The next morning, Daeron headed to the royal treasury to withdraw the first installment of funds for his new holding.
Last night, Tywin had briefed him on the details.
Two thousand square kilometers of Crown lands on the south bank of the Blackwater Rush.
The territory included rivers, hills, eastern beaches, and portions of the Kingswood.
The size was staggering.
For those unfamiliar with the location, think of it in relation to King's Landing.
The Blackwater was a deep, swift river flowing to Blackwater Bay. King's Landing sat on its northern shore, with the Mud Gate—one of the city's seven gates—serving as one of the world's great ports.
Daeron's new fief lay directly across the river on the southern bank.
It had always been Crown land, granted out only once in history.
The previous holder had been Daemon Blackfyre.
"It's an excellent holding," Daeron said cheerfully, turning in his saddle to share his good mood.
Ser Jon Connington nodded slightly, his expression characteristically stern.
Soon the treasury's iron gates came into view.
A familiar figure waited on the road ahead, two guards at his back. Despite his station, he practically jogged over.
"Lord Merryweather?" Daeron dismounted. "What brings you here?"
It was Owen Merryweather—his father's notorious yes-man, whose court career was... less than stellar.
The man's only real talent was flattery. His most memorable trait was probably that braying laugh he always gave at Aerys's jokes, earning him the whispered nickname "the Simpering Fool."
"My prince! I didn't expect you up so early!"
Where Daeron was surprised, Lord Merryweather was all smiles.
Before Daeron could respond, the man thrust an ornate basket decorated with flowers into his arms.
"His Grace sent me to arrange your withdrawal, but since we're not making a public announcement, I could only prepare a private gift."
Merryweather pressed on before Daeron could refuse. "Look, my prince—these are all from the Merryweather estates. I hand-picked a selection for you."
Daeron lifted the thin silk cloth covering the basket. A faint, sweet fragrance wafted up.
The basket was packed with produce: two apples, one red and one green; a bunch of plump black grapes; an orange, an ear of corn, some wild berries, half a bunch of bananas...
Not large quantities, but excellent variety.
Daeron frowned slightly, meeting Lord Merryweather's eager eyes, unsure what to say.
These weren't ordinary fruits and vegetables. Every single one contained life force.
Special crops were truly remarkable.
They could be an apple on a tree, a pumpkin in a farmer's field, or wild greens growing by the roadside.
All special crops shared one trait: they were hidden.
Before harvest, they looked exactly like ordinary plants. Even farmers who'd worked the land for decades couldn't tell them apart.
But once picked, they were instantly recognizable—like a bonfire lit in the darkness. Unless you were blind, you couldn't miss them.
Powerful knights who consumed them had a chance of mastering life force. Ordinary people who ate them regularly maintained better health.
Which was why they cost a bloody fortune.
"This is too generous, my lord." Daeron sighed, preparing to decline.
Special crops were graded by type and quality: Common, Silver Star, and Gold Star—low, medium, and high.
Even Silver Star quality was precious. Gold Star was virtually priceless.
This basket contained two Silver Star apples and a Silver Star ear of corn—easily worth over three hundred gold dragons.
"My prince, you know our house words," Merryweather said quickly.
He puffed out his chest, displaying his family's sigil: a golden cornucopia overflowing with produce on a white field.
House Merryweather was an ancient Reach house with noble bloodlines.
Their words: "Behold Our Bounty!"
Lord Merryweather grinned and produced a bottle of warm milk from inside his coat. "You haven't broken your fast yet, my prince. Have some milk to settle your stomach."
"..."
Taking the glass bottle filled with milk, Daeron noticed it too contained faint life force.
"Gods above, you're loaded," Daeron muttered, genuinely impressed.
Merryweather beamed with pride. "The Seven have blessed us. Just as our sigil and words proclaim, our lands produce far more special crops than other houses."
"Take this milk, for instance. It came from a cow that ate special crops. She produces a full bottle's worth every day."
Other crops were manageable—keep enough to train knights, and the rest could be consumed within the family.
But a cow that consistently produced milk containing life force? That was a renewable goldmine.
Many Reach nobles would pay premium prices for that milk for their children.
At this point, refusing would be an insult.
Daeron accepted the gesture with a grateful nod. "Lord Merryweather, you have a heart of gold."
Honestly, this was the first nobleman to invest in him so openly.
And so brazenly, without any pretense of subtlety.
If he rejected this goodwill, Rhaegar's supporters wouldn't stay quiet—they'd use it to drive Merryweather from court entirely.
His teacher Tywin had taught him well:
"When someone rises to challenge you, answer with iron and fire. When they kneel in submission, lift them up with your own hands—or no one will ever bend the knee again."
The same principle applied in different situations.
Daeron wouldn't be arrogant enough to slap away a lord who was showing him favor.
He'd never tried milk from a special animal before. Uncorking the bottle, he took a sip.
As the milk went down, a faint warmth spread through his belly, leaving his whole body pleasantly warm.
Daeron's mind stirred, but he kept his expression neutral. "I'd say one bottle has roughly the effect of a Common-grade special crop. Very nice."
"Ha ha! You're too kind!"
Praise and recognition made Merryweather's face split into a huge grin.
Without any tedious paperwork, he immediately withdrew five hundred gold dragons and handed them to Daeron.
"We'll be heading out now, my lord."
Daeron drained the milk and passed the medium-sized wooden chest full of gold to Ser Jon, then grabbed his horse's reins and swung into the saddle.
Having seen the value of special crops firsthand, he could barely contain his eagerness to reach his fief.
Though his real target wasn't the fief itself—but finding a suitable plot to serve as his farm.
As for startup capital, five hundred gold dragons was more than enough.
Currency conversion: 1 gold dragon = 210 silver stags, 1 silver stag = 56 copper stars, 1 copper star = 8 copper pennies.
Nobles dealt in gold dragons; knights and commoners used the latter three.
At current prices, one copper penny bought a sausage and a large mug of ale. One silver stag got you mutton, pork, several stews, and several mugs of ale at an inn—with enough change back in copper pennies to fill your hand.
A full suit of armor—quality chainmail, gorget, greaves, and helm—cost about four gold dragons.
A good horse cost even less.
The purchasing power was incredible.
Nothing like the inflation disaster of a certain stag dynasty in the future, where one gold dragon couldn't buy mutton and one silver stag barely bought a pumpkin.
Yeah, Robert Baratheon, I'm looking at you.
Spirits high, Daeron spurred his horse forward.