Daeron couldn't sleep.
He rubbed his temples, forcing himself to accept the new reality.
His little sister Daenerys Targaryen was coming—earlier than in the original timeline, perhaps by a full year or at least half a year.
Aerys had mistresses, but he still visited Rhaella's bed from time to time. Another royal child wasn't exactly shocking.
The real question was: Could Daenerys still hatch dragons from stone?
Daeron knew the "Unburnt" title had been a one-of-a-kind miracle. He had already claimed that destiny. No one else was likely to replicate it.
Besides, that entire nest of petrified eggs was still missing.
Their origins were murky—Asshai, lost remnants of the Dragon Dreamfire ritual, or something else entirely. Theories abounded.
One thing was certain: those three eggs were almost certainly sitting in the vaults of Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of Pentos.
Illyrio had only recently clawed his way up from mercenary work and married a cousin of the Prince of Pentos. Whether the eggs were already in his possession was still an open question.
They must be recovered, Daeron decided. Too many variables if they stay out there.
He had hatched three dragons himself. He understood the rising tide of magic in this world better than anyone. If those eggs fell into the wrong ambitious hands and someone tried a blood ritual or fire sacrifice… another nightmare.
They had to come home before anyone else could touch them.
"I'm going to see Mother," Daeron told Shaena. "Might as well greet my unborn little sister in advance."
"Mhm." Shaena nodded, still half-dazed from the news.
He stepped into the corridor and nearly walked straight into Cersei.
"Hey, Prince."
She had dressed with care—golden hair braided back, low-cut yellow Myrish silk gown, the pale swell of her breasts framed by delicate pink lace.
She smiled and walked toward him without hesitation.
Daeron let his gaze linger for a moment, then offered honest praise. "You look beautiful today."
"Do I? Good—you like it, then."
Cersei spun once, letting the skirt flare. "Myr silk and lace. Doesn't it set off the skin nicely?"
"It does. I like lace."
Daeron nodded, never one to lie about what he enjoyed.
Cersei's smile sharpened. She slipped her arm through his without asking. "You're heading to Queen Rhaella's chambers? I just came from there."
Good results are fought for. Good husbands are taken.
As long as she was bold enough, she would win.
"If I didn't know you, I'd think you were a proper lady," Daeron said, feeling the soft warmth of her arm.
For one fleeting second he almost saw the future Myrcella Lannister in her.
Cersei didn't bother with modesty. She tried to steer him on a leisurely palace stroll, but under his amused stare she finally turned them toward the Queen's apartments.
Rhaella was pregnant.
Pregnancy hormones had softened her temper; she spoke no harsh words for once. But her attitude toward both Daeron and Cersei remained cool.
With the Joanna Lannister business still fresh, Mother was never going to be warm to any Lannister, Daeron thought privately.
Sometimes he wondered if Cersei and Jaime carried hidden Targaryen blood. Their looks could be explained by "first child takes after the mother," but the madness and certain… tendencies? Pure Targaryen.
"Father will march soon," Cersei said once they were outside again, eyes shining with pride. "Will you ride Caraxes with him?"
Daeron clicked his tongue silently. Same energy as Joffrey in the original story—worshipping the man she thinks is her father.
"What are you thinking about?" Cersei's expression flickered; she sensed something improper in his gaze.
If he was imagining taking her to bed, they could find a quiet corner right now. But that look was… strange.
"I was thinking our relationship might be closer than it appears," Daeron answered smoothly.
"Of course it is." Cersei's smile bloomed like a rose.
He sent the satisfied lioness on her way, then headed straight to Elia's chambers.
Teacher, enjoy the headache your own children are giving you, he thought. This is exactly what Lord Tywin deserves.
Knock-knock.
Ashara opened the door—bare-faced, in a simple violet gown. Somehow she looked even more striking than Cersei had in all her finery.
"Is Elia in?" Daeron smiled.
"She is. She just got little Rhaenys to sleep." Ashara stepped aside.
Inside, Elia looked tired but radiant. She still wore the same high-slit yellow gown, reclining on a goose-feather chaise with the soft glow of motherhood about her.
"Daeron. It's been a while."
She forced a sweet smile despite her exhaustion.
"Raising a child is exhausting work," Daeron said gently.
"You have no idea. This little one is driving me mad—in the best way." Elia's smile turned wry.
Daeron glanced at the cradle. Rhaenys, nearly one month old, slept in her white gown with the classic infant sprawl.
"I heard Queen Rhaella is pregnant. The new baby will be almost the same age as Rhaenys—perfect playmates."
Elia seized the change of subject. "A summer birth will help the Targaryen blood run hot."
Then, carefully: "If it's a boy… do you think he and Rhaenys could get along?"
She hurried to add, "Don't misunderstand—I'm only asking. The Targaryens have… traditions."
Daeron understood exactly what she meant. He answered honestly.
"This one will be a girl. They'll simply be aunt and niece."
Even if it were a boy, the family usually kept to brother-sister or sister-brother pairings far more often than uncle-niece arrangements.
Elia looked faintly disappointed. Her plan to secure her daughter's future had hit a wall.
Daeron pulled up a chair, straddled it, and met her eyes directly.
"What do you think about Rhaegar's situation?"
"I… can't change it." Elia's voice grew distant. "Uncle Lewyn told me Rhaegar will confess to my brother, but I don't know how to face him."
If it had been any other woman she could have told herself it was simple infidelity. But Rhaegar had crowned Lyanna Queen of Love and Beauty at Harrenhal, then vanished with her in secret.
Without a daughter and the full weight of House Martell behind her, Elia wasn't sure she would even keep her place as the lawful wife.
"Rhaegar will regret what he's done," Daeron promised.
"Daeron… once Rhaenys is a little older, I want to give her to you to raise."
Elia had read between the lines and was already preparing to let go—for her daughter's safety.
Daeron laughed softly. "I'm still a child myself."
Setting aside the "men stay boys forever" joke, he was only twelve. Four more years until he was officially an adult.
"You're busy. Shaena could look after her—she's clever with her hands."
Well, well. Elia is a firm Daeron-Shaena shipper.
He refused firmly but kindly. "We'll talk about it later."
In truth he was a decent man to his family. He had no desire to kill Rhaegar—even that arrogant fool. Kinslaying carried real consequences in this world, and after seeing the Three-Eyed Raven and the Drowned God, Daeron respected the old taboos.
But in the game of power, someone had to fall. He would simply make sure it wasn't by his own hand—perhaps Robert could do the honors.
Rhaegar's blood, however, was still dragon blood. The family needed every true dragon it could get now that magic was rising again.
Of course, Jon Snow was the exception. That white-eyed wolf pup could stay in the North forever.
Daeron left Elia's chambers and headed for the Dragonpit.
He fed all three dragons, then gave Caraxes a thorough scale-scrubbing alone. Dragons stank if left untended, and while fleas couldn't bite through their hide, the irritation made them cranky.
A Dragon Guard announced a visitor.
Varys entered under escort, looking around the cavernous pit like a wide-eyed tourist.
"You wanted something, my lord?"
Daeron wrung out his cloth and dried his hands.
Tywin had taught him: no matter the situation, always present a clean, dignified appearance.
Varys glanced at the soaring dome Daeron had designed, at the three dragons, and sighed in genuine awe. "The first time I've entered the Dragonpit and seen your architecture—and three living dragons. Quite something to be proud of."
"Keep wasting my time and I'll have you thrown out."
Varys shrugged, then got to the point. "I have friends across the Narrow Sea. They found a rather talented red priestess who reads the future in flames. Would you be interested in meeting her?"
"A red priestess?"
"Yes."
"Worshipper of the Lord of Light?"
"So you've heard of them."
"Guards—escort him out."
Daeron's face darkened. He had zero patience for the Spider today.
The Dragon Guards—specially trained—lifted the plump eunuch bodily.
Varys's feet left the ground. He clutched their arms, double chin tucked, and protested frantically, "Prince, Prince! No jokes—I'm delicate! One touch and I might break!"
"Put him down."
Daeron gave him one last chance.
Varys's feet touched stone. His mind snapped back into focus. "That red priestess is very capable. What she says makes sense."
"Such as?"
Varys answered, "Before the Doom, most dragonlords kept blood mages and fire sorcerers in their service. Now that House Targaryen has dragons again and is rebuilding its foundation, keeping one or two special talents would be perfectly normal."
"Guards."
Varys's feet left the floor again. He clung to the soldiers' arms, straining to keep his chin clear of his neck, and gasped out the rest: "The priestess also spoke of something called the tide of magic—"
"Tide of magic?"
Daeron confirmed the words.
Varys nodded desperately.
Daeron waved the guards off.
That night, 23:00.
Daeron returned to Dragon-Tongue Farm for the first time in weeks. He harvested everything that was ready and dropped the offerings into the shipping box.
Fourth-year Summer, the 27th. No new planting time left.
Time to find Junimo and ask for a favor fee.
Varys's red priestess… Melisandre?
He mulled the conversation while he worked.
What interested him was the mention of the tide of magic.
The red comet had arrived early. Vitality was surging. Dragons had hatched ahead of schedule.
Everything pointed to a changing world.
Unfortunately Bloodraven was a riddle-speaker—he had only said the magic tide was rising daily, never how high it would go.
If it reached the level of the Dance of the Dragons, Daeron could relax.
If it reached the level of the Doom of Valyria… he could not sit still.
In ancient Valyria fourteen flaming mountains had sustained over a thousand dragons. Magic had been that abundant.
In a world like that, any random dragon egg left lying around could hatch.
He had to move on Illyrio in Pentos and claim those three petrified eggs before anyone else could use them.
"A good night's sleep guarantees peak condition tomorrow."
Daeron kept his routine. He would sleep at 2:00 a.m.
[ Farming: 4,662 gold ]
[ Foraging: 890 gold ]
[ Fishing: 0 ]
[ Mining: 0 ]
[ Other: 888 gold ]
[ Total: 46,440 gold ]
Daily earnings complete. Daeron drifted off.
"Goo-ji goo-ji~"
Junimo appeared right on schedule, bubbling happily.
Daeron had already completed two major Junimo offering packages this year—Boiler Room (minecart materials) and Vault (42,500 gold). Both were simple, straightforward trades for farm-owner events.
"Goo-ji goo-ji~"
The apple creature waved its vine-like arms, looking a little guilty at first, but quickly cheered up and chattered a long string of Junimo-speak.
Rough translation: This isn't Stardew Valley. No minecarts or buses to repair. But we can substitute something else.
For example—that nest of stone eggs.
"I choose the bronze-green egg and the yellow egg!"
Daeron's mind was crystal clear. He picked two of the three petrified eggs immediately.
Junimo agreed happily.
Junimo were nature spirits. They wielded natural and life magic. They could awaken the vitality inside stone eggs.
It would only take a little time.
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