Sixth year, Spring Day 11. Sunny. 8:00 a.m.
Dragon-Tongue Farm.
Daeron stepped out of the sheep barn with Davos, weaving between fat white ewes while they collected dozens of high-grade wool bundles. He fed the lower-quality stuff straight into the eighteen looms. The wheels spun, pulling silk from the fibers and weaving it into fresh bolts of cloth.
Same drill for eggs, milk, duck feathers, and rabbit's feet—those lucky carrot-shaped charms everyone loved. He swapped his old one for a fresh gold-star version and tucked it away. A little extra luck never hurt.
Every chore bumped his skill XP and nudged all five masteries closer to done. Once the second mastery hit, he'd pick Farming and finally grab that iridium scythe he'd been craving. With more crops every season and Ginger Island still waiting, hand-harvesting was turning into a full-time job. One swing of that scythe and whole rows would drop.
He mounted the white deer from the stable and rode toward Abundance Hall.
Passing through Dairy Town, he checked the build-out. A low white-stone wall ringed the edge now, with north and south gates. Wide slate streets ran from the gates and split into four main avenues that reached every district. The place was growing fast.
With Davos beside him, Daeron left Abundance Hall and toured the full prince's fief.
Compared to the endless cleanup in King's Landing, this land sat backed by the Kingswood and linked the Riverlands, Reach, and Stormlands. It already had the bones of a real trade hub.
The fief was huge.
After the second round of land grants it had swallowed Tengshi Town from the Reach.
Spring plowing was in full swing—compost piles everywhere, farmers out on the new-broken fields with the new pointed plows.
"Prince, the composting and pointed plows you introduced have spread to every household in the fief," Davos said, clearly proud of the work.
Daeron didn't care what he heard—he cared what he saw.
Half the wasteland had been cleared—roughly twelve hundred square miles. Most of it was still thin new soil that would need years of manure, tilling, and planting before it turned rich.
Along the Blackwater riverbanks, several new water mills and spinning wheels hummed, pushing handicrafts forward fast.
In Dairy Town's streets he'd seen vendors selling baskets, wool felt, and dyed cloth. Trade was solid, rooted in strong local farming.
Davos had the numbers ready. "Prince, Lord Manly and I tallied it: Dairy Town has eighty thousand people. The Kingswood edge has three thousand, Tengshi Town fifty thousand. Total just passed one hundred thirty thousand."
Davos had a real head for this stuff. He stumbled a little but got it out: "During the King's Landing cleanup, Lord Staunton moved about thirty thousand from Flea Bottom. Most went to Dairy Town; the rest to Strawberry Market on the north bank of the Blackwater."
Strawberry Market was basically a big trade fair for the Crownlands and Riverlands. Permanent population under two thousand.
Daeron nodded. "King's Landing is overcrowded. A lot of the unemployed and troublemakers refuse to leave. Nothing we can do about that."
"If Lord Staunton hinted at free land in Dairy Town, they'd fight to get here," Davos said helplessly.
"I don't want troublemakers," Daeron answered flat.
They kept walking and passed Greenleaf Ridge, the tea plantation. Early in the month, so no one was picking yet.
Eventually they reached the wild fields near the Kingswood.
A gang of ragged serfs was breaking new ground—gaunt, dull-eyed, pushing old wooden plows. Their clothes hung off them like sacks.
Crack!
An overseer cracked his whip across a lazy back, splitting skin.
Daeron stopped short and looked at Davos.
"Prisoners, Prince," Davos explained quickly. "Rebel soldiers. No one paid their ransom, so we sent them to the hardest land in the fief. Two years and they're free."
Daeron understood. He looked closer. Some still wore tattered leather with house sigils. They were tall, not the usual scrawny peasant stock. A lot of them were Vale men—Arryn loyalists who'd drawn the short straw.
Crack!
The whip lashed a tall, skinny one. The man screamed and nearly fell.
Daeron frowned—then froze. That face looked familiar.
Black hair. Sly black eyes. Skinny as a rail.
Petyr Baelish—Littlefinger.
Petyr gritted his teeth, pushed himself up, and went back to the plow, terrified of another lash.
"Prince, you know him?" Davos asked, following his gaze.
Daeron smiled. "We met once. Where'd you pick him up?"
"Gulltown," Davos said, memory sharp. "When we retook the town he was the tax collector. Hid in a brothel. The madam sold him out. We shipped him here to break ground."
"No one ransomed—"
Daeron cut him off with a laugh. Hoster Tully was dead, the Arryns wiped out, and House Baelish was dirt-poor on the Fingers. Who the hell would pay for him?
"Tough break," Daeron said, amused.
He'd met the kid once while settling the Bracken-Blackwood mess at Riverrun. Back then Petyr was still young, playing eager lapdog to Hoster and Catelyn, too aware of the status gap to get close to Daeron.
Before he turned dark, Littlefinger wasn't much of a threat. Ambitious schemer, sure—but nothing Daeron couldn't handle later.
Davos read the room. "Should I free him? He's not a major criminal."
"No need," Daeron said, voice even. "Let him work. Bring him to me when I have time."
Davos kept his face blank but silently wished Petyr luck. Time was a vague thing with the prince.
"Make sure the Tyroshi skilled slaves are treated well," Daeron added, remembering. "Free them, settle them in Dairy Town, and start training orphans as apprentices. When I get a moment I'll figure out how to raise those purple sea snails."
The magic tide around the fief was unusually strong. Every autumn the Moonlight Jellyfish Festival drew the glowing creatures to the east coast. If jellyfish came, purple sea snails should thrive here too. No sense wasting skilled dye workers.
Afternoon.
Daeron returned to King's Landing, fed Drogon, and checked the other two dragon eggs.
The yellow one and the copper-green one sat quiet—no signs of hatching.
"Brother, let me see," Viserys begged, eyes glued to the eggs while he kept a safe distance from the hatchling.
Little sister Daenerys had been born safe in early 284 AC. Daeron had been fourteen when he hit Tyrosh. Shaena was seventeen now, Jaehaerys ten, Viserys eight.
Eight-year-old Viserys still hadn't grown much sense—he either ate or pestered Daeron about the dragons.
"Viserys, shut up," Jaehaerys said, two years older and already trying to keep his little brother in line.
"It's fine. Let him look," Daeron said. He handed the copper-green egg to Viserys. "No banging it around. Just look."
"Yes!" Viserys grinned ear to ear.
Dragon eggs were fine to look at. If one happened to hatch in their hands, the family would just gain another hatchling. But Daeron wasn't handing any over. Once he sat the Iron Throne he'd decide whether his brothers got to ride.
"Second brother, he'll break it," Jaehaerys worried.
Daeron tossed the yellow egg to his third brother. "Think it'll break, or are you just scared to catch?"
Jaehaerys startled, fumbled, then clutched it tight to his chest like it might explode.
"See? You caught it," Daeron said with a grin.
Jaehaerys held the egg close, face tight. "Second brother, the eggs are safer with you. Don't let them go to outsiders."
He wasn't as simple as Shaena or as slow as Viserys. Of the siblings, only Rhaegar and Daeron were sharper than Jaehaerys.
Daeron had noticed for a while: the kid always managed to catch him on the way back to the Red Keep and quietly pass along useful gossip. Not scheming—just family looking out for family.
Still, for a seven- or eight-year-old it was a lot of brains.
Smart kids thought too much.
Daeron dropped the smile, put a hand on Jaehaerys's shoulder, and crouched so they were eye to eye.
"Little Jae, you and Viserys are my brothers. I look out for you the same way you look out for me."
"I can tell you straight: the eggs and hatchlings aren't going to you two yet. You're still too young. Your minds aren't grown. You can't tell good from bad yet, and you can't take responsibility for your choices."
"You understand what I'm saying?"
He laid it out plain—no riddles.
He wanted the same bond Tywin had with Kevan and Tygett: trust, heavy responsibility, building the family stronger together.
If brothers had to scheme against each other, he had no business sitting the Iron Throne and claiming to rule seven kingdoms.
"Repair yourself. Regulate the family. Govern the realm. Bring peace to the world."
Couldn't run the Seven Kingdoms if his own house wasn't solid.
"We'll be your helpers?" Jaehaerys asked, eyes wide.
Daeron nodded. "Of course. You're my brothers. Same name. Same blood."
"Dragon blood?" Jaehaerys gave a small smile.
"Obviously," Daeron said, pushing him lightly.
"I get it, second brother," Jaehaerys said, grinning as he ran off to compare eggs with Viserys—which one looked better, which would hatch the cooler dragon.
Daeron let them go. Let the boys be boys.
To him the eggs were nowhere near as important as two full-blooded brothers. Dragons could always lay more. Their mother Rhaella probably wouldn't be having any more kids.
Later, Daeron took the eggs back and sent both brothers off to eat.
Melisandre appeared in the Red Keep, stepping right in front of him.
"Something?" Daeron asked. He didn't remember inviting the red priestess inside.
Melisandre knew she wasn't welcome but stood her ground. "I saw it in the flames."
"A vast desert oasis. Three ritual pillars inside. An iron gate guarding the whole place."