The fallen logs and scattered stones were endless. Every swing of Daeron's axe drained a little more of his strength.
Before long, his arms went numb and sore — but the results were worth it. He'd finally cleared enough open ground to start his first planting.
"This isn't like a game," he muttered. "Can't work on an empty stomach. Better plant some food crops before I collapse."
Unlike the pixelated farmers of his old world, Daeron didn't have an infinite constitution or diet of nothing but air. His capital was limited — only 500 gold dragons — so every purchase had to count.
"Sacrifices are part of the system," he reminded himself. "Five skills — farming, foraging, mining, fishing, combat — all contribute."
He ran through the seed types in his head:
- Parsnips: 4 days to mature, one-time harvest.
- Green beans: 10 days to mature, harvestable every 3 days thereafter.
- Cauliflower: 12 days to mature, one-time harvest.
- Potatoes: 6 days to mature, chance of multiple yields.
Four varieties — enough to cover the Spring Farming requirement. The total cost: 490 gold, leaving him with just ten. The parsnips and potatoes would feed him; the beans and cauliflower would serve for trade and collection.
He tilled a neat 3x3 square of soil — nine patches, 0.5 meters each — then planted his seeds methodically and watered them all in turn.
"Perfect," he said, stretching his arms with a tired but satisfied grin. "As long as I water daily, I'll have my first harvest in twelve days."
Half he'd keep. The rest he could sell — some through the farm's exchange, some back in King's Landing, where certain "curious nobles" would pay handsomely for enchanted produce.
Of course, the two currencies didn't overlap: farm gold and Westerosi gold dragons were separate. That 500 gold start-up fund had practically been a tutorial grant.
"Since I planted fewer than fifteen seeds, I shouldn't attract any crows. Good enough to sleep on."
He glanced up — twilight had fallen. His muscles burned pleasantly, and he was already daydreaming of a warm fire and a seat on the cottage sofa.
Then he froze. "Wait… Seven Hells — I forgot Ser Jon."
Daeron swore under his breath, grabbed his cloak, and hurried out.
He'd sent his Kingsguard escort down to water the horses and scout the nearby ridge hours ago. That was before he'd lost track of time inside the shimmering bounds of the Stardew interface.
Now, as he followed the dirt road downhill, he realized why the man hadn't returned: a sturdy wooden fence ringed the property, stopping at mid-slope — a boundary line.
Down below, at the base of the hill, firelight flickered in the dusk.
Ser Jon sat on a mossy stone, helmet off, staring glumly at the flames.
"Ser Jon," Daeron called, feigning confusion. "Couldn't find me, I take it?"
"My prince!" the knight said, springing up, relief flooding his face.
The sun dipped behind the trees. In the fading glow, the man explained what had happened: he had searched the entire area — even the beach five miles out — only to find that no matter which path he took, he couldn't reach the farm again.
Daeron listened, half-smiling.
So that was it. The farm's boundary was under protection — a magical domain seal. Without his explicit consent, no one could cross inside.
"Then you've done your duty," he said evenly. "No need to keep watch inside the boundary."
He pulled a pack from his horse and handed it over: a tent, blankets, dried food, and a wineskin.
In times of weakness, one must first protect oneself.
Ser Jon started to object — his oath demanded he stay near. But the prince's calm, deliberate tone and the generous supplies left him no room to protest.
Distance was another tool of command.
"Stay safe, Your Grace," Jon finally said, resigned.
Daeron nodded and made his way back up under the silver moonlight.
In the quiet, he reflected on Tywin's lessons — always leave no loose ends, and never give an order that leaves someone an excuse to fail.
That's why he'd prepared the gear beforehand — even deceit could be an act of foresight.
By nightfall, the sky glittered with stars, and moonlight cast long shadows across the small cottage.
Inside, the firelight flickered warmly as Daeron sat at his desk, writing a letter by hand. He sealed it with wax and leaned back, satisfied.
"All done."
Outside the window, the sea of grass shimmered under the moonlight.
The letter would be sent to Dragonstone, addressed to his brother Rhaegar Targaryen — blunt, direct, and impossible to ignore.
> "I, Daeron Targaryen, want a dragon egg."
> P.S. I know you're on Dragonstone. Don't pretend otherwise — write back.
Daeron smiled faintly. "Let's see if you'll actually answer this time."
His last few letters had gone unanswered. Rhaegar, for all his charm and fame, had a heart colder than the Wall when it came to family.
But Daeron refused to give up.
According to long Targaryen tradition, every newborn child was given a dragon egg placed in their cradle — to hatch if fortune allowed. The dragon that emerged would bond with the child for life.
Of course, dragons had been extinct for over a century and a half. The last kings of the dynasty had tried countless rituals, yet none had revived dragonkind.
Still, the custom had endured — until the Tragedy at Summerhall.
That disaster, twenty-one years ago, had ended it forever. Aegon V — the Unlikely King — had gathered the last seven dragon eggs of the royal line. With pyromancers' help, he'd tried to use wildfire to hatch them.
It failed catastrophically.
The palace was consumed in an inferno, killing King Aegon himself, his eldest son Duncan the Small, Lord Commander Duncan the Tall, and dozens of others in a blaze that earned its name in history — The Tragedy of Summerhall.
The fire didn't just claim lives — it destroyed the last known dragon eggs.
So Daeron and his siblings had been born into the world empty-handed, without the ancient symbols of their heritage.
"Are they truly all gone?" he whispered.
He couldn't accept that.
In the dragonlords' heyday, over ten full-grown dragons lived in Westeros at once. Half were female — each capable of laying clutches of at least five eggs.
By the time of the Dance of Dragons, there had been more than thirty eggs in storage.
Even if most had turned to stone over the centuries, surely a few had survived somewhere, dormant and forgotten.
"I'm not even asking for a live egg," Daeron said to the firelight. "A fossilized one will do."
He thought of another name — Daenerys Targaryen, the "Mother of Dragons" of the original saga — a woman who had once breathed life into stone eggs through a blood sacrifice.
So, yes. It was possible.
Maybe Aegon V's wildfire experiment had been a crude attempt at the same thing — trying to ignite life through death. But wildfire wasn't magic; it was alchemy, a chemical trick devoid of real vitality.
"No wonder it failed," Daeron murmured.
He was certain Rhaegar had already scoured Dragonstone's vaults for any trace of eggs. But still — he'd try.
Because now, with his system, he had the means and reason to believe.
And if Dragonstone yielded nothing…
"I'll search the entire continent," he whispered, eyes cold and resolute. "Until I find one."
The candle flame flickered in agreement — a single spark dancing in the still air, reflected in the violet eyes of a Targaryen prince who'd already decided the impossible was only a matter of time.