The rain was relentless. Sheets of cold water hamred the hills, turning the dirt path into a ragged river of mud.
At the base of the mountain, Daeron spotted movent — a lone man struggling up the slope.
Even through the downpour, he recognized the silver armor and white cloak.
"Ser Jon!" he called.
The knight froze mid-step, head jerking upward. Rain stread down his face as he squinted, raising a trembling hand to clear his vision. "Your Grace…! I've found you."
His voice quivered, his body shivering as much from exhaustion as from cold.
Daeron stood on the higher ground, watching the knight's unsteady approach. Sothing was off. Delivering a letter shouldn't have left him this broken.
"Ser Jon," Daeron said carefully, "did soone send you to ?"
"Lord Tywin," Jon said between ragged breaths, every word punctuated by the splatter of rain.
He looked half-dead — soaked, pale, and shaking. He must have been wandering for hours trying to find the farm.
Daeron climbed down and caught the reins of the two horses he was dragging. "Co with ," he said, voice firm but kind. "You'll catch your death out here."
Jon didn't protest. Almost dazed, he followed.
The protected boundary of Dragon-Tongue Farm recognized its master's intent instantly; the illusion-like wards faded, and the muddy trail reappeared as a normal path.
Once they reached the farm, Daeron tied the horses under the trees and half-guided, half-carried the drenched knight into the warmth of the cabin.
Jon was burning with fever despite the chill, his lips colorless.
"Easy, Ser Jon," Daeron murmured, helping him shrug free of the soaked armor until it clanged to the floor. He settled him before the roaring fireplace, then draped a towel around his shoulders.
Fate, it seed, had blessed him with another perfect mont.
He'd expected the returned ssenger to reveal which of his two letters had reached its target first — his father Aerys, or his teacher Tywin. That alone would show him which way Ser Jon's loyalty leaned.
Now he had his answer.
"Tywin," Jon had said.
Daeron didn't hesitate. He'd bring this man in. The knight had chosen him.
Jon, swaying dizzily, reached inside his damp tunic and produced a letter. "From Lord Tywin… for you."
Daeron took it calmly — and without a blink, tore it clean in half.
Then fed both pieces into the flas.
"My prince—!" Jon cried, alard.
Daeron placed a hand on his shoulder. "Ser Jon," he said softly, "you're a White Knight of the Kingsguard — not a courier between and my teacher."
The words cut through the fatigue like steel.
Jon fell silent, stunned, unsure what to say.
While the knight sat speechless, Daeron crouched beside the hearth, pushed aside a few glowing coals, and buried a silver-star potato in the ashes.
He didn't need Tywin's letter to know what it contained — promises of power, titles, and influence. The sa bait dangled before every ambitious man.
But Daeron knew Tywin's true motive — the sa as always: to build his own throne through soone else's crown.
He doesn't want independent. He wants tied to his leash, a polished, obedient prince to rival Rhaegar — useful and controllable.
Daeron smirked faintly. Too bad for him.
The potato's scent filled the cabin, rich and buttery as the skin blistered and cracked open.
Jon stared, throat bobbing. He'd been riding and wandering all night — hungry, drenched, half-delirious.
"Eat," Daeron said, pulling the potato from the ashes barehanded and offering it to him.
Jon's fingers brushed it — then dropped it reflexively with a hiss. "Ah! It's burning—"
Daeron chuckled, amused at the man's alarm. He picked it up again with ease, brushing away the soot.
Jon blinked, suddenly rembering — the blood of the dragon. The Targaryens did not fear fire.
"Still hot," Daeron warned gently. "Take it slowly."
Jon accepted it again, more carefully this ti, whispering a soft thanks before eating ravenously.
Warmth slowly returned to his hands and cheeks. The al, enhanced by the crop's subtle life energy, drew the cold from his bones.
After a few minutes, Daeron asked casually, "So. Tell — how fare things in King's Landing?"
Jon paused between bites, then began recounting everything he knew.
Aerys's delight. Tywin's fury. The bitter words exchanged in the throne room.
Daeron listened quietly, nodding, piecing together details. Every thread matched what he'd expected:
- The King now wanted to fund a castle in his honor — proof of his "beloved son's greatness."
- The Hand, anwhile, seethed with plans to pull him back to the capital, to keep him under control.
Two powers, both pulling in opposite directions — each trying to claim him as their banner.
"The great Tywin Lannister," Daeron murmured thoughtfully, "will make his next move soon… in secret."
His lips curved in a small, knowing smile.
"He'll pretend to care, of course — plotting to 'protect' , to give comfort and counsel. But really… he'll just want to keep where he can watch ."
Jon frowned, thoughtful, then asked quietly, "If the Hand acts against you, should we seek the King's aid?"
The question was cautious, but clear.
Daeron studied him for a mont, recognizing what lay beneath — a shift. Disillusionnt.
Jon had served mad kings and cold princes all his life. The deranged vanity of Aerys II, Rhaegar's distant indifference… both had left scars.
Now, kneeling before him, Daeron saw a man who had finally found soone he believed worth protecting.
"It's all right, Ser Jon," Daeron said gently. "I've planned for this from the start."
His tone was calm, assured — almost amused.
"When a wise man ets an obstacle, he doesn't fight it head-on. He uses it."
A sly grin touched his lips. "If Tywin wants in King's Landing, I'll let him bring there. Better a stage than a cage, don't you think?"
Jon stared at him — and for the first ti in months, he believed.
He knelt on one knee, right before the hearth, sopping cloak pooling on the floor.
"My prince," he said quietly, voice firm, "I swore to defend the realm — but more than that, to defend what is right. If you're ever in danger, I'll stand between you and the sword. On my honor, I will protect you."
Daeron's expression softened.
He took one of the swords leaning by the door — Jon's own longsword — unsheathed it, and placed it gently on the man's shoulder. The firelight glead along the blade, warm and golden.
"Ser Jonothor Darry," he said solemnly, "by the Seven, I swear that my hearth shall always have a place for you."
The knight bowed his head, humbled.
Outside, the rain kept pouring, washing the hill clean.
Inside, beside the crackling fire and the scent of roasted potatoes, a silent pact was forged — not of gold or command, but of trust.
And the blaze of that small hearth burned brighter than the Iron Throne itself.
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