It had been a day since I'd buried Ser Arlan. The man who'd raised Dunk deserved more, but I'd done what I could. I still remembered the weight of the shovel in my hands, the ache in my shoulders, and the quiet that followed when the last handful of dirt fell.
The road bent, and the roofs of Ashford came into view—smoke curling from chimneys, banners flapping lazily in the wind. A week from now, the great tourney would begin. Lords, knights, squires—all would come to test their skill and boast of their valor.
By midafternoon, I reached an inn just outside Ashford Meadow. he signboard was faded, the painted crown above the door half-scraped by weather. A place for travelers, squires, and hedge knights too poor for the pavilions near the lists.
I dismounted and tied Thunder to a post, brushing dust from my cloak. The smell of stew and ale drifted through the open doorway.
Then I saw him.
A scrawny boy with big violet eyes and a head as smooth as an 'egg' sat perched on a low branch of a tree beside the stable. Barefoot, ragged, and watching everything. He was smaller than I'd imagined—just a boy, not yet ten.
"Oi," I called, walking closer. "You, lad. Come down from there."
The boy blinked, startled, then slid down the trunk. He landed lightly, staring at my armor with a curiosity.
"Feed my horses," I said, keeping my tone firm. "Give them oats and a good brushing. And see they get water."
He hesitated only a second before nodding. "Aye, ser."
That small answer made my chest tighten. In the Hedge Knight, this was where Dunk had first met Egg—though back then, Dunk didn't know who he was.
As Egg led Thunder toward the stable, I turned toward the inn's door. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of meat, sweat, and smoke. A few hedge knights nursed their mugs in corners; a merchant counted coins at a table.
It didn't take long to find him.
Prince Daeron Targaryen, one of few Targaryen who had dragon dreams.
He sat near the hearth, half-collapsed on a bench, a cup of wine dangling from his hand. His hair was pale silver, his eyes bleary and rimmed red. Even drunk, there was a beauty to him—a faded echo of dragonfire.
When I ordered food from the innkeep, the prince stirred and looked at me, squinting as though trying to see through me.
"I want that red bottle," he said suddenly. His voice was thick with drink. "Five of them."
I frowned. "What bottle?"
"That red bottle of wine," he mumbled, and fumbled in his purse. "Here, Five dragons."
For a heartbeat, I was confused—then I realized that I must have given him wine from my system shop, in future.
'Well, I can use this to make few gold Dragons, I will need them in tourney.'
I rose from the bench and stepped outside, pretending to check on my horse. The stable was empty except for Egg brushing Thunder. I opened my system shop, searching. Sure enough, there it was—"Red Wine (Cabernt Sauvigon) — 20 Copper Stars per Bottle."
Five bottles would cost me a single silver stag, less than the price of a loaf of bread.
I bought them, and they appeared neatly in my inventory—five glass bottles with paper labels from a world no one here would ever believe existed.
Carrying them carefully in a sack, I returned to the inn. Daeron's eyes widened the instant he saw the bottles.
"By the gods," he breathed. "The myrish glass itself could sell for ten dragons." He pushed five gold coins toward me without hesitation.
I pocketed them quietly, hiding my shock. That was 210 fold profit in less than five minutes.
The innkeep's daughter brought me stew—thick and steaming—and I dug in hungrily. Beside me, Daeron tried and failed to open one of the bottles, grumbling.
"Boy!" he called.
Egg had just entered, wiping his hands on his tunic.
"Yes, my prince?" the boy said softly, eyes darting between us.
Daeron shoved the bottle toward him. "Open it."
Egg twisted and pulled, but the cork didn't budge. He tried using the edge of the table, earning a sharp glare from the innkeep.
Watching them, I almost laughed. In the books, Egg had fiddled with Dunk's armor and gear out of boredom. Now, all of that was stored safely inside my inventory. The boy had nothing to play with except corked bottles.
I leaned closer to my table and brought corkscrew.
A faint shimmer under the table, and a metal corkscrew appeared in my palm. Five copper stars.
"Here," I said, taking the bottle from Egg. I worked the screw into the cork and twisted until it popped free with a satisfying thunk. I handed it back to Daeron.
The prince stared at the corkscrew like it was Valyrian steel. Then he lifted the bottle and drank straight from the neck.
The room fell quiet for a moment as he drank deep—then sighed, utterly content. "By all seven," he muttered. "That's divine."
He leaned forward, eyes half-glazed but still sharp. "How much for that thing? The one you used?"
I smiled faintly. "I'll give it to you for free, my prince… if you'll vouch for me in the lists at Ashford."
That made him blink. Then laugh. "You bargain like a Braavosi merchant." He wiped his mouth and shook his head. "No, no, I'll not vouch for a man I barely know."
"Fair," I said lightly, leaning back. "But I've other wines you've never dreamed of. Stronger. Sweeter. The kind that might make a prince see dragons again."
That made him stop.
His silver brows furrowed, and for a moment his expression turned distant—troubled. "Other wines, you say?"
I nodded slowly. "Aye. Many kinds. If you'll vouch for me in the lists, I'll bring a bottle that even the Targaryens of old never tasted."
Daeron hesitated, then smiled lazily. "Done." He raised his empty bottle in salute. "You have your witness, ser. Bring me your strange wine when next we meet."
He drained the last drop and slumped back in his seat, humming softly to himself.
I finished my meal in silence, the clatter of the inn fading into the background.
Egg had returned to his quiet corner, watching Daeron with wary eyes. The boy's true identity burned behind those purple irises, but no one here saw it—not yet.
I leaned on my arm, thinking.
Five gold dragons. For five bottles of cheap red wine.
If I could sell Valyrian trinkets or spices—or even something small from my world—at the right place, I could make a fortune. But I needed connections. Someone who could help me move goods without questions.
My gaze drifted to Egg again, the bald boy pretending to wipe the tables.
Aegon the Fifth Targaryen. Future king. My future squire.
A slow grin spread across my face.
...