Gold Star Pumpkins the size of small ponies. Each one pulsed with a soft golden glow. The Stardew Valley panel chimed happily in his mind:
> [Gold Star Pumpkin (Perfect Quality) × 142]
> [Shipping value: 1,250 Gold each]
> [Current total wealth: enough to buy the Stepstones twice and still have change for snacks]
"Beautiful," he whispered. "Absolutely beautiful."
Caraxes, sprawled across three acres like a lazy red garden hose, lifted one eyelid and snorted. A small puff of smoke curled around a pumpkin, giving it an artistic char mark.
"Caraxes. No. We talked about this. You are not a grill."
The dragon gave a sheepish skreee and rolled over, crushing exactly seventeen cauliflowers.
Ser Jon Connington marched up in full armor, sweating. "My Prince! The western sector is under attack by… weeds! I have formed a defensive line with the goats!"
Barristan Selmy appeared on the other side, sword drawn. "The eastern sprinklers are malfunctioning, my Prince. They are… dancing."
Sure enough, the twenty-eight Quality Sprinklers were spinning in perfect synchronization, flinging water in heart shapes. A tiny green Junimo popped out from behind one, waved, and vanished with a pop.
Daeron sighed the sigh of a man who had slain two Kingsguard, survived Robert Baratheon's warhammer, and still couldn't have one peaceful harvest day. "Junimos, I love you, but please stop flirting with the irrigation system."
A wheelhouse thundered up the path. Gold and crimson banners. Lannister lions everywhere.
Cersei Lannister stepped out wearing what she clearly believed was "peasant chic": a velvet gown with a single straw tucked behind her ear and a golden sickle that had definitely never seen dirt.
"My Prince!" she called, voice sweet as poisoned honey. "I have come to learn the noble art of farming. Together we shall grow… us."
Jaime trailed behind her, looking like he'd rather be back in the Kingswood fighting bandits. "She made me come. Said it was 'romantic.'"
Daeron pinched the bridge of his nose. "Cersei. This is a working farm. Not a courtship arena."
"Exactly!" She grabbed a perfectly ripe Silver Star Pumpkin. "Watch me harvest like a true smallfolk!"
She swung the golden sickle with all the grace of a cat trying to operate a crossbow. The blade bounced off the pumpkin's tough rind, ricocheted, and sliced off half her own sleeve.
"Seven Hells!" she yelped.
The pumpkin, offended, rolled downhill and bowled straight into the Deluxe Barn. Goats scattered. One particularly brave goat headbutted it back uphill like a game of pumpkin bowling.
Caraxes perked up. Food?
"No!" Daeron shouted. "Bad dragon! That one's for export!"
Too late. Caraxes inhaled, exhaled a gentle puff of flame, and the pumpkin became a perfectly roasted, caramelized masterpiece.
Cersei clapped. "See? Teamwork!"
A second wheelhouse arrived. This one had antlers on the roof.
Robert Baratheon leaped out, still bandaged from the tourney, holding an empty plate. "Where's the magic cheese that fixed my shoulder?! I'll fight the dragon for it if I have to!"
Behind him, Ned Stark facepalmed so hard it echoed.
Then the sky cracked. Literally. A green portal opened and King Aerys II tumbled out, covered in soot, clutching a half-eaten turnip.
"Boy!" he roared at Daeron. "I have discovered the secret of the Turnip Throne! Knight me this vegetable at once!"
Daeron stared at the assembled chaos: Cersei trying to milk a goat with her bare hands (the goat was winning), Jaime desperately trying to stop her while getting kicked in the shins, Robert wrestling Caraxes for the roasted pumpkin, Aerys attempting to knight a turnip on one knee, and the Junimos now openly throwing tomatoes at everyone for fun.
He looked up at the clear blue sky and whispered, "I just wanted to farm in peace."
The panel helpfully chimed:
> [Achievement Unlocked: "Noble Nuisance Level: Maximum"]
> [Reward: One (1) very tired sigh]
Barristan lowered his sword. "My Prince… shall I form a defensive perimeter around the cheese press?"
Daeron watched Cersei finally succeed in milking the goat—directly into her own cleavage.
He exhaled. "Ser Barristan. Burn the entire patch. We'll start over tomorrow. In Dorne. They have fewer royals."
Caraxes gave a happy little chirp and obligingly set the entire pumpkin patch on fire.
The resulting explosion of golden sparks and pumpkin pie-scented smoke could be seen from King's Landing.
Back at the Red Keep, Rhaegar looked up from his harp, frowning. "Ice and Fire… or is that… roasted pumpkin?"
Somewhere in the distance, a lone Junimo laughed in six-part harmony.