"Mother doesn't like you," Shaenie said softly.
Daeron paused, pressing a hand to his forehead with a sigh. The words were so coldly factual they could have frozen the air.
But she wasn't wrong. Queen Rhaella's affections belonged entirely to the two youngest boys — little Jae and Viserys. For her second son, the one the King favored most, she had only distant civility.
"I know," he said quietly. "Still, I should visit her. Courtesy counts for something."
Shaenie didn't look up from her embroidery. "She only loves our younger brothers," she said again.
Daeron exhaled. "I know," he murmured, half amused, half weary.
Yes, it was like pressing a warm face into cold marble. But she had raised him, after all. That bond couldn't simply be ignored.
Shaenie stitched in silence, the needle flashing in and out of the fabric. She didn't really care about politics or their mother's moods — only that her brother not be hurt by them.
"She still visits you every other day?" he asked idly.
No answer. Just the steady rhythm of thread through cloth.
Realizing conversation was futile, Daeron drifted away to the sunlit window where a small easel stood. The light fell across the unused sketchboard, dust motes glittering in the air.
He prepared his paints and began to work.
Behind him, little Jaehaerys leaned closer, eyes wide with curiosity, while Viserys — four years old and incorrigible — snuck up to Shaenie's table to steal her biscuits, crunching them loudly and scattering crumbs like a tiny hurricane.
No one scolded him. The poor child was so spoiled — or so dim — that his eccentricities were tolerated as harmless.
For that one rare morning, the Red Keep — usually thick with tension and paranoia — felt almost peaceful.
An older sister embroidering, an older brother sketching, and two younger ones laughing quietly around them.
Almost like a family.
Elsewhere, in the King's bedchamber:
Grand Maester Pycelle entered quietly, his hands trembling slightly as he carried a silver tray with a jug and goblets.
"Your Grace," he said respectfully, "I've mixed a new sleeping draft — to ease your rest."
He set the tray down reverently.
From behind a curtain, Ser Barristan Selmy stepped forward, poured a cup of the pale, milky liquid, and held it out.
There followed the sound of drinking — then the crash of a goblet hitting the floor.
Aerys sat on the edge of his bed, eyes feverish and alive. "Grand Maester! The blasted spinning wheel works! We'll sell it throughout the realm — every noble house will crave one!"
Pycelle hesitated. "Your Grace, the three-spindle spinning wheel is still new. There may be... imperfections."
"You question me?" Aerys snapped. "Do you mean to hide it from me?"
"No, no, never!" The old man bowed so deeply his beard brushed his chest. "I only meant that every invention needs refining."
"Then refine it faster," Aerys barked. "Don't delay my triumph!"
Pycelle dabbed sweat from his brow.
Then, Aerys's tone turned abruptly sharp. "Tell me what you think of my son."
"Prince Rhaegar?" Pycelle asked cautiously.
Aerys's eyes burned. "The wolf-blooded traitor? No. I mean Daeron! The prince I've granted the lands south of the Blackwater."
"Ah…" Pycelle paused, groping for measured words. "A fine young man — handsome, kind, and greatly loved. A future warrior, perhaps worthy of the Dragonknight himself."
Aerys beamed. But Ser Barristan frowned in the background.
The comparison was telling — not to a king, not to a ruler, but to a loyal knight. A flattering way to describe an obeying son.
Still, Aerys's enthusiasm surged.
"I'll build him a city!" he cried suddenly. "A white city, grander than King's Landing itself — all marble, no filth!"
Pycelle's face blanched.
"I'll move my court there," Aerys continued, manic light in his eyes. "Half the capital will follow. We'll leave this stinking hole behind!"
That was too much even for Barristan.
Such madness had surfaced once before — in 265 AC, when Aerys had proposed building a new royal capital on the southern bank of the Blackwater. It had taken the entire council months to stop him.
Pycelle gathered his courage. "Your Grace, I beg you — the treasury is barren. After the Ninepenny Kings' war, we only just repaid the Iron Bank's loans. There's no coin to build a city."
Aerys glared, outraged. "You deny me the right to build for my son?!"
The Grand Maester only shook his head grimly. "It cannot be done, Your Grace. Truly."
And for once, he spoke the truth: there was nothing to give. The royal coffers were dust.
Eventually, the sedative began to take hold, and the King's wild tirade faded into breathy mutters.
Minutes later, Aerys slumped sideways, asleep.
Barristan escorted the trembling maester to the door.
"Ser Barristan," Pycelle whispered urgently, "when His Grace wakes, you must counsel him against this madness. For the good of the realm."
The knight nodded solemnly. "You have a noble heart, Grand Maester."
He meant it — sincerely.
Night deepened over the Red Keep.
In the princess's chambers, the fire burned low.
Shaenie lay curled on her side, her breathing steady.
Daeron, stretched out on a rug before the fireplace, stared at the flames.
"What will my teacher do next?" he mused aloud.
Only the crackling logs answered. The two younger boys had long since been escorted back to their mother by her maids.
He turned over the possibilities one by one in his head — the traps Tywin might lay, the speeches, the veiled threats.
When at last his thoughts slowed, he turned his head.
In the dim firelight, Shaenie's profile looked ethereal — calm, distant, and yet somehow reassuring.
She was perhaps the only soul in the Red Keep who could quiet his mind.
He drifted, the warmth of the flames blurring into dreams.
He didn't know when the dream began.
He was back at Dragon‑Tongue Farm, tending the soil, watering plants, patting both hens on the head.
The peace of it all was perfect until —
Caw! Caw! Caw!
He spotted a black crow perched at the edge of one of his crop plots, pecking insistently at a fresh sprout.
"Huh?" He frowned. "That shouldn't happen. I seeded less than fifteen tiles — no crows should spawn yet."
He shooed it with the hoe. "Get out of here!"
The bird only flapped up to a pine tree, then stared down at him, head tilted oddly.
"Still here?!"
He stepped closer — and the crow stared back.
Not like an animal, but like a thing that understood exactly what it was doing.
Its eyes gleamed with unsettling awareness.
Just as Daeron squinted to see more—
He woke with a start.
The faint jingle of the farm interface still echoed in his ears.
[Farming: 0g]
[Foraging: 40g]
[Fishing: 0g]
[Mining: 0g]
[Other: 0g]
Total: 40 gold credited.
He blinked hard, breathing deeply. "A… dream? Wait — the crow…"
"Are you all right?"
Shaenie's soft voice startled him. She was half sitting, hair falling loose in silver curls, eyes reflecting the firelight.
"Nothing," he said quickly. "New bed, strange dreams."
"Oh." She tilted her head slightly — then lay back down, pulling the covers over her shoulders.
The room returned to silence.
Daeron closed his eyes again, but not his mind.
Dreams didn't scare him — but omens did.
"A crow that doesn't fly away," he thought grimly. "Let's hope that's not something following me."
---
read more inpat*** CaveLeather