The sun hung low over Elden Farm like a ripe peach, turning the wheat fields into a sea of gold. Daeron leaned on his hoe at the edge of the biggest patch he'd ever cleared, sweat dripping down his neck, boots caked in good honest dirt. His once-soft hands were now rough and strong. A tiny, proud smile tugged at his lips.
"One hundred days," he muttered, wiping his forehead. "A hundred damn days since I woke up in that haystack thinking it was all a bad dream."
Flashback hits:
Day 1 — He'd screamed at the rooster like it was a monster.
Day 3 — Bessie the cow kicked him so hard he flew into the water trough. Harlan laughed so much he almost choked on his pipe.
Day 15 — First successful row of carrots… then the sky-rats (pigeons) stole half before sunrise. Daeron chased them waving his hoe like a madman.
Day 40 — He finally milked Bessie without getting kicked. Lila clapped. Bessie still looked offended.
Day 70 — That stubborn goat head-butted him into the mud every single morning… until Daeron started saving the best apple cores for him. Now the goat follows him like a puppy.
Day 95 — The moon-beets he secretly fed a little mana to glowed softly at night. Harlan just grunted, "Cheater… but I ain't complaining about the size."
"Daeron! Supper!" Old Man Harlan's gravelly voice cut through the evening air.
Daeron jogged back to the farmhouse. Harlan and his granddaughter Lila waited on the porch with a surprise: a slightly lopsided apple pie, a jug of fresh honeyed milk, and three candles stuck in a big golden loaf of bread shaped like the number "100".
Lila grinned, flour still on her cheek. "We heard you counting yesterday. Figured you deserved a proper party."
Harlan clapped him on the back hard enough to make him stumble. "Boy, when you first showed up all soft and confused, I gave you three days tops. Look at ya now — fields are the best they've been in twenty years, chickens actually lay eggs instead of plotting against us, and even Baron Snort the pig lets you scratch his belly."
Daeron laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Still got kicked by Bessie this morning, though."
"Progress," Lila teased, handing him the biggest slice of pie.
They sat on the creaky porch steps as the stars came out. Daeron took a bite — warm, sweet, perfect. For the first time in a hundred days he didn't miss the noise of the city, the deadlines, the endless screens. Here the only deadline was sunrise, and the only notification was the rooster (who he'd secretly named Sir Clucksalot).
Harlan raised his mug. "To the next hundred days, farm boy."
Daeron clinked his cup against theirs, eyes shining. "To the farm. And to not giving up even when the goat wins."
In the distance, one of his moon-beets popped open with a soft poof, releasing tiny sparkling lights that floated over the fields like fireflies.
Daeron smiled wider than ever.
One hundred days down… and the land still had a lot left to teach him.
---
As the tiny sparkling lights from the moon-beets floated gently over the fields like distant stars, a familiar sound broke the peaceful night — the stubborn white goat trotted up the porch steps and headbutted Daeron's leg affectionately.
Daeron chuckled and scratched its head. "Even you showed up for the party, huh? Thought you only loved me when I've got apple cores."
Harlan leaned back in his creaky wooden chair, pipe smoke curling lazily into the cool evening air. He took a slow sip of honeyed milk, then said in a deep, mock-dramatic voice that somehow fit the old farmer perfectly:
"Winter is coming, boy."
Daeron blinked, then burst out laughing so hard he nearly dropped his pie. "Did you just—? Where did that come from?"
The old man's eyes twinkled with rare mischief behind his bushy brows. "Aye. And the farm remembers." He tapped the porch rail with his pipe. "Hundred days you've lasted out here, Daeron. Most city boys would've run screaming back to their soft beds and glowing boxes by day ten. But you… you've earned your place. Fields are greener, Bessie's milk is sweeter, and even Baron Snort the pig doesn't try to eat your boots anymore."
Lila covered her mouth, shoulders shaking with giggles. "Grandpa only pulls out the 'winter' line when he really likes someone. Last time was when the old well didn't freeze over."
Harlan raised his mug high, voice warm and steady. "To Daeron — the only man who can make Bessie behave, survive the goat's daily charges, and still smile at sunrise. May your next hundred days be long… and may you never know nothing."
Daeron grinned wider than the harvest moon, clinking his cup against theirs with a solid clink.
"Valar dohaeris, old man. I'm here to serve the farm."
The three of them laughed together under the starlit sky as the magical beet-lights danced around them like tiny silver dragons. In the distance, the white goat gave one last happy "meh!" before curling up at Daeron's feet.
One hundred days down… and the farm still had winters, summers, and plenty of secrets left to share.
---
The porch party had wound down into that perfect, sleepy kind of quiet. Crumbs of apple pie dusted the steps, the honeyed-milk jug was empty, and the white goat — now officially named Ser Headbutt — snored happily against Daeron's boot. Tiny sparkling lights from the moon-beets drifted overhead like friendly little stars.
Harlan puffed his pipe once, eyes soft in the lantern glow. "Hundred days, boy. You made this old farm proud. Winter is coming… but you'll face it just fine."
Daeron grinned, clinking his empty mug against the old man's one last time. "Valar dohaeris, Uncle Harlan. I serve the land now."
Lila leaned her head on his shoulder, flour still streaked across her cheek. "Don't you dare leave us, city-turned-farm-boy."
He didn't answer. Because deep down, he already knew.
Later, when the house was dark and everyone slept, Daeron slipped outside alone. The fields glowed softly — his moon-beets, his stubborn carrots, his hard-won wheat. He walked to the center of the biggest patch, breathing in the rich, living scent of soil that had become home.
Then it happened.
A blazing red comet tore across the night sky, painting everything crimson for one long, beautiful second.
Every moon-beet flared bright at once. Vital energy surged so thick the air hummed. Daeron felt it in his chest — warm, gentle, final.
He smiled, no fear at all.
The whole farm came to see him off.
Harlan and Lila stumbled out in nightshirts. Bessie lowed softly from the barn. Baron Snort waddled over. Sir Clucksalot strutted like he was leading a parade. And Ser Headbutt headbutted his leg one last affectionate time.
Daeron knelt, hugging each of them tight.
"Thank you," he whispered, voice cracking just a little. "You crazy, wonderful bunch. I came here lost and soft. You turned me into someone who can grow anything… even hope. The farm remembers."
Lila hugged him hardest. Harlan's big hand rested on his head. "Go on, lad. Whatever comes next… farm it well."
Daeron lay down among the glowing beets, the red comet still burning overhead. He closed his eyes, one hand resting on Ser Headbutt's warm fur.
The last thing he felt was peace.
Then… nothing.
---
Raventree Hall — 280 AC
Morning sunlight broke over the melting snow.
In the study of the castle, a boy of about eleven or twelve sat by the window. Silver hair, violet eyes, thick black tunic. One small hand held a sketchpad, the other a charcoal pencil.
Three oval shapes took form on the paper with slow, sure strokes.
"Dragon eggs," he murmured, the words coming naturally.
Daeron Targaryen set the pencil down.
Memories flooded in — not just the ones that had returned at age four, but brand-new ones. The farm. The mud on his boots. Harlan's gruff laugh. Lila's apple pie. A hundred perfect, back-breaking, beautiful days. Bessie's kicks. Ser Headbutt's daily charges. Moon-beets glowing under a red comet.
And now… here.
He stared at his reflection in the frosted glass — silver hair, violet eyes, the face of a prince of House Targaryen. Son of the Mad King. Brother to Rhaegar, Shaenie, Jaehaerys, and little Viserys.
A slow, determined grin spread across his young face.
"So the old life ended… and the real one begins. Fine. If I can survive a demon goat and grow glowing beets in a hundred days, I can farm this entire realm."
He crumpled the old sketch, then started a fresh one — the same three eggs, but now with faint glowing roots beneath them, as if they were planted in rich, living soil full of vital energy.
From somewhere far away, in the back of his mind, he heard Harlan's voice clear as day:
"The farm remembers, boy."
Daeron's violet eyes sparkled with mischief and fire.
"Winter is coming," he whispered, "but this dragon's bringing fertilizer."
~ Omake End ~
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