Demanding the Dragon Egg

There were too many rolling logs and rubble, and every swing of the tool drained Daeren's strength.

Before long, both arms were sore and numb.

Fortunately, the cleared space was already sufficient.

"Reality isn't a game—you can't work on an empty stomach. First, plant some crops to fill the belly."

Daeren admitted he didn't have the pixel-man's iron stomach, so he honestly picked economical, practical seeds.

His starting capital was only 500 Gold Dragons.

Given the offering requirements, he had to be careful.

"The so-called offering means collecting several specific crops from each season, covering all five aspects: farming, foraging, mining, fishing, and combat."

One Parsnip seed: planted, matures in four days, single harvest.

One Green Bean seed: planted, matures in ten days, then repeat harvest every three days.

Two Cauliflower seeds: planted, matures in twelve days, single harvest.

Five Potato seeds: planted, matures in six days, single harvest, with a chance of multiple yields.

Total cost: 490 gold, leaving only 10 Gold Dragons in savings.

The crops grown from these four purchased seeds corresponded exactly to the spring farming offering.

The extra Cauliflower was a precaution in case the panel assigned a quest request, while Potatoes were the staple for eating and selling.

He broke ground and carved out a 3×3 square plot, planted the nine seeds one by one, and watered them in sequence with the watering can.

Even without farming experience, Daeren knew crops needed spacing.

Each plot was 0.5 square meters, so 3×3 only took up 2.25 square meters.

"All done."

Daeren's lips curled upward as he straightened his back and knocked on his arms.

With daily watering guaranteed, a bountiful harvest would come in at most twelve days.

He could keep some, sell some for funds, and even take them to King's Landing for a high price.

But once the farm was established, outside currency couldn't replace it.

Gold was gold, usable only on the farm.

Gold Dragons earned were Gold Dragons, spent and sold outside.

The 500 starting funds counted as a newcomer's benefit.

"With fewer than fifteen seeds, no crows will be attracted. I can sleep easy."

Daeren looked up—the sky had already dimmed.

His body was bone-tired, and he wanted nothing more than to sit on the sofa and warm himself by the fire.

Just as he was about to head back to the cabin, Daeren stopped mid-step and realized with a start: "Damn, I forgot Ser Jon."

He hurried out of the farm to look for the man.

He had told him to take the horses to the river for water and scout the surrounding terrain. Hours had passed in a blink—why was there no sign of him?

Leaving the farm, he walked down the dirt path.

Only then did Daeren see that the dirt path also had a fence along the side bordering the woods, ending halfway up the mountainside.

At this moment, a campfire flickered at the foot of the mountain in the twilight.

Ser Jon sat on a gray stone, his face slightly dejected after removing his helmet, as if brooding over some reason for regret.

Three horses were tied to an oak trunk not far away.

Daeren walked out slowly, feigning confusion: "Ser Jon, did you not find me?"

"Prince...!"

The sun was gradually setting.

From Ser Jon's account, Daeren learned that the man had followed orders and even scoured the beach five kilometers away, but when he returned, he suddenly couldn't find anyone.

He had seen that dirt path, walked up it, yet ended up back where he started, never able to ascend the mountain.

After a moment's thought, Daeren roughly understood the reason.

Dragon Tongue Farm was protected by some mysterious force; anyone without his invitation or approval simply couldn't enter.

This suited Daeren just fine, preventing anyone from trespassing on the farm.

"In that case, I won't disturb you further."

Daeren stood up, took down the bundle from the horse's back, and handed over the pre-prepared cowhide tent, blankets, and dry rations.

When weak, one must know how to protect oneself.

He had no intention of inviting Ser Jon.

Ser Jon wanted to refuse, to stay close and protect the prince, but seeing the generous bundle, he found himself speechless.

Distance is an indispensable part of human interaction.

The prince had his own secrets and flatly refused his company.

"Watch your safety."

Ser Jon sighed and could only accept.

Daeron turned back.

Having observed Tywin's dealings with people for years, he had privately summed up a few insights from experience.

When you want to accomplish something, you must prepare thoroughly; when you ask someone to accomplish something, you must provide what they lack and cut off their retreat.

The tents and other supplies prepared before leaving the city were meant for this moment.

Night fell, the moon bright and stars sparse.

Warm light filled the small room. Daeron bent over the desk, pen in hand, writing a letter, sealing it with wax.

"It's written."

Daeron lifted his head gently, looking outside through the window by the door.

The letter was to be sent to Dragonstone, to his elder brother Rhaegar.

No formal pleasantries, just two concise demands.

Something like: "I, Daeron Targaryen, want a dragon egg!!"

Postscript: I know you're on Dragonstone, don't ignore this letter.

"Hope he replies, not so emotionally cold."

Thinking back to his previous letters, Daeron couldn't help rubbing his brow.

Who would have thought that Prince Rhaegar, so brilliant in the eyes of the world, was utterly indifferent to his family?

But Daeron was persistent.

According to Targaryen tradition, a dragon egg was placed in the cradle of every newborn.

If it hatched, the hatchling became the child's bonded dragon.

If it didn't, that was fine too.

After all, dragons had been extinct for over a hundred and fifty years; every king had tried various methods, all failing.

But back then, newborns at least got a dragon egg.

Now, that tradition existed in name only.

The problem started twenty-one years ago, when great-grandfather Aegon V took the royal family's last seven dragon eggs and, with the help of Pyromancers, tried to hatch them with the high heat of Wildfire.

It failed!

Summerhall was consumed by fire. Aegon V himself, his eldest son Prince Duncan "Shorty," Kingsguard Commander Ser Duncan "Tall," and a host of royal kin and nobles from the Seven Kingdoms perished in the flames.

History called it the Tragedy of Summerhall.

That fire destroyed the family's last dragon eggs.

As a result, Daeron and all his siblings were born without receiving a dragon egg.

"Are there really none left?" Daeron refused to believe it.

At the height of the Targaryen dynasty, the family had over ten adult dragons, half of them egg-laying females.

Each clutch from a dragon was no fewer than five eggs.

During the Dance of the Dragons, the reserve of dragon eggs was at least thirty.

Even if, over time, living eggs lost their vitality and turned into stone-like dead eggs, some should have remained.

"I don't even ask for a normal dragon egg—a petrified one would do."

Daeron's thoughts raced.

Take the "Mother of Dragons," Daenerys, from the original story: through blood sacrifice, she gave life to three petrified dragon eggs, hatching three dragons.

That was a clearly viable path.

After learning about the Tragedy of Summerhall, he boldly speculated that great-grandfather Aegon V's attempt to hatch eggs with Wildfire was also a form of blood sacrifice.

Only, he shouldn't have used Wildfire.

Wildfire wasn't a magical creation; it was more like a chemical product. How could it grant the vitality needed for an egg to crack open?

"I don't need to say it—Rhaegar is surely scouring Dragonstone too."

Daeron knew he would likely be disappointed, but he still wanted to test the waters.

Treat a dead horse as if it were still alive; maybe Dragon Mountain hid undiscovered dragon eggs...

"With the confidence Dragon Tongue Farm gives me, finding a dragon egg is a must."

Daeron's deep eyes shone with resolve: "If it's not on Dragonstone, I'll search the entire continent."