Walking along the corridor, Daeron ran into someone he hadn't expected.
Varys had waited a long while; he clasped his hands and bowed. "Your Grace, a moment, please."
"Lord Varys, what can I do for you?"
Daeron asked, curious.
He had little contact with the Small Council, especially the eunuch who sniffed out secrets everywhere.
Varys smiled faintly. "As you know, to better serve His Majesty, I keep many little birds."
"And your little birds are to work for me this once?"
Daeron cut to the chase.
"I only wished to share a rather amusing discovery."
Varys glanced left and right, then lowered his voice. "News of your thrashing of Lord Jilian reached The Red Keep first; only afterward did His Majesty take his sleeping draught."
"More interesting still, when Lord Tywin received the tidings, Grand Maester Pycelle was in the Tower of the Hand making his report."
"Take your time to ponder it; I will take my leave."
With that he bustled away.
Daeron watched him go, eyes narrowing.
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So Varys and Pycelle are at odds?
What caught his attention was not the tidbit itself, but the relationship between the informant and the informed-upon.
Clearly, Varys wanted Pycelle dead.
"Varys's loyalties may be murky, but before the fall of House Targaryen his fidelity was certain."
"Pycelle, on the other hand, is an old turncoat through and through."
Daeron reached a decision quickly.
Varys had volunteered intelligence and played the brake in the Throne Room; he could be approached—cautiously.
As for Pycelle… Daeron's lip curled.
Afternoon, 15:30.
Daeron rode out of the city with Ser Jon, heading back to Dragon Language Farm.
Before leaving he had paid calls on Ser Gerold the "White Bull" and Kevan.
Father Aerys was napping; Ser Gerold conveyed a message: the King wished Daeron to remain in the capital and help rule.
For once, Ser Gerold spoke a private opinion.
Having Daeron stay would ease Father Aerys's "mood swings."
Many still vividly recalled the scene in the Throne Room when Daeron had persuaded Aerys not to send Barristan into the field.
Kevan was wrapped like a mummy; turning in bed was a struggle.
Luckily the wounds were only skin-deep—no bones broken.
Kevan's will followed his brother Tywin's, yet he showed Daeron a measure of goodwill during the visit.
He too passed on a message: Tywin wanted Daeron to take a post in King's Landing.
This time Daeron agreed.
As for the post, he spurned a court office and declared himself willing to join the City Watch.
Better known as the Gold Cloaks.
The office was ancient, but the nickname was born in Targaryen's golden days when Prince Daemon the "Rogue Prince" became Commander of the City Watch and carried out sweeping reforms.
Prince Daemon issued every shabby watchman matching breastplates, mail, iron cudgels—and a golden wool cloak.
Gold became the watch's trademark ever after.
Daeron's motive was simple: the City Watch was the only royal-arm-supplied force in the capital.
To linger in King's Landing without controlling it would be a waste.
Ser Gerold and Kevan, once told of his choice, would surely relay it to Father Aerys and tutor Tywin.
Dragon Language Farm.
Daeron walked alone along the dusty path; the gate was already in sight.
Ser Jon had been sent to scout the terrain.
Today was Spring 5; by the game's calendar the mountain-lake mine should open.
Building needed stone; crafting needed ores.
Delving was a stardew valley must.
"Woof-woof-woof!"
A dusty little snout burst from the bushes, blocking his way.
Daeron: "Puppy?"
"Woof-woof!"
The gray pup looked barely weaned; it sat under the gate-tree, tongue lolling.
Daeron understood—the interface had sent a pet.
In Stardew you could choose cat or dog; it arrived on Spring 5.
"Then I'll keep you."
Daeron grinned and reached to pet the little mutt.
In the game the dog was useless; once maxed, petting might yield trash.
Reality was different.
A pup was a fine watchdog.
"Woof-woof!"
The gray scrap seemed to know it had a home; its tail whirled.
"Let's go."
Daeron pinched the scruff of the pup's neck.
The dog was docile, not struggling, tiny paws folded over its tummy.
"I'll name you Doro."
"Woof-woof!"
First task back at the farm: water, pet the chicks, collect eggs, check the mailbox. Chores done, the time was 18:30.
In the cottage.
Daeron rubbed his hands and set the washed, blue-ticked Doro before the hearth to dry.
A bath had bleached the pup from gray to white; its scruffy fur now curled naturally.
"Woof-woof!"
Doro stared past the flames at an oval stone.
"Silly pup, a hundred of you aren't worth one of those."
Daeron tweaked the dog's upper lip, shattering its dragon-slaying dreams.
The dragon egg he had brought back lay among the coals.
In the tale, Daenerys hatched her three stone eggs only after the Red Comet arrived, using blood magic.
Daeron's odds were better.
The Red Comet had come early; the egg still held a spark of life.
To hatch it required only one thing: magic.
History showed that after the Dance of the Dragons, the world slid into a low-magic ebb.
The dragons died, eggs would not hatch, warlocks and pyromancers found their spells spent. Now it was different.
The Red Comet's premature arrival not only restored magic but sent it flooding across the world.
The continent's special crops and surging Life Force were proof.
"My chance of hatching this egg just soared."
Daeron gazed, entranced by the red scales.
No man alive does not crave a dragon.
Even little Tyrion pestered Uncle Tygett for one—preferably a hatchling to match his stature.
How much more so for Daeron, whose veins carried dragon-blood.
Daeron: "I… I want a dragon so badly! I dream of it every night! I want one!"
"Hurry and hatch; together we'll conquer the world."
So enraptured was he that he thrust his hand into the flames to caress the egg now glowing hot.
Sssss!
Fire bit him; steam hissed as the scalding shell met damp skin.
"Wuuuuf!"
Doro's puppy eyes widened; baby teeth clamped on the farmer's sleeve and tugged.
"I'm fine."
Daeron stayed calm, drawing back his hand: the fingers were merely whitened by the burn.
He was no Unburnt, but his dragon-blood ran thick.