Count Owen blinked once, then broke into a smile.
"Your Grace — you're returning to King's Landing?"
Count Tytos Blackwood, standing beside him, stepped forward at once.
Daeron moved faster. He caught the older man's calloused, sword-worn hand and spoke with genuine warmth, "Uncle Tytos, I owe you so much for this time here."
Tytos — tall, broad-shouldered, the picture of an old-school knight — frowned. "King's Landing isn't safe. You'd be better off staying at Raventree until I knight you myself. I'll speak to His Grace on your behalf."
The man was blunt and straightforward, saying exactly what he thought.
Daeron smiled wryly. He really did like Tytos — and for good reason. Their family lines were actually connected.
His great-grandfather, Aegon V — "the Unlikely King," or as some whispered, "Egg" — had once married Betha Blackwood. By that lineage, Tytos was her distant descendant, and Daeron's "uncle" of sorts. The Mad King, Aerys, never cared for such ties, but Daeron had used them well — and honestly.
Getting to know the Blackwoods had been… a side effect of fixing a royal mess.
The feud between House Blackwood and House Bracken was one of the oldest in the Riverlands — more than a thousand years of bad blood.
Only a year before Rhaegar's marriage, the two families had clashed again. The Tullys, Wardens of the Trident, were supposed to handle it — but House Tully lacked the authority to subdue nobles of that size. Eventually, the dispute reached the Iron Throne.
Aerys listened to the report, scoffed, and forgot about it.
"What's the point of you being my vassal if you can't even control your bannermen?" he'd shouted.
When the matter landed on the desk of Hand of the King Tywin Lannister, Tywin ruled that the Blackwoods were in the right.
Aerys exploded.
"So they all say Tywin is the true king, and I just wear the crown?" he ranted. "Fine! If Tywin sides with the Blackwoods, then I'll favor the Brackens!"
That rash decision crippled the crown's relationship with House Blackwood — and in the original history, they stayed neutral during Robert's Rebellion because of it.
Daeron hadn't let that happen.
If the king wanted to take sides, he could help — just not the way Aerys expected.
Playing his role as the "dutiful second son," Daeron volunteered to go. Aerys, delighted, agreed immediately.
Once Daeron arrived in the Riverlands, he brought the Tullys to the table, pretended to support House Bracken, and "mediated" the conflict. In reality, he forced the Brackens to return the land they'd stolen — and pay compensation for damages and wounded.
No one dared defy the prince. The Riverlords submitted quickly, and the Blackwoods gained a quiet ally in the Targaryen family tree.
From that point, Lord Tytos grew fond of the perceptive young prince. He saw Aerys's madness for what it was, but treated Daeron with honest respect — without scheming or self-interest.
"Yes, Uncle Tytos. I'll be fine," Daeron assured him now, tightening his grip. His gaze flicked toward Owen. "Besides, my father plans to reward me for my work."
At that, Owen nodded quickly. "Indeed, Your Grace."
He knew what that "reward" meant — a plot of land. Bold of the young prince to ask it, but clever.
Tytos, reassured, sighed. "Then I wish you safe travels."
The next morning, Daeron packed his things and joined the party bound for King's Landing.
When they parted, he clasped Tytos's hands one last time, reminding him to keep warm and avoid the chill. Even the stoic lord looked moved, nodding gruffly without speaking.
Five days later, King's Landing rose in the distance.
Daeron rode a white horse in the middle of the group, flanked by the Kingsguard and nobles.
"Your Grace, nearly there," said Owen, handing him a waterskin.
Daeron waved it off politely.
Waiting until no one else was close, Owen lowered his voice. "Your Grace, you're clearly favored by His Majesty. Why go through the trouble of asking for your own estate?"
For Targaryens, the title Prince of Dragonstone was the sign of heirship.
"If Dragonstone's Rhaegar's now, do you think he'll just hand it over?" Daeron answered with a faint smile.
Owen had no reply. Daeron nudged his horse ahead, ending the conversation.
Sir Gerold Hightower — the White Bull — waited at the front of the column. When Daeron drew near, the old knight gave a small, dignified nod. Daeron returned the gesture, saying nothing.
No, he didn't want Dragonstone. And even if he did — he wouldn't win it.
But that wasn't the point.
Suddenly, a faint shimmer of light appeared before his eyes — a translucent board with bold letters across the center:
[Stardew Valley Interface]
His personal system.
A panel granting him the skills of that peaceful farming-and-life simulator he'd played in his past life — tending land, fishing, mining, crafting, and combat.
Ironically, it was meant as an escape from city burnout… and now, he needed a piece of land to activate it.
That was the real reason for his "reward request."
"Your Grace, Red Keep ahead," came Ser Gerold's deep voice.
Daeron looked up. The massive black iron gates loomed before them, flanked by twin crimson dragon banners fluttering in the wind.
They'd arrived.
"Second Brother! Over here!"
From atop the ramparts, a silver-haired boy of six or seven waved excitedly.
Daeron laughed and dismounted, stepping into the courtyard just as the boy sprinted toward him and crashed into his arms.
He caught the little one easily. "Jaehaerys," he said warmly — it had been months since he'd seen his younger brother.
"Second Brother, was the Riverlands pretty?" the boy asked eagerly.
"Beautiful — all rolling hills and rivers," Daeron replied, smiling.
They talked and laughed as they walked through Maegor's Holdfast.
"Father's been in a foul mood lately," Jaehaerys whispered.
Daeron's eyes softened. "Don't worry. His anger's for Rhaegar, not us."
Jaehaerys nodded silently and clung closer.
Laughter echoed nearby — voices of young girls drifting through the air.
Through a stained-glass window, Daeron caught sight of three girls playing in the courtyard garden, their bright skirts swirling as they ran. One — a stunning blonde with milk-pale skin and vivid green eyes — looked radiant under the sunlight.
Jaehaerys tugged his sleeve. "Brother…"
"Let them be," Daeron said lightly. "Come on."
The Throne Room.
A thousand enemy swords forged into a single jagged seat of power — the Iron Throne towered above, its sharp edges gleaming in the torchlight. Beneath it lay a thicket of blades, isolating the king from the world below.
Daeron entered alone.
A tall figure sat slumped on the throne — long silver-gold hair falling messily over his face, muttering to himself.
Daeron approached quietly, familiar with the sight.
But before he could step closer — shing!
Both Jonothor Darry and Ser Gerold half-drew their swords, blocking his way.
Daeron stopped, eyes glancing subtly over the room.
Only one more Kingsguard stood guard at the steps. No others in sight.
To the right stood two men: a bent old maester in gray robes — Grand Maester Pycelle — and a portly man with a powdered, smiling face dressed in black silk.
When their eyes met, that man offered a small, polite bow — hands tucked within his sleeves.
It was the Master of Whisperers, the "Spider" himself: Varys.