"Splendid. Truly splendid!"
Aerys II was trembling with excitement, his thin hands shaking as though he could already hear the praises of nobles and commoners echoing through the throne room.
Pycelle and Varys exchanged loaded glances, both too cautious to speak.
Things had gone too smoothly — much too smoothly. With the King's fragile mind, the last thing anyone wanted was to give him new reasons to act.
Tywin gave him a moment to revel in self-congratulation before stepping forward. "Your Grace," he said evenly, "the prince's letter mentioned that his accommodations are… modest. A royal son, left to live in a cottage? Unthinkable."
Aerys blinked, the thought lodging in place. Yes, that was true. His son — his favorite son — couldn't be living like a peasant.
"The crown should fund a castle worthy of his blood," Tywin continued smoothly.
Aerys nodded quickly, pleased by the suggestion.
Then Tywin's tone shifted, calm and deliberate. "Of course, such construction takes time and resources. Perhaps it would be best to summon the prince back to court — and revisit the castle once the treasury recovers."
From "build his castle" to "bring him back."
Aerys's smile froze. His eyes narrowed.
He wasn't stupid. Mad, yes — but not blind.
Ever since Rhaegar's marriage, he'd been set on replacing that ungrateful wretch with a more loyal heir: Daeron. And Daeron… had declined. He'd requested a fief instead.
Aerys had refused at first — until the Small Council supported it unanimously.
Of course, most of them simply wanted to prevent another round of royal infighting. But Tywin? Tywin Lannister never did anything without reason.
That viper has an agenda, Aerys thought darkly. He knows I want Daeron as heir — and he wants his precious Rhaegar secure. If I strengthen Daeron, it ruins their little alliance of traitors.
In the end, he had yielded only under pressure — granting Daeron the southern bank of the Blackwater as a fief. Close enough to the capital to come running if needed… and poor enough to humble him.
Let the boy live on empty land, he'd thought. Eventually, he'll grow desperate and return to King's Landing, where I can watch him properly.
But now Tywin wanted Daeron summoned back?
How convenient.
Aerys's expression hardened in an instant. "No!"
His shout cracked through the hall like a whip.
"Tywin!" he snarled, his eyes burning with paranoid fury. "What kind of Hand are you, letting my treasury rot while my son goes without a castle? Have your Lannisters drained my gold so dry that even a prince must live in rags?"
The insult landed like a slap.
Even Tywin — master of composure — went pale with anger, jaw tightening. "Your Grace," he said coldly, "Prince Rhaegar has moved to Dragonstone. Should not your next son — your second eldest male heir — remain near you in the capital?"
It was true he was angry. And this wasn't even part of the plan.
Summoning Daeron had been his own decision, not one agreed upon with his "student." In fact, he hadn't intended to tell Daeron until the situation was secure.
He had taken Daeron on as a pupil expecting nothing immediate in return — and had even helped the boy secure his fief as a statement: there was another prince worth betting on.
If Daeron stayed in his remote lands, he was useless. But if Tywin could bring him back to court, that potential became power.
Aerys, however, wasn't having it.
You go east, I go west. Always.
Tywin's lip curled inward as Aerys laughed suddenly — a brittle, high-pitched sound.
"Careful, Tywin," the king sneered, eyes gleaming with madness. "My children are not yours to command. Step back from your King, lest you forget your place."
The venom in his voice was unmistakable.
Tywin met his gaze for a moment — a flash of steel in pale green eyes — before turning sharply on his heel and sweeping from the hall, golden cloak flowing behind him.
He didn't say it aloud, but his posture screamed it: You'll regret this.
Aerys sneered after him. "Fool. I am the King!"
Sunset.
By the shore, Daeron sat on a rocky outcrop, sleeves rolled up, one hand flicking the line of a bamboo fishing rod.
Plunk.
He reeled it in, frowning at the soggy green tangle on the hook.
Seaweed. Again.
"Seven bloody hells," he muttered, tossing the rod aside. "Fine. See if I care. May all the fish drown."
Hours of effort — two lumps of seaweed and a piece of driftwood.
He might be a Targaryen, but he didn't have wings yet. Patience had never been his strong suit.
Still, as the waves lapped quietly, his irritation faded. He packed up the rod — a freebie, found earlier inside a glowing blue "gift box" like the ones from the system.
He'd thought fishing would be as simple as in the game. It wasn't. The ocean had other plans.
"King's Landing must be lively by now," he murmured, glancing across the river.
He could see the city from here — the Red Keep rising crimson above its massive walls, torches winking in the dusk.
"Tomorrow, then," he said, smiling faintly.
Whatever storm his letter had stirred behind those walls, he would find out soon enough.
The messier things get, the more room there is to move.
Later that night, in the Tower of the Hand.
Tywin Lannister sat at his desk, still in his night robe, posture as regal as if he wore armor. By candlelight, he finished writing a letter in his precise, uncompromising script.
When he sealed it with red wax, a knock sounded.
"Come in," he said.
Ser Jonothor Darry stepped inside, still in full armor, visor lifted but eyes wary.
Tywin stood, handed him the letter. "Give this to the boy," he said simply. "Tell him the crown will authorize funds to build his castle. I'll see to a royal position for him in the capital soon."
Jon didn't take it immediately. His brows drew together in uneasy suspicion.
He respected Daeron — the young prince had treated him with honesty and equality — but he refused to be anyone's political pawn.
Tywin read the resistance in his silence and pressed, voice cold and firm. "Take it. We are both working for his good. You know what state he's in — isolated, idle. Only I can help shape his future."
Jon finally nodded, tucking the letter beneath his cloak.
"Go," said Tywin, dismissing him.
He didn't notice — or didn't care — about the look flickering behind the knight's eyes, a mixture of respect, resentment, and doubt.
To Tywin, a Kingsguard who wasn't Barristan Selmy or the White Bull was barely more than furniture.
Jon wordlessly turned and left the Red Keep under cover of darkness.
The next morning.
Spring, Day 3 — Wednesday — Rainy. 7:30 a.m.
Rain drummed softly on the wooden roof of the cottage as Daeron finished his morning chores. Back inside, he sat by the fire, savoring a crispy baked potato — his favorite farm reward.
At 2 a.m., the sale profits had arrived.
Potato Prices:
- Normal Quality: 80g
- Silver Quality: 100g
- Gold Quality: 120g
- Iridium Quality: 160g
His farming level was still too low to produce gold or iridium crops. Still, seven ordinary potatoes netted him a tidy 540 gold, and with 10 left over from before, he now had 550 gold total — enough to buy 11 new planting seeds.
Eleven potatoes, plus the regrowing green beans from yesterday — twelve total crops. Still under the fifteen-plot threshold, meaning no scarecrow needed yet.
He replanted in the drizzle, checked on the chickens, placed extra hay in their feeders, and returned inside for breakfast.
When the thunder rolled outside — Kraka-boom! — he glanced up at the clock.
"By now, Ser Jon should be back," he said thoughtfully, grabbing his cloak. "Better go meet him."
And just like that, Daeron slipped on his raincoat and stepped out into the downpour — unaware that, across the river, his father's fury and the Hand's ambition had already begun colliding in his name.