"Strawberry Town, Apple Market, Mushroom Hamlet, Tengshi Town, Stone Hall Town."
Lord Corlton stared at the task list in his hands until his eyes blurred. The scale felt insane.
Of the five towns, Tengshi and Stone Hall had been wrecked during the rebellion—Stone Hall especially, now little more than a half-ruined graveyard. Only Strawberry Town had a head start; its predecessor, the Strawberry Market, already sat on the north bank of the Blackwater. The other two towns were names he'd never heard.
"We're building three of these from scratch?" Corlton asked, already feeling a headache coming on.
"Prince, you also intend to relocate people out of King's Landing?" Lord Staunton looked even worse. His hands shook as he read the orders.
"Correct," Daeron said, treating the three lords like draft horses. "I'm launching a program to complete the five towns around King's Landing. We'll move the city's excess population out, settle them in the new towns, and put them to work clearing wasteland, raising livestock, expanding forestry, fishing, beekeeping, honey production—everything."
Otherwise, with half a million unruly smallfolk crammed inside the walls, no amount of new public toilets or clean wells would keep the city sanitary. Disease was a real threat—even Targaryens who never caught a cold could die from it. The realm still called every epidemic "the Great Spring Sickness" or "the Great Winter Chill," mistaking plague for bad weather.
King's Landing was also dangerously overcrowded. If Daeron didn't clear some of the troublemakers out, he wouldn't sleep easy. Better to follow the obvious solution: build five crown-controlled towns to spread the population, make them easier to govern, and open new revenue streams for the treasury.
"Prince… this will cost a fortune!" Corlton protested.
Daeron raised an eyebrow. "I just sacked Tyrosh and brought back millions of gold dragons. Is that not enough for you?"
Corlton shut his mouth.
Lord Staunton wiped cold sweat from his forehead, voice trembling. "Prince… you plan to remove two-fifths of King's Landing's population?"
"Why not?" Daeron asked, perfectly reasonable.
The city held roughly five hundred thousand permanent residents. In the past year alone, thirty thousand had quietly slipped away to the prince's fief. That left about one hundred seventy thousand. The five new towns could easily absorb them and turn troublemakers into productive subjects—clearing land, raising animals, developing the vast tracts of unused royal territory.
"The Iron Throne must centralize power. We cannot rely forever on noble taxes," Daeron said. "A strong crown needs its own hard base."
The Seven Kingdoms had huge stretches of unclaimed land. They had never been developed because the soil was poor or they sat in the buffer zones between regions. Once the crown absorbed the Riverlands and Stormlands, those disputes vanished. Touch royal land and the crown would skin you alive.
Those empty lands had to be opened now—turned into sustainable farmland that could feed loyal smallfolk.
It wasn't just about filling the treasury. Daeron had dragons to feed. The daily cost of livestock and grain for three growing beasts would be enormous, and he intended to buy or tax it from the people.
"Five hundred thousand down to three hundred thousand in five years?" Staunton looked like he might faint. His forced smile had gone completely unhinged.
This was a death sentence.
He was already called "the Shit-and-Piss Lord" for forcing the smallfolk to use public toilets. He couldn't walk the streets without fearing a chamber pot dumped on his head. Moving another two hundred thousand people would get him torn apart by the mob.
"Prince… could we perhaps ease the numbers a little?" Staunton begged.
Daeron's answer was flat. "No."
Staunton's face went white. He looked ready to collapse.
Daeron felt zero sympathy. In his mind he laughed coldly.
You think you stayed on the Small Council because of your waffling loyalty? You're here so I can use you as a shield, a workhorse, and a scapegoat when needed. What else are you good for? Your old-man smell? Your bad breath? Your habit of playing both sides?
Daeron turned to the only man actually studying the list—Mace Tyrell—and his tone softened. "Lord Mace, your task is the heaviest. You will coordinate the timeline, repair and build the five towns, and work with the other two lords to move the population and get them settled."
Mace straightened at once. "No problem, Prince."
He could see the workload was brutal—building houses, constructing towns, digging irrigation, clearing fields in advance so the new arrivals could plant and eat immediately.
"Well done," Daeron praised without hesitation.
Corlton and Staunton stared at him in silent outrage.
Your task is the heaviest, my ass!
Want to trade?
They would rather spend the mountain of gold from Tyrosh building houses than stay in King's Landing trying to sweet-talk half a million angry smallfolk into leaving.
Daeron ignored them and continued, "I know what you're thinking. The real goal of this plan is to lay a solid foundation for the crown. Five towns will guard King's Landing, provide reliable logistics, and restore the city's environment. At the same time, when settling the smallfolk, I want to give them security and a real stake in the towns we build."
"I don't expect gratitude or immediate returns. I only want to follow the wishes of my ancestors and great-grandfather: make the Seven Kingdoms peaceful and prosperous, entering a golden age—without letting anyone freeze or starve. That alone is a worthy mark."
The Small Council fell completely silent.
No one freezing or starving?
Every winter and spring in King's Landing, dozens died in the streets from cold or hunger, or turned to riots. In nearly three hundred years of Targaryen rule, only Viserys I's reign had come close to that ideal. Even Jaehaerys the Conciliator hadn't managed it. Only the "Young King" Viserys, inheriting a wealthy realm from his grandfather, had kept the smallfolk fed and safe.
Corlton's cheek twitched. He finally understood the scale of Daeron's ambition. "Prince… carrying out this plan will indeed cost a staggering amount."
Repairing and building the five towns was manageable. Moving the population was mostly trouble. The real fortune would be spent on tools, oxen, horses, daily food, and all the other expenses of turning wasteland into productive farms for one hundred seventy thousand people.
Even if the towns eventually generated huge revenue, it would take a hundred to two hundred years to recoup the investment.
It was pure deficit spending.
Daeron knew it perfectly well. He smiled calmly. "Lord Corlton, do you know why the hearts of the people matter more than any gold we could loot?"
The strongest knight still needed squires and soldiers. And soldiers came from the smallfolk, not noble houses.
Now that the crown was absorbing the Riverlands and Stormlands, governance would become far more complex. The old noble-tax system had to change.
Scattering five royal towns across the Crownlands, Riverlands, and Reach was how Daeron would win the smallfolk's loyalty. They would see the crown's benevolence with their own eyes.
Jaehaerys the Conciliator had borrowed from the Iron Bank to build the Kingsroad and bind the realm together. Daeron had the gold from Tyrosh. He would use it to build five towns, guard King's Landing, expand the army's recruiting base, and free the Iron Throne from noble interference.
"Whoever can keep the smallfolk content will never lack for soldiers."
That was Daeron's conclusion for this era.
"Very well," Corlton said, finally convinced by the prince's confidence. "I will work with the other lords and carry out your plan to the letter."
"I will as well," Mace said, raising his hand.
Truthfully, many lords had dreamed of moving King's Landing's excess population elsewhere. The problem was always cost versus return—and the risk of riots. It was thankless work.
But Daeron was generous with money, had dragons, had an army, and had unmatched prestige. He could actually make the smallfolk obey.
"The smallfolk's good days are finally coming," Corlton muttered to himself as he carefully folded the task list and tucked it into his sleeve.
One more note: Daeron had shown the Small Council the wildfire that his father and Rossart had been secretly brewing. The ministers had nearly pissed themselves. They now understood the king's madness and were falling over themselves to please Daeron, hoping to keep their seats.
Daeron would judge them by how well they completed their tasks. The ones who failed would lose their heads.
No discussion.
A few days later, King's Landing received an unexpected visitor.
Red Keep.
Oberyn Martell—the Red Viper—strode down the corridor in bright yellow silks and knocked on his sister Elia's door.
The door swung open. Elia's face lit up with surprised joy. "Oberyn! You're back from the eastern continent?"
"I am," Oberyn said with a gentle smile, pulling her into a quick hug. "My trip opened my eyes to many things."
He added, "The Great Council is being called. Since my brother couldn't come, I'm representing House Martell. I wanted to see you while I'm here."
"The Great Council?" Elia's smile faded, replaced by a flicker of bitterness.
The council's purpose was to strip Rhaegar of his rights as heir. That was not good news for her.
"You already know, Elia," Oberyn said softly, seeing the pain in her eyes but unable to soften the truth. "Rhaegar made mistakes—many mistakes. He ruined a winning hand. House Martell cannot help him anymore."
In all honesty, neither he nor Prince Doran wanted Rhaegar removed. But the world didn't run on wishes.
Rhaegar had lost the people's support. Even if Dorne backed him with everything, they could not defeat a prince who had dragons and military glory.
Given Doran's cautious nature, he would never openly oppose Daeron at a moment like this.
"I know, Oberyn," Elia said, quickly composing herself and offering a small smile. "I'm not upset about his title. I'm just… powerless to change anything, and there's no one I can talk to. It weighs on me."
She wasn't pretending. She could have been queen. Her daughter Rhaenys could have been the royal princess.
But regret changed nothing. Rhaegar had thrown it all away with one foolish decision after another.
This time he wasn't even returning. Doran sending Oberyn instead was the smart play.
They could not win.
At least she had kept her status as Rhaegar's wife. Rhaenys could still grow up in the royal household. That was already more luck than she had expected.
Daeron was not a petty man, and Shaena was kind. She and her daughter were treated well in King's Landing.
She asked for nothing more. If Rhaenys grew up safely, perhaps married to little Jae or Viserys—or even one of Daeron's future sons—that would be perfect.
She had done her duty in the marriage alliance. Raising her daughter well was enough.
Oberyn read his sister's quiet resignation and felt a pang of sorrow, though his face stayed calm. It was exactly this gentle, clear-eyed nature that made her the sister he remembered.
"Where's my niece?" he asked, changing the subject. He peeked into the bedchamber with a grin. "I brought her a gift from across the Narrow Sea. I think the little one will love it."
Rhaenys was two now—running, talking, wearing tiny dresses. At the moment she was on her hands and knees under a long chair, chubby bottom in the air, trying to reach a toy stuck in the gap.
Oberyn presented his gift: a detailed three-masted ship model carved from rare eastern wood. It was said to carry a calming scent that children adored. He had paid a small fortune to a Tyroshi merchant rather than simply taking it. This was for his niece, after all.
Soon the exhausted little girl fell asleep hugging her new toy boat.
Oberyn and Elia chatted casually. From her he learned that the king was under house arrest, that Uncle Lewyn and two white knights were locked in the Red Keep's dungeons.
"Uncle Lewyn only did his duty. He won't be in any real danger," Elia said, ever practical.
Oberyn nodded but stayed silent.
During a lull in the conversation he quietly revealed that Rhaegar had married again in Lys and planned to move his entire household there, founding a Lysene branch of House Targaryen.
"Elia, if you cannot accept it, I can find a way to take you back to Dorne," Oberyn said seriously. "If you want to leave, I will bring you home."