Spring, Day 5 – Friday – Windy – 8:30 a.m.
Daeron rose early — early enough to catch the late crowd.
When he arrived at the royal treasury, Count Owen Merryweather was already waiting for him, smiling pleasantly beneath the morning wind.
"You're early, my lord," Daeron greeted lightly as he approached.
Since the creation of Dragon‑Tongue Farm, he'd given up ordinary meals — eating only once or twice a day, and always food infused with life energy.
That morning, he'd shared breakfast with Shaenie and the others: tomato‑bean stew with pan‑seared steak, flavored with wild horseradish and leek instead of onions. Delicious… but time‑consuming.
Owen smiled broadly. "His Grace gave the order at dawn. I dared not delay."
After the usual courtesies, they got to the business.
The Count's smile stiffened slightly, his tone cautious. "Prince Daeron, due to the treasury's current shortages, the council has debated extensively and settled on two options to fulfill the King's command."
Daeron folded his arms, unruffled. "I'm listening."
Owen cleared his throat. "First, as proposed by Lord Chelton Costayne, Master of Coin: the Crown will provide you with building materials for your castle and conscript peasants to work as builders.
"Second, should you prefer otherwise, my lord Chelton authorizes you to receive the value equivalent— eight thousand, seven hundred gold dragons — instead."
Daeron almost laughed. "Eight thousand seven hundred — down to the last coin?"
Owen looked embarrassed. "A precaution, my prince. The treasury holds only so much liquid coin."
To be fair, the council had handled the King's whim as efficiently as anyone could.
"I'll pass on the gold," Daeron said finally. "Show me these materials."
Eight thousand dragons could raise a fine noble keep — but a prince's palace? Not even close.
"At once, my prince," said Owen, unlocking the heavy iron gates.
The ancient doors groaned open with a thunderous creak, and a wave of dusty air rolled out, glittering faintly in the sunlight.
Daeron coughed. "You keep the royal wealth in here?"
"More of a warehouse than a treasury," Owen admitted, lighting a torch. "The real vault's beneath the Red Keep. This one mostly holds supplies and surplus materials."
Inside, the huge chamber stretched back into shadow — its walls stacked floor‑to‑ceiling with pale marble slabs.
"All this?" Daeron asked curiously.
Owen nodded. "The white marble of Whitewalls Castle. You've heard of the Butterwell family?"
Daeron frowned, sifting through memory as Owen began his tale.
The Butterwells — once rich beyond all reason, famous for trading in milk and dairy, their wealth rivaling even the Lannisters and Tyrells a century ago.
Their lord, Ambrose Butterwell, had used his fortune to rebuild his ancestral castle entirely in white marble — earning its name, Whitewalls.
And his greed had ruined him.
"He was clever — but far too ambitious," Owen said gravely.
Ambrose had fawned over King Aegon IV, offering his beautiful daughters to the King's bed. In return, the infamous "Unworthy" had gifted him a dragon egg.
Daeron scowled. "Using a dragon egg as… payment? That wretch deserved a dragon's fire."
Owen tactfully ignored the remark and continued.
After Aegon IV's death, his son Daeron II ascended — only to discover his late father's lecherous ally plotting treason. Ambrose Butterwell had secretly joined Daemon II Blackfyre, organizing a great tourney at Whitewalls to rally hidden loyalists to the Blackfyre cause.
By sheer chance, Daeron's great‑grandfather Aegon V, then merely "Egg," and Ser Duncan the Tall uncovered the conspiracy.
The Second Blackfyre Rebellion followed, ending in swift destruction.
The Butterwell line was executed, their castle razed by order of Brynden Rivers, the Bloodraven, its marble hauled back to King's Landing — the ruins salted so that nothing would ever grow there again.
"All these slabs," Owen finished, gesturing around them, "came from Whitewalls."
Daeron ran a hand along the smooth, cold stone. "So that's the story. No wonder Father wanted to build a white marble city across the Blackwater. The pieces were ready all along."
"Correct," said Owen. "But there's not enough for an entire city — only for a fortress, perhaps two at most. Still, it's priceless material."
He smiled nervously. "If it please you, we can have them transported to your lands immediately."
Daeron grinned. "You think I'm afraid of a little cursed stone? By all means, send it."
Owen's relief was visible. "Then it's settled."
Both men examined the marble closely — flawless, unweathered, stored for more than a century and still shining like new.
"Excellent quality," Daeron admitted. "Better than the Red Keep's sandstone — or even Dragonstone's towers."
They stepped out together into the daylight, and as Daeron glanced back, something by the door caught his eye — a broad block of dark, golden wood.
"What about that?"
"Ah, that," Owen said quickly. "A beam of goldenheart timber — imported from Essos, crafted using eastern joinery."
Daeron shrugged. "Send it to my farm. It'll make a decent stool."
Owen chuckled. "Consider it done."
Everything seemed settled smoothly. They were about to leave when a sharp voice cut across the courtyard:
"Hold it right there!"
A tall, lean young man with golden hair strode up the path — trailed by half a dozen Lannister guards in crimson cloaks.
At that same hour, the Small Council chamber was in uproar.
King Aerys, to everyone's horror, had arrived in person — babbling passionately about "White City 2.0," a new, radiant capital of marble on the southern shore.
The councilors slumped in despair, heads low.
Tywin Lannister sat opposite his king, every inch the stoic Hand — but his calculating mind was already at work.
Perfect timing, he thought. Right about now, my dear younger brother should be making a fine mess for that presumptuous little prince.
Tywin's lips twitched in something like amusement.
Daeron had returned to the capital and deliberately avoided him — a clear sign the boy fancied himself independent.
Well. That delusion needed correcting.
His only consolation was Cersei's report from last night — the girl still starry‑eyed after her "accidental" encounter with the silver prince.
Tywin had actually smiled at that. "Good taste," he'd said.
Cersei was beautiful, ambitious, and— most importantly — his. A union between her and Daeron would guarantee Lannister dominance no matter which Targaryen sat the throne.
Still, if the boy thought a few smiles and courtesies would free him from his mentor's grasp, he had another thing coming.
Let him have his castle, Tywin thought coldly. Then let him drown in paperwork and politics until he crawls back for help.
His patience returned, smooth as steel. "A small lesson builds obedience."
He could already picture Daeron's frustration.
The golden fool would be learning that even dragons must bow to lions.
Meanwhile —
The young golden-haired man blocking Daeron's way grinned arrogantly, flourishing a sealed writ.
"You're trespassing, prince," he announced. "By order of the Hand of the King, I'm authorized to claim this marble for repairs to the Mud Gate docks."
Daeron raised an eyebrow. "And you are…?"
"Ser Geryn Lannister of Casterly Rock," he said proudly. "Fourth son of Lord Tywin's house."
Ah — the rumor made flesh. Tywin's troublesome younger brother, full of pride and eager to prove himself.
Daeron sighed faintly. "So House Lannister's cubs are fetching errands now?"
Geryn sneered. "Apologies, Your Grace, but I answer only to the Hand."
The insult was transparent — the challenge, deliberate.
Daeron's smile vanished. "I'm too tired to argue. And you aren't worth the breath."
Then he turned his head slightly.
"Ser Jon," he said calmly, "handle it."
Jon Darry's gauntleted hand tightened on his sword hilt.
"As you command, my prince."
The White Knight stepped forward — every motion economical, precise. The wind carried a faint metallic whisper as his blade sang free of its sheath.
The Lannister guards tensed.
Daeron folded his arms, watching with cold indifference.
He had no interest in quarrelling with lions — but if they forced him to roar, he would make sure someone bled for it.
And behind him, the marble walls of the old Whitewalls glimmered faintly — as if carrying the ghost of another rebellion long past.