Vaegon
The Red Keep smelled of ash and despair. Vaegon Targaryen stood at the window of the Tower of the Hand, his lilac eyes tracing the cracked earth beyond the city walls. King's Landing sprawled like a wounded beast, its streets choked with the returning husks of war, soldiers with hollow eyes, widows clutching babes too weak to cry, beggars clawing at the mud for scraps. As if the land itself mourned the victory on the Stepstones.
A victory. Vaegon's lips twisted at the word. A pyrrhic triumph, bought with blood and fire, that had snuffed out the Blackfyre line but left the Seven Kingdoms bleeding.
Maelys the Monstrous was dead, his head rotting on a spike, but the cost lingered in the rasping coughs of the starving, the low moans of the wounded, the whispers of banditry festering in the crownlands.
And now, the whispers spoke of worse, of a blight, not merely a disease of crops, but a creeping decay, turning fertile fields into dust.
Vaegon turned from the window, his silver-gold hair catching the flicker of torchlight. The chamber was a relic of better days, its walls etched with faded dragons, their wings curling around the ghosts of lost power.
On the table before him lay an orb, its surface black as dragonglass, etched with valyrian runes that shimmered. A spoil from the Stepstones, the maesters claimed, though none could say what it was or whence it came.
Vaegon had found it in the vaults, buried beneath rusted swords and shattered helms, and when he touched it, the runes had burned beneath his fingers, and a voice had spoken, low and resonant : "Prove your blood, heir of dragons, and mend this realm with wisdom, might, and flame."
He reached out, his fingers hovering over the orb's surface. It was warm, pulsing like a living thing, and in its depths, he saw flashes, visions of fields green and bountiful, of machines that tamed the earth, of men clad in steel not forged by mortal hands, of dragons rising from ash. Renewal amidst ruin. The dreams that haunted his nights, the dreams of a Targaryen born too late to ride the skies.
"Vaegon." The voice was sharp, cutting through the silence. His mother, Queen Shaera, stood in the doorway, her stern face framed by silver hair streaked with grey. "Your father summons you. The council grows restless, and the lords demand answers, Tywin Lannister most of all."
Vaegon's hand fell from the orb, his jaw tightening. Tywin Lannister, the golden lion of eighteen summers, who had burned his way through the Stepstones and returned a hero, his name on every tongue. A man who saw weakness in Jaehaerys's frailty, and perhaps in Vaegon's youth. "And Aerys?" Vaegon asked, his voice calm but edged with steel. "What does my brother demand?"
Shaera's lips thinned. "Glory, as always. He speaks of leading men to crush the bandits, of claiming a dragon's legacy. He forgets the cost of the last war."
Vaegon nodded, his gaze drifting back to the orb. Aerys, restless and glory-hungry, a flame burning too bright, too wild. And Rhaella, quiet and shaken, her eyes haunted by the war's echoes. The weight of the realm rested on Vaegon's shoulders, but the orb offered a path, a chance to mend what was broken, to restore what was lost. If he could prove his blood.
"Tell Father I come," Vaegon said, rising. He slipped the orb into a leather pouch at his belt, its warmth seeping through the fabric, a promise and a challenge. As he followed his mother into the shadowed halls of the Red Keep, the Dragonpit loomed in the distance, a broken monument to a lost age. But in Vaegon's dreams, it burned anew, and dragons soared once more.
The Red Keep felt like a tomb. Dust motes catching in the light through the high, arched windows of the throne room. Vaegon Targaryen leaned against the cold, unforgiving stone of the throne's dais, the twisted Iron Throne looming behind him like a monstrous, rusted crown.
Before him, a delegation of smallfolk, gaunt and clad in rags, pleaded their case. Their words were mirroring the hopelessness that permeated the city.
Jaehaerys, their father, the king, sat slumped upon the Iron Throne, his usually vibrant purple eyes dulled and ringed with dark circles. A racking cough punctuated his silence. Shaera, their mother and the queen, stood beside him, her lips a thin, disapproving line as she glared at the petitioners.
Aerys, their younger brother, a callow youth of six and ten namedays, lounged on a nearby cushioned bench, his eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "Let them eat swords," he drawled, a smirk playing on his lips. "They're cheap now, aren't they? After this blasted war?"
Vaegon clenched his fist. The war. The War of the Ninepenny Kings, freshly ended, had left its festering wounds on the realm, compounding the scars of the Dance of the Dragons, a conflict whose echoes still haunted the treasury and the smallfolk's memory.
The treasury was near empty, drained by the conflict and the subsequent mismanagement. War loans from Tywin Lannister's father, Tytos, hung like a sword of Damocles over the crown. Famine stalked the land, and whispers spoke of a blight,a creeping decay that twisted the earth, defying all remedy.
Vaegon stepped forward, his boots scuffing against the worn stone of the throne room floor, the sound sharp and deliberate in the heavy silence.
He fixed Aerys with a withering look, his eyes narrowing until his younger brother's smirk faltered, the cruel amusement draining from his face . The air between them crackled, thick with unspoken rivalry, but Vaegon's gaze held, unyielding, until Aerys slumped back against the cushioned bench, muttering something under his breath.
The smallfolk's pleas faded into a low hum, their gaunt faces blurring at the edges of Vaegon's vision, but their desperation clung to him, a weight as real as the Iron Throne behind him.
His fingers brushed the leather pouch at his belt, the orb within pulsing with a heat that seeped through the fabric, steadying his racing heart. It had spoken to him, first in the vaults, then again moments ago, as the smallfolk's drone filled the hall. "Feed thy realm, heir of dragons, and the wisdom of the ancients shall be thine."
The voice had whispered, low and resonant , and with it came visions: fields green and bountiful, earth turned by hands guided not by maesters' lore but by a knowledge older, stranger, rows of wheat bending in the wind, roots drinking deep from soil enriched by ash and dung, cycles of planting that defied the seasons' march.
The images had burned into his mind, sharp and insistent, a gift from the orb's black depths. He didn't understand their full measure, machines and methods beyond Westeros's ken—but he trusted them, as he trusted the dragon dreams that haunted his nights.
"We'll rebuild," he declared, his voice ringing through the cavernous hall with a conviction though a tremor of doubt gnawed, Summerhall's blackened ruins a warning in his mind. The orb's warmth steadied him, its visions of green fields burning into his resolve.
The words echoed off the high arched ceiling. His chest tightened as the sound carried. Could he truly mend this broken realm, or was he a fool to believe the orb's whispered promises? Yet the warmth pulsing at his belt steadied him, a silent tether to the path he'd chosen.
He turned to the Small Council, assembled at a long table to the side, its dark oak scarred from years of deliberation and deceit.
The men sat stiffly, their robes rustling as they shifted under his scrutiny. Lord Edgar Celtigar, Hand of the King, presided at the table's head, his gaunt frame rigid in a high-backed chair, his silver-streaked beard framing a face carved by decades of duty. His pale violet eyes, a faint echo of Valyrian blood, fixed on Vaegon with stern resolve, his gnarled hands resting on a crab-etched cane, a quiet authority tempered by age.
Beside him, Tywin Lannister perched besides him, his face a mask of calculation, his golden-green eyes glinting. His hands rested lightly on the table, fingers steepled, betraying no emotion save for the faintest tightening at the corners of his mouth, a predator weighing profit against risk.
Beside him, Grand Maester Pycelle hunched over a stack of parchments, his jowls trembling with apprehension. His watery eyes darted between Vaegon and the king, a man caught between loyalty and fear of the unknown.
Lord Tyland Velaryon, Master of Ships, lounged with a seafarer's ease, his sea-green cloak pooling around him, though his sharp features tightened with unease.
Lord Merton Mertyns, Master of Coin, clutched a ledger, his owlish face pale beneath a thinning crown of brown hair.
Lord Harlan Tyrell, Master of Laws, sat ramrod straight, his rose-embroidered doublet pristine, his hazel eyes flickering with cautious interest.
Lord Symond Staunton, Master of Whisperers, slouched at the table's edge, his dark cloak patched with the red-and-white of Rook's Rest, his weathered face creased with a sly grin, dark eyes glinting beneath a tangle of greying hair.
The stewards, a smattering of nervous, lesser men in drab tunics, clustered at the table's end, their faces pale and sweating, quills poised above ledgers as if awaiting a storm.
"My lords", Vaegon said, his voice crisp and authoritative. He straightened to his full height. "We will implement a comprehensive strategy to alleviate the famine. Starting immediately."
The words felt heavy on his tongue, each syllable a stone laid in the foundation of a future he could barely glimpse, a future of green fields and full bellies, not ash and bones. He drew a breath, and began to dictate the plan that had coalesced in his mind, born of the orb's ancient wisdom and his own desperate hope.
"Rotate the crops," he said, his voice steady despite the pounding of his heart. "Wheat, rye, and turnips, staggered across the fields. The land must rest and replenish its nutrients, each crop takes and gives in turn a cycle to heal the soil." He paused, imagining the cracked earth of the Crownlands softening under careful hands.
"Mix ash and manure into the soil, a natural fertilizer to enrich what's been depleted. The ashes of our war will feed the earth, not choke it."
His fingers twitched at his side, itching to trace the orb's runes, to feel the certainty it promised. "And plant now, despite the lateness of the season. Every seed sown is a chance for salvation, wheat for bread, rye for the hardy, turnips to fill the bellies through winter. We cannot wait for spring; the smallfolk won't last that long."
The throne room seemed to hold its breath, the smallfolk's drone falling silent as they stared at their prince, rags clinging to their skeletal frames like shrouds. Vaegon felt their eyes, hundreds of hollow gazes, pleading, doubting, clinging to his words. He clenched his jaw, pushing down the flicker of uncertainty that gnawed at him. The orb's voice had been clear, feed thy realm, but what if its wisdom failed? What if he failed?
Lord Celtigar's pale violet eyes narrowed, his voice a low rasp honed by years at sea and court. "A bold stroke, Prince Vaegon, if it holds," he said, his cane tapping the floor once, a measured beat. "The realm needs feeding, aye, but this defies the seasons' way. Prove it works, and I'll see it done, else we court chaos." His stern gaze held Vaegon's, a Hand's duty outweighing curiosity about the plan's strange roots.
Tywin's gaze sharpened, a predator's interest piqued, though his expression remained unreadable. Pycelle's trembling intensified, his chain rattling as he leaned forward, his voice a querulous rasp. "Unheard of, my prince!" he sputtered, spittle flecking his lips, his face turning a mottled red. "Planting so late in the season? It's madness! And mixing… waste with the soil? Disgusting! The Seven forbid such unnatural practices!"
Tyland Velaryon leaned back, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "Ash and manure, eh? Sounds like a storm-battered deck, filthy, but it might hold." He tapped a ringed finger against the table, his tone light but his eyes wary. "The ports starve too, lad. No crops, no trade, my ships rot idle while the Stepstones lick their wounds. Can your plan reach the coasts?" His casual air masked a sailor's sharp concern, the realm's lifelines fraying in his mind.
Merton Mertyns shrank into his chair, his ledger trembling in his bony hands, his voice a high, nasal whine. "The treasury's a beggar's purse, my prince! Seeds, tools, labor, where's the coin? We're bled dry from the war, and the Lannister loans…" He trailed off, glancing nervously at Tywin, his owlish eyes blinking rapidly. "It's madness unless we tax the lords, but they'll complain louder than the common folk!"
Harlan Tyrell smoothed his rose-embroidered doublet, his hazel eyes narrowing with cautious intrigue. "A bold law you'd weave, Prince Vaegon," he said, his voice rich and measured, a Reachman's lilt threading through it. "If it works, the realm stands taller. But defy the seasons? The Faith will call it blasphemy, and the lords will balk. How do you enforce it?" He leaned forward, a faint smile playing on his lips, support tempered by political cunning.
Lord Symond Staunton straightened slightly, his sly grin widening as he scratched at his greying beard, his voice a rough growl tempered by a Crownlander's drawl. "A muddy scheme, my prince, but the smallfolk'll dig it if it feeds 'em," he said, his dark eyes glinting with a scavenger's glee.
"My rooks are already hearing the whispers, hope in the hovels, curses in the keeps. Push too hard and I'll make sure the rumors work in your favor, but the high lords won't tolerate it." He chuckled, his rough hands resting on the table." He chuckled, a low, rasping sound, his weathered hands resting on the table.
The stewards scribbled furiously, their quills scratching, their faces pale and sweating under the weight of the moment. Vaegon met each reaction with a level stare, his voice cutting through the clamor. "The Seven have not fed this realm, nor have your ships, your coins, your laws, your whispers. Hunger has no piety, and tradition has left us barren. We adapt, or we perish." His words hung in the air, a challenge to them all, and he turned his gaze to Tywin, seeking the lion's measure. The Lannister's silence was a blade unsheathed, its edge yet untested, but the orb's warmth steadied him. This was its gift, his to wield, his to prove.
Shaera's hand tightened on Jaehaerys's shoulder, her fingers digging into the king's frail frame as if to anchor him, or herself against Vaegon's resolve. Her silver hair gleamed dully in the torchlight, streaked with grey, and her stern face hardened into a mask of disapproval. "Innovation is a luxury, Vaegon, not a necessity," she murmured, her voice low and sharp. "Tradition has kept this realm alive."
The throne room stilled, the smallfolk's ragged breaths catching as if they sensed the fracture within the royal family. Vaegon's chest tightened, his mother's words striking deeper than Pycelle's bluster. Tradition, the marriages of brother to sister, the fire of dragons, the iron grip of Targaryen rule, had forged the Seven Kingdoms, yes, but it had also burned them, bled them dry. He saw Summerhall in his mind's eye, its blackened ruins a testament to ambition unchecked, and felt the orb's warmth pulse at his belt, a silent counterpoint to Shaera's caution. Was he repeating that folly, or forging a new path?
He turned to her, his eyes meeting hers, violet against violet. "Tradition starves us now, Mother," he said, his voice softer but no less firm, a plea beneath the steel. "The old ways have failed the fields, the smallfolk, the crown. If we cling to them, we doom ourselves to dust." His gaze flicked to Jaehaerys, slumped and wheezing, a king diminished by war and sickness. "Father knows this, even if you will not."
Shaera's lips thinned to a bloodless line, her hand trembling slightly as it rested on Jaehaerys's shoulder. "You speak of dust," she said, her tone icy, "but innovation brought us Summerhall, ash and ruin, not salvation. You play with forces you do not understand, Vaegon, and the realm will pay the price." Her eyes flickered to the pouch at his belt, suspicion glinting, and Vaegon wondered if she guessed at the orb's power, or if she feared something darker still.
Jaehaerys stirred, a cough rattling through his chest like stones in a dry riverbed. "Enough," he rasped, his voice a threadbare whisper, barely audible over the crackle of torches. "Vaegon… do it. Save them." His head lolled back against the Iron Throne, exhaustion carving deep lines into his pallid face.
Vaegon
The council chamber was a narrower place than the throne room, its walls close and damp, the air thick with the scent of wax and parchment. A single candelabrum flickered on the oaken table, casting long shadows across the stone. Vaegon stood at one end, his hands clasped behind his back. Tywin Lannister sat across from him, alone now, the stewards and the small council dismissed after the throne room's tumult. The golden lion's presence filled the room, his stillness more menacing than any bluster.
"You spoke boldly today, Prince Vaegon," Tywin said, his voice smooth, each word measured and precise. "A practical approach. Crop rotation, ash and manure, late planting, unconventional, yes, but logical. I'll support it." He paused, leaning forward slightly, his steepled fingers pressing together until the knuckles whitened. "For a price."
Vaegon's jaw tightened, though he kept his face impassive, a mask to match Tywin's own. He had expected this, the Lannister never gave without taking, and the crown's debts to Casterly Rock were a noose tightening with every passing day. "Name it," he said, his tone even, though his mind raced. Gold? Land? Power? Whatever Tywin demanded, it would cost more than coin.
Tywin's lips twitched, the ghost of a smile that never reached his eyes. "The Handship," he said simply, his voice cutting through the silence. "Your father's strength wanes. Appoint me Hand of the King after you ascend the throne , and Casterly Rock will fund your little experiment. Seeds, tools, men to guard the fields, whatever you require. Refuse, and those war loans from my father will come due. Tytos is weak, but I am not."
The words hit Vaegon, sending ripples of thought. Tywin as Hand, he could be an ally, but a dangerous one, with his claws deep in the throne's base. The treasury was empty, drained by the Ninepenny Kings and poor management; without Lannister gold, Vaegon's plan could fail. But making Tywin Hand would give power to a man whose ambition burned coldly, as dangerous as Aerys's madness.
Vaegon's fingers brushed the pouch at his belt, the orb's warmth a faint comfort against the chill of Tywin's gaze. "You'd bind the crown to Casterly Rock," he said, his voice low, testing the waters. "A Hand today, a regent tomorrow, what next, Lord Tywin? A Lannister on the Iron Throne?"
Tywin's expression didn't flicker, though his eyes narrowed imperceptibly. "The throne is yours, Prince Vaegon, or your father's while he breathes. I seek only to serve, and to ensure the realm prospers under my stewardship. Chaos profits no one, least of all me." He leaned back, the candlelight catching the gold threads in his doublet, a king in all but name. "Consider it a partnership. Your vision, my resources."
Vaegon held Tywin's stare, his mind a storm of calculation. The orb whispered no counsel now, its voice silent, leaving him to weigh the cost alone. Accept, and he'd gain the means to feed the realm, but at the price of a lion's leash. Refuse, and the famine would tighten its grip, proving Shaera right. "I'll consider it," he said at last, his tone clipped, buying time. "But the crown kneels to no one, Tywin. Not even you."
Tywin's ghost-smile returned, a flicker of triumph or mockery, Vaegon couldn't tell. "A wise prince knows when to bend," he said, rising with a rustle of silk. "I'll await your answer, but not long. Gold waits for no man." He swept from the room, leaving Vaegon alone with the weight of a choice that could save or doom them all.
Vaegon
The corridors of the Red Keep twisted, their stone walls slick with damp and scored by the passage of countless years. Vaegon strode through them, his cloak snapping behind him, the orb's warmth a steady pulse against the chill that seeped from the stones. The throne room's echoes lingered in his ears, Shaera's warning, Tywin's bargain, Jaehaerys's frail command, but it was Aerys's silence that gnawed at him now, a quiet more dangerous than his earlier quip.
He found his brother in the shadow of the Dragonpit, its broken dome looming against the bruised twilight sky. Aerys stood amidst the rubble, his silver hair wild and tangled, his purple eyes glinting with a feverish light. He kicked at a shard of blackened stone, sending it skittering across the cracked earth, and laughed, a sharp, jagged sound that cut through the stillness.
"Rebuilding with dung and turnips," Aerys said, his voice dripping with scorn as Vaegon approached. He turned, his smirk returning, though it trembled at the edges, brittle as glass. "That's your grand vision, brother? A farmer's crown for a dragon's heir? Pathetic." He spat into the dust, the gobbet landing near Vaegon's boots, a deliberate taunt.
Vaegon stopped a pace away, his hands clasped behind his back, his face a mask of calm despite the heat rising in his chest. "Better a farmer's crown than a madman's pyre," he said, his tone even, though his eyes flicked to the Dragonpit's ruins, Summerhall's echo, a warning of Targaryen fire unchecked. "The realm needs food, Aerys, not your fantasies of glory."
Aerys's smirk vanished, replaced by a snarl that bared his teeth, sharp and white. "Fantasies?" he hissed, stepping closer, his breath hot with wine and rage. "I'd give them fire, Vaegon, dragons, not dirt. You play in the mud while I'd burn the bandits, the blight, all of it to ash. That's a Targaryen's legacy, not your piss-soaked fields." His hand shot out, grasping at the pouch at Vaegon's belt, fingers clawing for the orb. "What's this, then? Some trinket to make you feel mighty? Give it to me, I'll show you power."
Vaegon seized Aerys's wrist, twisting it away with a force that drew a yelp from his brother's lips. "Touch it again, and you'll lose more than your pride," he said, his voice low and dangerous, the orb's warmth flaring against his hip as if in agreement. He released Aerys, shoving him back a step, and watched as his brother stumbled, rage and humiliation warring across his face.
Aerys straightened, his chest heaving, his eyes wild with a fire that promised ruin. "You think you're the heir?" he spat, his voice rising to a shout that echoed off the Dragonpit's bones. "You're nothing, a coward hiding behind manure while I'd claim what's ours. Dragons, Vaegon! Dragons!" He turned and stormed into the shadows, his cloak billowing, leaving Vaegon alone amidst the ruins.
Vaegon's hand fell to the orb, its pulse steadying his racing heart. Aerys's words stung, coward, nothing, but the vision of a dragon's wing cutting through ash flickered in his mind, a whisper of "flame." His brother craved fire, but Vaegon knew it took more than flame to mend a realm. Still, the seeds of doubt took root, and he wondered if Aerys's madness held a shard of truth.
Vaegon lingered in the Dragonpit's shadow. His brother's words clawed at him, "coward hiding behind manure". He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. Feeding the realm was no coward's task, it was survival, the bedrock of power, but Aerys' taunt gnawed at him. Dragons. Flame. The Targaryen birthright he'd dreamed of since boyhood, now whispering through the orb's visions alongside fields and steel.
Footsteps crunched behind him, soft, deliberate. Vaegon turned, hand dropping to his sword, but it was Rhaella, her silver hair a faint glow in the dusk. She clutched a shawl tight around her shoulders, her lilac eyes wide with worry. "He's gone to the stables," she said, voice trembling. "Shouting about riding down bandits, burning them out. Vaegon, he'll get himself killed, or worse."
Vaegon's jaw tightened. Aerys, reckless and aflame, chasing glory while the realm starved. "Let him rant," he said, though his gut twisted. "Father will rein him in, or Tywin will, if it suits him." But Rhaella's fear mirrored his own, Aerys was a spark in dry grass, and the realm couldn't afford another blaze. He touched her arm, a rare gesture. "Stay with Mother. I'll handle this."
She nodded, hesitating, then slipped back toward the Keep, a wraith swallowed by shadows. Vaegon exhaled. Aerys wanted fire? He'd get it, but on Vaegon's terms.
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The sun sagged low, a dull red smear bleeding through smoke and cloud, as Vaegon Targaryen rode from King's Landing toward Rosby, the nearest stretch of once-fertile land in the Crownlands' scarred grip. His black destrier snorted, hooves sinking into the Kingsroad's churned mud, rutted deep by war wagons, now a mire under a cold drizzle that pricked his face.
Ten guards flanked him, Stepstones veterans in dented steel, led by Ser Gyles Morrigen, his scar-split brow furrowed as he scanned the bleak horizon.
Behind them rattled a cart, two stewards, pale and hunched, clutching sacks of seed and tools, their breaths puffing white in the chill.
At Vaegon's right rode Ser Barristan Selmy, newly cloaked Kingsguard and slayer of Maelys the Monstrous, his white cloak stark against the gloom, longsword gleaming at his hip, green eyes sharp beneath a helm of polished steel. The orb pulsed at Vaegon's belt, its dragon-etched warmth a heartbeat through leather, urging him toward the fields.
Rosby emerged from the haze, a wasteland of ash and ruin sprawling from the road to the distant keep, its walls smoke-stained, its village a clutch of sagging hovels. The earth lay cracked and grey, wheat fields reduced to charred stubble by foraging armies and fleeing raiders. Skeletal trees clawed at the sky, stripped for firewood, their roots grasping dust. The air reeked of burned straw and decay, a cow's bloated corpse festered in a ditch, flies swarming, while crows perched on its ribs, cawing a harsh dirge.
Smallfolk lingered at the field's edge, gaunt shadows in rags, faces hollowed by hunger, eyes sunken and wary. A woman clutched a babe too weak to cry, its skin sallow; an old man leaned on a broken hoe, staring at Vaegon with a flicker of hope dulled by doubt.
Vaegon dismounted, boots sinking into sodden earth. Ser Barristan swung down beside him, his presence a silent shield. "This ground's a grave, my prince," he said, voice low and steady, hand resting on his sword hilt as he scanned the treeline. "Bandits'll smell this work a league off." Vaegon nodded, surveying the field—two hundred acres of desolation, soil a brittle crust over a land bled dry. The orb's visions flashed, rows of wheat bending, turnips swelling, rye standing tall, methods alien yet certain. "Then we'll bury their hopes here," he replied, turning to the stewards. "Unload the cart. We start now."
The stewards spilled sacks of seed, wheat, rye, turnips, onto the mud, hands trembling as they hefted shovels and rakes. Ser Gyles growled, "This muck'll grow nothing," dismounting with a grunt, but Vaegon knelt, scooping soil that crumbled in his fingers, dry beneath the damp, flecked with ash from torched barns. He stood, pointing to a charred heap, a village granary, collapsed into soot. "That ash, gather it. And the manure from the ditch, bring it too." The guards hesitated, manure? —but moved, shovels scraping the stinking muck. Ser Barristan stayed close, eyes flicking to the woods, a white sentinel amid the toil.
Vaegon paced the field's edge, marking it with a stick dragged through mud, three sections, uneven but deliberate. "Wheat here," he called, voice cutting through the drizzle's hiss, "rye there, turnips beyond. Rotate them, each heals the soil." He gestured to the ash and manure, piled in reeking heaps. "Mix that in, spread it deep. It feeds the earth, brings it back." The smallfolk murmured, disbelief, curiosity.
The old man limped forward, voice a dry rasp: "Plant now, m'lord? Season's gone and winter's near." Vaegon met his gaze, lilac eyes steady. "Now. Turnips hold through frost, wheat and rye for spring. We can't wait." The man stared, then nodded, shuffling to join as ash swirled in the wind.
Vaegon seized a shovel, driving it into the cracked earth, blade biting deep. His arms strained, mud caking his cloak, but he dug, shoulder to shoulder with guards and smallfolk drawn by his resolve.The woman set her babe down, raking furrows; the boy hauled rye, thin arms quivering; the old man shoveled ash, muttering prayers.
Ser Barristan stood apart, watching the treeline, once stepping forward, sword half-drawn, as a shadow shifted, but it was just a crow taking flight. The field churned, ash and manure folded into dirt, a dark, fertile smear under their hands. Vaegon's breath steamed, sweat beading in the cold, the orb's warmth a fire at his hip. He saw it, his vision taking root, a patchwork of hope in ruin.
Dusk fell, drizzle thickening to rain that plastered his hair to his face. The first section gleamed wet, wheat seeds scattered by the boy, pressed in by the woman's rake. Rye went next, the old man sowing with a flick, prayers louder now. Turnips sank into the third plot, Vaegon tamping soil firm, each thrust a defiance of winter.
The guards stepped back, panting, muck-stained; the smallfolk stood, hands raw, watching their prince kneel in filth. Ser Barristan approached, voice low: "You've got their hearts, my prince. But this'll draw trouble, fields like these in a dead land."
Vaegon straightened, wiping rain and mud from his eyes, surveying the field, two hundred acres, seeded late, enriched with war's refuse. It looked a mess, sodden, bleak, but the orb pulsed, a silent vow. "Tend it," he told the smallfolk, voice raw. "Water it if the rain fails. This feeds us all."
The woman clutched her babe, tears cutting through grime; the old man gripped his hoe, nodding. "Aye, m'lord. If it grows, you're a bloody miracle." Vaegon mounted, cloak heavy, Ser Barristan at his side. "Trouble's coming," he said to the Kingsguard. "Be ready." They rode back, the field a dark promise behind them.