"That's more like it."
Daeron's smile deepened.
Of the six active Kingsguard, three stood ahead of the rest in mastery of life energy: Barristan Selmy, Arthur Dayne, and Gerold "the White Bull" Hightower. They'd realized the secret early, and the gap showed.
The remaining three — Prince Lewyn Martell, Ser Jonothor Darry, and Ser Oswell Whent — had similar talent. The difference lay in opportunity.
Lewyn had a powerful advantage: he was uncle to Prince Doran of Dorne. Once Doran came to power, he sent Lewyn a steady flow of special crops, helping him break through several years ago.
Oswell and Jon shared another fate: both were born to great Riverlands houses — Whent and Darry — but had sworn their white cloaks. As Kingsguard, they could no longer freely benefit from their family's hoarded resources. In an age when vital crops were rarer than dragonbone, that mattered.
Oswell at least had Rhaegar — sparring constantly with Arthur Dayne and Lewyn Martell gave him the edge he needed.
Jon… had Aerys.
Few resources. Little time. No room to breathe.
The Mad King demanded his guards almost constantly. Even three rotating shifts barely gave them a handful of hours each day.
Daeron had calculated all this.
Now that Jon was assigned to him, the knight finally had a window — time to train, and a reason to accept Daeron's "charity." Hearing Oswell Whent had already broken through only added pressure.
"I'll leave at once, Your Grace," Jon said, standing with renewed resolve. He moved to saddle his horse.
"Remember," Daeron called lightly, "deliver the letter to the Hand personally."
Jon hesitated just a moment, then untied two fast horses, leaving one behind for Daeron.
Hooves faded into the distance.
Daeron watched him go, the smile slowly leaving his face. "I hope you're a good man, Ser Jon," he murmured.
He'd just exposed one of his greatest secrets — and now chose to test the man who held it.
Tywin would have called it foolish. "You never test loyalty. You build it or crush it," he would say.
But Daeron needed someone he could trust — badly.
He picked up the slightly burned rabbit from the spit.
The test was simple: whose hands would see that letter first?
The Mad King Aerys — or the Hand of the King, Tywin Lannister.
A favored second son with potential claim to succession, and a feared power behind the throne — secretly corresponding as teacher and student, with a private fief as their shared project.
Enough material, in Jon's mind, to stage a fine drama of "the second son usurping the crown."
"Well then," Daeron said, dusting off his hands. "Time to go fishing."
He wasn't worried.
The contents of the letter weren't sensitive — they were bait, not confession.
If the letter reached Tywin first, Jon would prove himself quietly aligned with Daeron's camp.
If it reached Aerys first, then Jon would have shown himself a pure loyalist to the throne — a knight whose honor would keep Daeron's deeper secrets buried.
Either way, Daeron would know how to place him.
Half an hour later.
The Red Keep.
The throne room was dim, drowned in heavy shadows.
Aerys sat hunched on the Iron Throne, eyes fixed on a letter, his expression shifting between confusion and feverish delight.
Below, Ser Jonothor Darry stood with his head bowed low.
To one side, Tywin Lannister waited — expression blank, posture perfect. To the other, two puzzled courtiers watched in silence.
After a long, suffocating pause, Aerys suddenly threw his head back and laughed.
"Tywin! Come see what a wonderful son I have!"
The laughter shattered the gloom.
Tywin stepped forward, black-clad, immaculate as ever. The two other courtiers felt his gaze flick across them like a blade.
"What pleases you, Your Grace?" Tywin asked, voice even.
Aerys ignored him, turning instead toward the Grand Maester. "Pycelle — read it aloud for the Hand."
Pycelle flinched, then shuffled forward, robes rustling, joints creaking.
"Do you require help, Grand Maester?" Varys asked smoothly, taking a half-step forward in feigned concern, eyes glittering.
Everyone knew the truth — Pycelle despised Varys, and Varys returned the sentiment in full.
"No need," the old man snapped, secretly hurrying his pace.
Varys smiled faintly and let his gaze drift — flicking between Aerys, Tywin, and Jonothor, amused.
Prince Daeron's letter had passed through Jonothor's hands. Instead of going straight to the king, it had reached Tywin first — then come here.
Interesting. Very interesting.
"Something to share, Lord Varys?" Tywin's voice cut through the air like ice.
The eunuch's plump face stiffened for half a heartbeat before he forced a chuckle. "Nothing at all, my lord."
He had no desire to become the next lesson in what happened to those who underestimated Tywin Lannister.
Tywin turned away again, but in his mind he'd already underlined Varys's name in red.
Pycelle finally raised the letter and read in his slow, wheezing voice:
"…the lands are vast… the farm most promising… I remain ever grateful for my father's generosity and kindness…"
"…I have acquired, from distant Pentos, a device of some ingenuity… that may aid Your Grace in ruling and winning the love of the people…"
…on and on went the flattery — perfect in pitch and timing, every word aimed squarely at the king's softest spots.
When Pycelle finished, he dabbed his forehead with a sleeve, thinking privately: The boy hasn't changed at all.
"My son has not forgotten his duty," Aerys said, preening. "He knows gratitude. He repays his king."
He waved the letter. "He's sent a design — a machine that spins thread ten times faster than the spindles these fools use. We must see if it can be built."
"Hmm?"
Only then did Pycelle notice the folded sheet still in the envelope. He pulled it out and carefully unfolded it.
A blueprint.
Daeron's hand was steady and precise, every line clean and every part labeled. The sketch showed a spinning device — like the common hand-cranked wheels used in noble households, but smaller, with three spindles instead of one, and a treadle at the base for the feet to pump.
A three-spindle spinning wheel.
In Daeron's past life, it had been an old invention — tied to a reformer named Huang Daopo, who revolutionized textile production. His advisor's wife had once owned such a wheel, kept as a relic of her youth.
Here, in Westeros, things were… older. Slower.
The realm was feudal to the bone. Peasants struggled even to afford coarse linen, much less wool or silk. Common women spent endless nights spinning flax by hand just to weave a single bolt of rough cloth.
Noblewomen fared better, of course — with wool and silk dresses, tailor-made or purchased. Most highborn girls were taught needlework from childhood, praised for their skill with thread and loom.
The hand-cranked spinning wheel, imported long ago from the eastern continent across the Narrow Sea, had already transformed noble households, letting them spin faster than simple drop spindles. It had quickly become a fashionable status symbol — half tool, half ornament.
By now, more than half the noble houses in Westeros owned at least one.
Daeron's design improved on that — two extra spindles, plus a foot pedal to power the movement instead of tiring the arms.
No, it wouldn't overthrow the economy or feed a starving countryside — not while raw material remained scarce.
But it would produce enough fine cloth to matter in one crucial area:
Prestige.
Aerys could show it off. Present it at court. Let word spread that under his reign, new marvels of craft had been born.
And in the end, for a Mad King starved of respect, that was perhaps the greatest gift his son could offer.