Duskendale's walls loomed in the fading light, the sea wind sharp as we rolled in, and carts creaking behind us.
At the gate, Denys Darklyn waited, his dark cloak rippling and his face is set like stone. Aelthys stayed back with the men—I'd told him to.
Gyles stood firm at my side as I swung off my horse, my legs were shaky but holding.
Denys stepped forward, his deep voice cutting through the wind. "My prince. Your grain from Rosby has fed a hundred mouths. For that i'm grateful. Now, please tell me about these fields you speak of."
I met his gaze, the orb at my hip pulsing warm. "Rosby is proof that my method works," I said plainly. "Two hundred acres—they are safe and growing. I've got the seed and the men. So give me fifty acres here, we will stop the hunger and you get to keep Duskendale strong."
He folded his arms. "I've heard," he said gruffly.
"Rosby's real—I saw the sacks and smelled the grain. But this land's dead—The salt's deep in here and raiders strip what's left. Fifty acres sounds nice, but it's a gamble, I'm not sure it'll grow."
The orb pulsed, it's heat sharp in my ribs. I shifted my weight trying to hide the wince. "It's no gamble," I said firmly. "The conditions at Rosby were far more dire—raiders were abundant, and the soil was worse than here . Yet we managed to transform it into something fruitful. Here, the rye will take root; grant me this land, and I assure you, I will demonstrate its potential."
Denys rubbed his chin, eyes flicking from the carts back to me . "Could be, my lord. But I hear talk of traders and guards. Prince Aerys says you've got a shadow. Aelthys, as they call him. Should I worry?"
My jaw clenched as the orb flared. "Aerys is all words; that is his sole contribution," I said, voice low. "Meanwhile, I bear the weight of our reality. The grain we possess is real and Aelthys is my sword—nothing more, nothing less"
The wind tugged at his cloak as he stepped closer, boots grinding stone. "Famine is indeed real," he muttered. "Your grain has provided me with a temporary reprieve—sustaining the smallfolk and staving off unrest. For that, I am grateful. Fine. Fifty acres then, east of the cliffs. Plant it and Make it grow. But I'm afraid, if your shadow is trouble, or you falter, I pull back."
"It won't," I said, steady but sharp, keeping my shaking hand hidden beneath my cloak. "Rest assured, the fields shall remain secure under Aelthys's watch. Just today, he successfully warded off raiders. You'll see his efficiency."
Denys held my gaze a moment longer, then nodded. "As you say, my prince. You can tell your men to start." With that, he invited me toward the fort.
Dawn Over Duskendale
The first light crept slow over the eastern fields, a pale glow bleeding through gray clouds, casting dim light over fifty acres of cracked, salt-bitten soil.
The sea wind knifed in off the cliffs, tugging at my cloak, thick with the briny tang of the coast. The air was cool, it was heavy with hope.
I stood at the field's edge, boots firm on uneven ground, silver-gold hair catching the dawn as I pushed it back. The orb at my belt pulsed warm, steady against my hip, its rhythm matching the dull ache in my bandaged wrist.
My breath fogged in the chill, chest tight from the ride, but I stood straight. Royalty didn't break. Not here.
Before me stood twenty farmers—ten from Rosby, sun-browned and wiry, their hands shaped by two hundred acres of rye; and ten from Duskendale, leaner, salt-hardened, their eyes were wary but sharp. Gyles had summoned the Rosby men by my order. Denys had gathered his own, men hungry for bread more than gold and promises.
They clutched hoes and sacks of rye seed, burlap bulging from Rosby's stores, while two carts held plows, iron blades dulled but ready.
Gyles stood at my side, his scarred face set, his tunic glistening with morning dew. Fifty paces away, Aelthys lingered—a dark shape against the scrubland, his amber eyes scanning the horizons as if anticipating trouble. Raiders were his concern, not mine.
I raised my voice, rough but clear, letting it cut through the wind. "You're here for these fifty acres," I said, slow, deliberate, my gaze sweeping over them.
"Rosby's two hundred stand tall—rye rooted in rock and grown through blood. It is those fields that feed our realm. And you did that—your hands stacked it and your sweat saved it. Now Duskendale needs the same. Famine is clawing, the children are hungry while salt threatens our very livelihood."
I let the words settle before pressing on. "I'm Vaegon Targaryen—a prince, not a plowman. But you're my hands today. While fifty acres is small compared to Rosby, but it's still vital. This grows, or we starve."
I pointed to the field, the orb pulsing, my hand steady despite the pain. "We'll start with plowing—deeply and evenly. The salt has accumulated thickly; our rye requires both air and space to thrive. Rosby men, You are familiar with the rhythm of this land—let us proceed from east to west in straight lines. "
"As for Duskendale men, you shall follow closely behind with your hoes—break up what remains in the soil, rendering it light and loose. "
I paused briefly, meeting their gazes firmly. "Next comes the seeding—a delicate matter indeed. We must scatter thinly; two handfuls per pace will suffice—wastefulness cannot be tolerated. Covering shall be done shallowly; let not your hoes dig but rather drag across the surface. In but a week's time, we shall witness roots taking hold."
"The weather appears favorable," I continued, gauging their reactions carefully as I spoke. "And rest assured, raiders will not disturb our efforts here—Aelthys sees to that protection."
My eyes lingered on Rosby's men who stood tall with confidence; then I turned towards Duskendale's men with uncertain faces.
"I have brought you grain," I asserted firmly, my voice unwavering. "My word carries weight; lords will be observing our progress closely, and the realm holds its breath in anticipation. Therefore, I implore you—dig deep into this soil, plant those seeds with care, and hold fast against any adversities that may arise."
"Prove yourselves as farmers—the finest in all of the Crownlands."
I stepped back, the orb's heat rising. I gave a nod to Gyles.
"Move!" His voice rang sharp.
The farmers stirred. Their plows scraped and Hoes thudded.
Slow and rhythmic.
I watched, steady. The prince's burden was heavier than the plow.