Shae whispered, "Mother doesn't like you."
"..."
When no one answered, Shae added, "She only loves our two little brothers."
How could someone with a body temperature of 36°C say something so cold?
Daeron pressed a hand to his forehead, a headache coming from nowhere.
But Shae was right: Queen Rhaella cared only for little Jaehaerys and Viserys; no one else existed in her eyes.
Especially toward Daeron—the Second Son doted on by their father—she barely hid her dislike.
"I know. Still, I should go see her."
Daeron sounded resigned.
He knew perfectly well he was offering warm feelings to a cold shoulder, but she was the mother who had raised him.
Shae didn't reply, quietly working her embroidery.
She had no interest in the matter; she simply hated seeing her younger brother wronged.
"Does she still come to see you every other day?" Daeron asked, changing the subject.
Shae said nothing, lost in her own world.
Seeing that, Daeron stopped disturbing her and walked alone to the drawing-room window; sunlight slanted through the glass onto an easel.
Wash brushes, mix pigments, paint.
When Jaehaerys saw his older brother painting, his eyes lit up and he hurried over.
Viserys, pig-like and not yet house-trained, tiptoed to snatch cookies from their sister's table, scattering crumbs over mouth and floor.
No one scolded him; the siblings had long since decided he was simple.
Inside tense Red Keep, the four brothers and sisters shared a rare harmony: the older two painted and embroidered while the younger two clung to them… in the king's bedchamber.
After a soft knock, Grand Maester Pycelle slipped inside.
He carried a tray bearing a silver flagon and cup.
"Your Grace, I've prepared a new sleeping draught; it will help Your Grace rest."
Pycelle set the tray on the table, every inch the venerable sage.
Barristan stepped from behind a dividing curtain, poured a milky, spirit-smelling draught.
A moment later the cup was drained and flung to the floor.
Aerys, perched on the bed, declared brightly, "Grand Maester, that damned spinning frame is finished; time to sell it to the lords of the Seven Kingdoms."
"Your Grace, the three-spindle wheel is newly invented; there may still be flaws."
Pycelle lowered his aged eyes, temporizing.
Aerys's gaze sharpened. "What do you mean—keep it hidden?"
"No, no, merely the necessary refinement of a new device."
Pycelle hastened to explain.
"Then refine it quickly; don't delay my great work!"
Aerys berated him until Pycelle's brow ran with sweat.
Suddenly the king changed tack.
"What do you think of my son?"
"Prince Rhaegar?"
Pycelle asked tremulously.
Aerys sneered. "That white-eyed wolf? He's no son of mine. I speak of Daeron—Prince Daeron Targaryen, granted the south bank of the Blackwater Rush."
"But Prince Daeron has not even a castle."
Pycelle chose his words.
"He will. I shall build him the grandest, most formidable castle in history."
Aerys cried, almost frenzied.
Used to such whims, Pycelle followed the king's lead: "Prince Daeron is young, handsome, well-loved; in time he will prove a warrior to rival Aemon the Dragonknight."
Aerys beamed and burst into laughter.
"Hmm?"
Throughout, Barristan listened with a frown; the Grand Maester's praise rang oddly in his ears.
Those compliments described a docile, obedient child.
The comparison invoked not some great prince of history but Aemon the Dragonknight, a mere Kingsguard.
"Does the Grand Maester favor Prince Rhaegar as well?" Barristan assumed.
He himself favored the crown prince whose swordcraft he had personally taught.
When the laughter faded, Aerys came to the point: "I intend to seize this chance to build Daeron a city to rival King's Landing, all of white marble."
At that, Pycelle's aged face blanched.
Aerys went on: "When the white city is done, I'll move my palace there and transplant half of King's Landing's people, so I'll no longer smell this cesspit."
This time even Barristan knit his brows.
The proposal to build a new city south of the Blackwater had been floated in 265 AC and quashed only after the Small Council exhausted every argument.
Pycelle, fear forgotten, shook his head repeatedly. "Impossible, absolutely impossible."
"Your Grace knows that after the War of the Ninepenny Kings the treasury was drained; only in recent years did we repay the Iron Bank. We have no funds for a new city."
Aerys raged, "Why shouldn't I build a city for my son?"
Pycelle kept shaking his head.
No meant no; killing him would not produce the gold.
Besides, the city was not for Prince Daeron at all; the king simply wanted a vast folly at the people's expense.
After more than an hour of quarrel, the sleeping draught took hold and Aerys collapsed onto the bed.
"I'll see you out, Grand Maester."
Barristan escorted him from the bedchamber.
Outside, Pycelle warned earnestly, "Ser Barristan, the king will wake in a few hours. You must persuade him to abandon this impractical grand plan."
Barristan said gravely, "You are a man to be admired, Grand Maester."
He truly believed the old man cared for the realm… Night fell.
In the princess's bedchamber.
Shae lay on her side in a nightgown upon the soft couch, eyes closed in tranquil repose.
"What action will the teacher take?"
Daeron lay with his hands behind his head before the roaring hearth, turning over tomorrow's troubles in his mind.
Night had fallen; only the two siblings remained in the room, the little ones long since fetched by Mother Rhaella's maids.
After imagining seven or eight kinds of harassment and a dozen countermeasures.
Daeron rolled gently onto his side, his gaze resting on that exquisite face half-seen in the dimness.
Gradually his mind relaxed.
It was no joke—probably only Shae in the entire Red Keep could make him feel completely at ease.
Far too few people could be trusted.
By rights, according to the unique customs of the Targaryen Family, Shae should have married his elder brother Rhaegar.
But things had not gone as planned.
At first, Father Aerys had been the staunchest champion of tradition.
Alas—or perhaps fortunately—the matter had fizzled out.
The initial reasons were Shae's personal issues and the opposition of the Small Council.
Daily life showed that Shae was reclusive by nature, almost indifferent to the world.
Such eccentricity was hardly rare in Targaryen history.
For a long time it was chalked up to mental deficiency.
The family did have its share of the feeble-minded, mostly women.
Princess Gael, youngest daughter of "the Old King" Jaehaerys I; Princess Helaena, daughter of "the Young King" Viserys I; Princess Jaehaera, daughter of Aegon II and Helaena… all clearly recorded cases.
Later the maesters of The Citadel overturned the notion, distinguishing simple reclusion from true impairment.
Princess Gael and Princess Jaehaera had indeed been feeble-minded.
Princess Helaena, who once rode the dragon Dreamfyre, was merely solitary; her wits were intact.
The same was true of Shae.
Even so, the councillors clung to their prejudice.
They argued that rather than risk Prince Rhaegar siring another eccentric heir, the siblings should be separated and wed to the great houses of the Seven Kingdoms.
Father Aerys would have none of it.
To find a Valyrian-blooded bride for his eldest son, he sent his old friend Lord Steffon Baratheon across the Narrow Sea to the Eastern Continent.
Lord Steffon perished in a storm on the voyage home.
While opinions deadlocked, someone acted first.
Rhaegar rode alone to Dorne, met Princess Elia Martell, and—after a warm talk with Prince Doran—privately pledged their betrothal.
By the time Aerys learned of it, intervention was impossible.
Daeron could not say whether Rhaegar had been right.
From the present vantage, marrying Princess Elia had won him the whole of Dorne, giving him the strength to stand against his father.
Otherwise the wedding could never have gone forward.
That was why Aerys later railed against his son, calling him an ungrateful wretch and seeking to strip him of his birthright.
With Rhaegar wed, Shae's marriage fell through.
The likeliest replacement was, naturally… "Sleep. Don't brood."
Daeron shut his eyes and forced himself to sleep.
After a while his mind emptied and his breathing steadied.
Across the room, Shae quietly opened her eyes, watched the sleeping Daeron a moment, then drew the blanket over her face.
Night, 22:00.
Daeron slipped into deep sleep and began to dream.
In the dream he was back at Dragon Language Farm, watering, weeding, stroking his chicks.
"Gah-gah-gah!"
A raven swooped in, landed at the edge of the field, and pecked at the tender sprouts.
Daeron frowned.
With fewer than fifteen plots, why was a raven here?
"Shoo!"
Without thinking, he grabbed a hoe and advanced on the odd bird.
The raven flapped to a pine in the farmyard.
"Still not gone?"
Daeron was puzzled; in the game ravens scattered at once—there was no setting for lingering.
"Gah-gah-gah!"
The raven tilted its head, letting out a raucous croak.
Suspicious, Daeron looked up and studied it.
The bird, unafraid, leaned forward as if to let him inspect it.
Just as he was about to see it clearly, Daeron jerked awake.
[Farming: 0 gold]
[Foraging: 40 gold]
[Fishing: 0 gold]
[Mining: 0 gold]
[Other: 0 gold]
[Total: 40 gold]
With effort he opened his eyes; it was dawn, and the sale of a dandelion the day before had triggered the 2 a.m. summary panel.
"What was that dream about— that weird raven…?"
Daeron muttered inwardly.
"What's wrong?"
Shae had woken at some point; she half-rose, one hand on the couch, silvery-gold curls spilling over her shoulders, unconsciously lovely.
Daeron's voice was calm. "Nothing. Maybe I'm not used to the bed."
"Oh."
Shae asked no more, withdrew her concerned gaze, and lay back down.
The room returned to quiet.
Daeron closed his eyes again, but his mind was far from calm.
A dream, a strange raven, a sudden awakening… "Don't let something unclean be clinging to me."
Swift as ever, Daeron's thoughts seized the heart of the matter.