Sixth year, Spring Day 11, Thursday. Clear skies. 8:00 a.m.
Dragon-Tongue Farm.
Daeron stepped out of the sheep barn, weaving between fat, snowy-white ewes, and collected dozens of high-grade wool bundles. He fed the lesser stuff straight into the eighteen looms. The wheels spun, pulling silk from the fibers and weaving it into bolts of cloth.
Same routine for eggs, milk, duck feathers, and rabbit's feet—those lucky carrot-shaped charms woven from rabbit fur that everyone loved. He swapped his old one for a fresh gold-star version and slipped it into his pocket. A little extra luck never hurt.
Every chore on the farm bumped his skill XP and pushed all five masteries closer to completion. Once the second mastery finished, he'd pick Farming and finally get the iridium scythe he'd been dying for. With more crops every season—and Ginger Island still waiting to be fully developed—hand-harvesting was turning into a full-time grind. One swing of that scythe and he'd clear whole rows in seconds.
He mounted the white deer from the stable and rode toward Abundance Hall.
Passing through Dairy Town, he checked the progress. A low white-stone wall ringed the outer 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.
He entered through the north gate, followed the slate road east, and reached the foot of Bluegrass Hills. Abundance Hall rose ahead—exactly the castle he'd ordered built, modeled on Highgarden but scaled to his needs.
White marble veined with gold. A three-story circular keep. Inner courtyards full of gardens, outer walls thick enough to laugh at siege engines, and arrow towers bristling along the battlements. Limited materials and time had kept it to one-third the size of the real Highgarden, but it was still impressive: double curtain walls, grapevines, roses, sunflowers, bubbling fountains, black dragonstone statues shipped from Dragonstone, and slender white towers ringing the main keep.
Up on the hillside they'd even carved dragon caves for the beasts.
It looked beautiful and worked perfectly for a dragonlord's seat.
The gate rumbled open. Davos and Stannis rode out to meet him.
Daeron trotted the white deer inside. "How's the knight selection coming?"
"Follow us, Prince," Davos said, humble as ever but clearly proud.
They led him to the wide training yard inside the outer wall, already planted with flowers and grass. Two hundred Dragonguard in black plate and three hundred Constabulary Knights in silver-gray stood in neat ranks. The two groups formed opposite sides of the field.
Davos explained, "We pulled nearly two hundred life-force squires from the Dragonguard and nineteen from the Constabulary Knights—clean backgrounds, reliable men all of them. The rest are backups."
Daeron scanned the crowd: hundreds of strong young-to-middle-aged fighters, most already radiating life-force energy. The steady supply of special crops he handed out every month had paid off. The Dragonguard—his inner circle—got the biggest shares and advanced fastest during the rising magic tide. The Constabulary Knights were still filling ranks, mostly second sons, bastards, and commoners from the Crownlands, so their progress varied.
He needed a true supernatural knight order. These two forces were the perfect pool.
"Prince, the Dragonguard brothers are ready," Jacaerys said, striding forward with a long-handled hammer. He was close to forming his Life Seed.
The hammer was a level-5 special weapon—solid barbarian tool, black as night, dropped from a mine chest. It had helped Jacaerys push right to the edge.
Daeron nodded. "Start the final cut. I want three hundred."
"Yes, Prince!"
Davos and Stannis answered in the same breath.
Three hundred was the right number: two hundred guaranteed life-force squires and another eighty or so regular knights who'd be brought up to standard quickly.
Note: No life force = regular knight. Mastered life force = squire. Life Seed or full gem sequence = true knight.
Half an hour later, two hundred Dragonguard and one hundred Constabulary Knights stood in the center of the yard. Each man held a black steel identity plaque.
The plaques were matte black. Front: the word "Dragon-Tongue." Back: the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, the red enamel gleaming.
Daeron weighed one in his palm, eyes moving between Jacaerys and Stannis. He had to pick the vice-commander for the new royal knight order—the Dragon-Tongue Knights.
Jacaerys and Stannis both stiffened, sensing the choice.
One was Dragonguard commander. The other was a serving royal fleet colonel. But the Dragon-Tongue Knights would be the crown's personal army—mounted shock troops, sea fighters, the sharpest spear and hardest shield the Targaryens had. Commanding hundreds of life-force squires—and eventually gem-sequence knights—meant real power and honor.
"Stannis!"
Daeron tossed the plaque. "From today you are acting vice-commander of the Dragon-Tongue Knights. You run day-to-day operations, handle assignments, everything."
"Yes, Prince."
Stannis dropped to one knee, voice tight with emotion even through his usual stone face.
Daeron pulled him up and clapped his shoulder. "I told you I'd put you to heavy use. Leave the past behind and earn new honors."
Daeron himself would remain overall commander—as prince, only the royal family could hold that seat. The vice-commander ran the order.
Stannis clipped the plaque to his belt and gripped the sword hilt at his other hip, fighting to keep calm.
To Jacaerys, Daeron simply said, "The Dragonguard lost some men. Fill the gaps fast. Don't worry about special-crop shares—the Dragon-Tongue Knights' reserves will keep pulling from the Dragonguard."
"Yes, Prince."
Jacaerys looked disappointed but not bitter. He even seemed a little relieved. The Dragonguard had always been the royal family's private force and Daeron's personal recruiting ground. Every man who proved himself got real responsibility. That was the beauty of the system Daeron had built years ahead of time.
Tywin had spent a fortune to stand up his Lionsheart Knights—fifty men, all Westerlands nobles or hedge knights. Daeron had quietly grown the Dragonguard into a deep, mixed pool of dragonseed, Valyrian-blooded, Crownlands lords' sons, and commoners. Absolute loyalty and no noble interference.
"Get ready," Daeron told them. "I have an announcement."
Moments later the three hundred Dragon-Tongue Knights stood in perfect formation wearing the new royal-issue black steel armor—plate over chain—mounted on fully barded warhorses. The sight was black, heavy, and intimidating.
Stannis rode a black destrier at the front, silver-plated longsword resting across his saddle.
Every knight carried one of the silver-plated military sabers—level-2 special weapons, damage 8–15, defense +1. "Plated to prevent rust." Simple, cheap to maintain, and stronger than any standard blade in Westeros. The crown's new signature gear.
"Little pricey," Daeron thought, keeping his face blank. Each saber cost 750 gold. Three hundred and one of them ran 225,750 gold total. Thank the gods the small-batch winery was printing steady money; otherwise he'd never have pulled the trigger on buying them wholesale from the Explorer's Guild.
He still remembered the first time he'd sworn he'd never buy a single special weapon from that greedy guild.
Yeah. Famous last words.
The knights sat ready in full armor, two horses each, silver sabers at their hips, identity plaques in one hand and sealed letters in the other—everything issued by Prince Daeron himself.
Davos stepped forward and read out the standing orders. First two rules: never lose your plaque; never sell your horse or saber. One was identity. The other was crown property.
"Hiss-graa—!"
Caraxes felt the martial energy rolling off the yard and crawled out of his cave on the rear hill. His long cry rolled across the fields, huge wings half-blocking the sun.
Above the farm, Tessarion and Toothless wheeled in from the fields, circling and trading bursts of dragonfire.
Daeron stood on the ground—no platform, no stage—looking out over the black tide of knights. His voice rang like a bell.
"From this moment you no longer belong to yourselves. You are House Targaryen's most loyal blades. You wear neither black cloak nor white, but the plaque and the weapons you carry are proof enough.
"I do not demand you give up land, wives, or children. I demand only absolute loyalty.
"Wherever I, Daeron Targaryen, point my sword—you ride!"
He drew Dark Sister and leveled the blade in one direction.
The Dragon-Tongue Knights hesitated half a heartbeat, then wheeled their horses as one and thundered straight at the ivy-covered outer wall.
Just before the front rank smashed into the stone—
"Back!"
Daeron's shout cracked like a whip. Dark Sister swung back to its original line.
The entire order reversed in perfect unison and returned to formation.
"Excellent."
Daeron scanned the ranks. A few former Constabulary men were still a touch rough, but most moved like they'd been born for this. They met the Dragon-Tongue standard.
"See the letters in your hands?"
Every knight looked at the sealed envelope bearing the royal three-headed dragon—identical to the carving on their plaques.
Daeron paced twice, then spoke.
"First mission. Mount up, draw your silver sabers, and ride to every castle in Westeros except the North and Dorne. Deliver these letters to the lords in person.
"Inform them they are summoned to Harrenhal for a Great Council to strip Rhaegar Targaryen of his rights as heir to the Iron Throne and Prince of Dragonstone."
He let the words hang, eyes blazing.
"Understood?!"
"Understood!!"
The shout rolled out of Abundance Hall and echoed across half of Dairy Town.
Daeron grinned. "Move out!"
Stannis took the lead. Three hundred Dragon-Tongue Knights surged forward like a midnight tide—out of the hall, out of Dairy Town, out of the prince's fief, and across the whole of Westeros.