There Will Always Be a Place for You by My Hearth

The rain was pouring heavily.

Daeren, treading through the mud-soaked ground, saw the approaching figure on the path leading to the farm at the foot of the mountain.

Ser Jon, still clad in his silver armor and white robe, led two stubborn warhorses by their reins. He looked like a headless fly, crashing about in the rain, unable to find the way up the mountain.

"Ser Jon."

Daeren called out to stop him.

Ser Jon stiffened, hastily raising his head. His face, washed clean by the rain, was revealed as he wiped away the water obscuring his vision. "Your Highness, I am here."

His voice trembled slightly, a desperate attempt to mask the bone-chilling cold of the heavy rain.

Daeren stood on higher ground, looking down at the disheveled white knight.

He sensed the other man's agitation.

It was merely delivering a letter, perhaps facing an internal dilemma, but there was no reason for him to appear before Daeren in such a state.

Something must have happened.

Daeren pondered for a moment and then asked, "Sir, who sent you to deliver a letter to me?"

"Lord Tywin."

Ser Jon panted, the rain hitting his face faster than he could wipe it away.

It was clear he had been in the rain for a long time.

Daeren immediately stepped forward, helping to take the reins of the horses. "Follow me, Sir. I'll take you to the farm to shelter from the rain."

Ser Jon, already exhausted, followed dazedly.

The path that he couldn't find before now seemed like an ordinary trail again.

Daeren returned to Dragon Tongue Farm, tied the horses to a tree, and helped the weak Ser Jon into the cabin.

The knight's body was burning hot, his face as pale as paper, as if he had been caught in the rain all night.

"Slowly, Sir."

Daeren removed the knight's outer armor and placed it by the roaring fireplace, then handed him a towel.

Heaven was kind; he hadn't expected to stumble upon such a fortunate turn of events.

He had asked Ser Jon who had sent him the letter.

According to his original plan, the letter would either be in the hands of his teacher, Tywin, or his father, Aerys, first.

The first person to receive the letter would be the one to respond to him first.

Ser Jon had said, "Lord Tywin."

To his own people, Daeren brought him back to the farm.

Shivering from the cold, Ser Jon, wearing only an open inner shirt, pulled out a letter. "This is the letter Lord Tywin asked me to deliver to you."

Rip!

Daeren, without a second thought, took the letter, tore it in half, and threw it into the fireplace to use as fuel.

"No!"

Ser Jon cried out in alarm.

Daeren grabbed him and said in a deep voice, "Sir, you are a white knight clad in honor, not a errand boy for me and my teacher."

"Your Highness..." Ser Jon froze, his mind blank, his thoughts completely derailed.

Daeren said nothing, turned, and took one of the two silver-star quality potatoes from the chest by the door, burying it lightly in the embers of the fireplace.

He didn't care about the letter at all.

With a single strand of hair, he could guess that Tywin was painting various rosy pictures, wanting to summon him back to King's Landing.

It wasn't hard to understand why the other man would teach him without seeking reward, and even go to great lengths to secure a fief for him.

It was all about trying every possible way to push him into the spotlight, to compete with Rhaegar, who was far away on Dragonstone.

Once successful, the Targaryen court would be like the Baratheon stag court in the original work, hollowed out by the Lannister family.

Daeren understood everything.

The potato quickly roasted, its skin cracked and blackened, revealing a golden hue when lightly tapped.

Gurgle~~

Ser Jon smelled the rich aroma and couldn't help but swallow.

He hadn't eaten for nearly a day and a night, had endured the heavy rain all night, and was now hungry and tired, desperately needing to fill his stomach.

"Eat."

Daeren picked it up with his hand and offered it to the white knight, who was gazing at it with longing eyes.

The knight deserved this courtesy.

Ser Jon was starving. He took the roasted potato and said, "Thank you... hiss..."

Mid-sentence, his palm burned, and he dropped the roasted potato.

"My apologies, Ser," Daeren chuckled at his clumsiness.

Ser Jon hissed in pain. Seeing the Prince pick up the roasted potato and casually peel off the burnt skin, he remembered the Targaryens' innate gift for withstanding heat.

They were immune to high temperatures!

Daeren, the Prince, seemed even more exceptional in this regard.

"It's still hot, eat slowly."

Daeren offered the peeled roasted potato and sat cross-legged on the floor, chatting casually. "After you finish eating, tell me about the situation in King's Landing."

"Yes, Your Highness."

Ser Jon devoured the potato. The silver-star quality crop quickly took effect, warming his body and dispelling the chill from the rain.

The two talked, clarifying the situation.

Daeren nodded, organizing the information.

As expected, after the letter was published, his father, Aerys, was overjoyed, while his good teacher, Tywin, couldn't sit still.

Tywin had helped Daeren obtain his fief to send a signal to the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms.

The stage was set; how could he allow Daeren to break free from his control and hide away in his fief?

Aerys's great joy led him to order the treasury to fund the construction of a castle for Daeren, and perhaps in the future, to develop the Prince's domain.

This was absolutely something Tywin did not want to see.

Daeren could grow, and the Prince's domain could develop, but only with the Lannister family's assistance.

If he nurtured a strong Prince who did not depend on the Lannisters, wouldn't he become the next Rhaegar?

"My dear teacher, the next step would be to subtly suppress me, find ways to keep me in King's Landing, and constantly supervise me," Daeren said without reservation.

He was confident his analysis was correct.

Because Tywin was such a self-centered, inconsiderate, and extremely controlling person.

This could be seen from his methods of educating his children in the original story.

Ser Jon regained his composure and asked worriedly, "If the Hand of the King makes a move, do you need His Majesty's help?"

Those who became Kingsguard were not fools (except during Robert's reign). As the saying goes, you serve whoever pays you.

The contempt in the Hand's eyes when he looked at him last night was still vivid. Recalling the King's mad rudeness and Prince Rhaegar's cold indifference, he suddenly understood. The sword in his hand should be used to protect someone new, to defend the honor of the white cloak behind him.

The young, wise, humble, polite, and favored Prince Daeren was precisely the person worth protecting with his life.

"Don't worry, Ser," Daeren smiled knowingly. "I had already devised a countermeasure when I wrote that letter."

Meet force with force, block water with earth?

Absolutely not!

Faced with difficulties, a coward flees, a warrior charges head-on, but a wise person knows how to use difficulties to their advantage.

Returning to King's Landing was not a bad thing; he was just worried about not having a position assigned to him.

"I will do my best to protect you, Your Highness," Ser Jon's expression was resolute. He pushed himself up and knelt on one knee before the fireplace.

The kingdom was sick and needed someone to excise the malignant tumor. He was willing to be that sharp blade.

Daeren's expression softened. "I will not let you take unnecessary risks, Ser."

With that, under the expectant gaze of the other man, he drew a longsword from the pile of armor by the door.

The longsword was unsheathed, and the blade rested on the shoulder of the knight who had sworn his allegiance.

Daeren, following the lord's procedure for accepting a knight's fealty, solemnly said, "Jon Darry, clad in white, I swear to the Seven Gods above that there will always be a place for you by my hearth."

Ser Jon's eyes shone brightly, regretting nothing about his decision.

The roasted potato and the fireplace bore witness to this scene.