Chapter 13: Garden Of Fortune

Red Keep, Small Council Chamber – Morning

The pale morning sun filtered through the high windows of the Small Council chamber, casting warm light upon the polished stone floor and the long table of carved oak. At its head sat King Viserys Targaryen, a touch of color returning to his cheeks, his posture more upright than it had been in recent days. There was an energy about him—faint, but present—as if he'd clawed his way back from some shadowed brink.

Princess Rhaenyra, ever attentive, moved quietly through the chamber. She placed a goblet of spiced wine by her father's hand with a dutiful nod, then turned to serve the others without drawing attention to herself.

The doors groaned open as Ser Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, entered with measured steps. His expression was grim, lips thin and eyes burdened with unease. As he claimed his seat, a hush fell naturally upon the room.

He cleared his throat.

"Before we attend to the matters of state, Your Grace," Otto began, voice edged with discomfort, "there is a matter which demands your awareness."

Viserys's brows furrowed slightly. He did not look surprised—only weary.

"Go on, Lord Hand," he said, already bracing for disappointment. "Let us hear the tale."

Otto hesitated for a heartbeat before continuing, each word carefully chosen.

"Last night, Prince Daemon arranged for the exclusive use of a certain establishment on the Street of Silk."

Viserys blinked. "For what reason?"

"To host a gathering," Otto replied evenly. "A celebration, it seems, for the officers of the City Watch and his... companions."

He paused again. The air in the chamber seemed to thicken.

"During the revelry, he raised a toast to your late son. He called him... 'The Heir for a Day.'"

A murmur of disbelief rippled through the council. Lord Lyman Beesbury let out a soft gasp. "By the Seven…"

The aging Lord reached for his goblet with a shaking hand, as if the wine might soothe the shock of what he'd just heard.

Otto continued, his tone unwavering. "I confirmed the account through three independent sources. The mood was festive, unrepentant. This was no whisper passed in shadow—it was a deliberate affront. A mockery, in the guise of merriment."

Across the table, Rhaenyra's expression faltered. A shadow of hurt crossed her face as she glanced at her father, unsure of what she might see there. The council had fallen into an unnatural silence. Lord Lyonel Strong watched the king closely, while Grand Maester Mellos and Lord Beesbury avoided his gaze entirely.

Viserys sat motionless, his features unreadable. It was as though he had receded into some far-off memory, somewhere unreachable. His eyes were fixed not on Otto, nor any one man, but on some invisible point beyond them all.

The stillness held for a breath... then another.

And then, without warning, the king's hand lashed out with violent force. The goblet of wine Rhaenyra had so carefully placed before him flew from the table, shattering against the floor in a burst of crimson and shards. The crash echoed through the chamber like a thunderclap.

Rhaenyra flinched. Beesbury jumped. Only Otto did not move.

The message was clear—even if the king had yet to speak.

---

Driftmark, High Tide Castle - day

High Tide Castle stood serene under the morning sun, waves lapping gently against its barnacled base. But within its stone walls, in a private chamber reinforced with both noble taste and hidden enchantments, the newly titled Lord of Driftmark sat alone before a shimmering, translucent screen—his Minecraft Player Interface.

Vaeron Velaryon had spent the whole night in newly dugged underground mine mining for minerals. He opens inventory and see's his gains 

[System Prompt – Inventory Update]

+64 Cobblestone (Full Stack x12)

+64 Coal (Full Stack x5)

+64 Iron Ore 

Ok now I have to Smelt these Iron Ore into Iron Ingot. Let go to underground mine there I can make smelting Room specially for this type of work.

In underground mine 

Let make it 10×10×4 block room, ( note 1 block is 1 cubic metre in size )

ok it's done now let's make 10 Furnace it will make it faster for smelting the ores.

---

He glanced at the chests filled with cobblestone, iron, and coal. 

[Iron ingot Acquired]

[New Recipes Unlocked: Iron tools ]

"Strength makes enemies. Wealth builds kingdoms," he murmured to himself. "A throne is nothing without the grain that feeds it."

He stood and moved to the balcony, the salty wind teasing strands of his silver-blonde hair. Below, the ocean spread like a jeweled sheet, endless and deep.

A thought struck him—sharp, instinctive. Why claim the limited surface when the sea gave him infinite depth?

And then, the idea struck.

Underwater the sea.

Deep below the waves, where light barely reached. Hidden from view. A farming complex, self-sustaining, invisible from the surface. Sealed in cobblestone. Rows of wheat, carrots, potatoes and many more things one day. A place to grow wealth where no ne can find it.

It sounded crazy.

It was perfect.

It's name will be Garden Of Fortune

---

He grinned. "Good. Let's begin."

The first step was scouting.

He crafted a boat from birch planks and set off down the sea, letting it carry him into an open sea. The water sparkled beneath the sun, but when he leaned over the edge and peered down…

Yes.

The seabed dropped into a basin — deep and wide. Sand and gravel lined the bottom. Kelp swayed like underwater grass. Shoals of fish glided lazily through the depths. The perfect spot.

But he couldn't build underwater yet — not without a materials.

He needed too many cobblestone for building, Buckets for draining water. 

Seeing sands he got idea a very profitable business idea, I can make glass using sand without using single coin and sell it to get many coins.

oohoo it's genius 🤑

He returned to shore and began to dig sand, filling stacks of it into his inventory.

> [New Recipe Unlocked: Glass]

He smirked.

Back at the smelting Room, he crafted 10 more furnaces and began smelting the sand into glass blocks, loading coal as fuel. It would take a while.

Meanwhile, he crafted shovels, and more chests to hold the materials for his project.

---

Next, he needed iron.

Iron for buckets. For armor. For underwater digging.

That he already have full 64 ingot 

He takes out it from furnace immediately.

With three ingots, he made his first bucket. Then another.

With water scooped into them, he returned to the sea and began a rough test: building a narrow cobblestone column down.

This would be the foundation method. He'd build from the top down.

---

Night fell again.

But now, the furnace fires burned all night long — turning sand into glass

He marked a spot in the center of the seabed. Set a chest nearby on a floating platform. And he began building downward — one cobblestone block at a time.

It was slow. Boring. Sometimes this long 

Patience nearly pushed him off his limit. Once, he completed one column and had to scramble for the surface, relaxing. 

But it was working.

A cobblestone tunnel began to form, piercing into the seabed like a stone dagger.

---

The Red Keep, Throne Room – Night

The tall doors groaned open, iron hinges echoing through the vast emptiness of the hall. Prince Daemon Targaryen stepped into the throne room with the grace of a predator, clad in black and crimson—Targaryen colors that clung to him like fire and shadow. At his hip, the legendary Valyrian blade Dark Sister glinted beneath the torchlight. His hauberk was travel-worn, yet regal, worn like a second skin.

At the far end of the chamber, seated high upon the Iron Throne, was King Viserys I Targaryen. His eyes bore into his younger brother as if they could pierce his very soul. He, too, was draped in the colors of their House, though his robes shimmered with the richer blacks and deeper reds of royal power. Gripped in his hand was Blackfyre, the ancestral blade of kings, its dark, rippling metal reflecting the flicker of flames. It was unsheathed, its tip resting between his feet—an unspoken warning made flesh.

Three white-cloaked knights of the Kingsguard stood guard at the foot of the throne. Lord Commander Ryam Redwyne, flanked by Ser Harrold Westerling and another sworn brother, all watched Daemon with wary eyes and ready hands.

Daemon smirked as he strode closer, his voice casual.

"Changed your mind, have you, brother? Ready at last to chase glory and conquest?"

Viserys's tone was cold steel.

"Did you say it?"

Daemon slowed, his smile fading. "Say what?"

"You will speak to me with respect," the king snapped. "Call me 'Your Grace'—or I'll have your tongue cut from your mouth."

Daemon halted. The fury in Viserys's voice gave him pause. There was nothing brotherly in it—only wrath and betrayal.

"The Heir for a Day," Viserys said, voice low but sharp as Valyrian steel. "Did those words come from your mouth?"

A shadow crossed Daemon's face. He drew in a breath and released it slowly, realizing that someone—Otto, no doubt—had tattled.

"We all grieve in our own way," Daemon said, carefully.

Viserys surged to his feet, fury etched across his face.

"My family lies in ruin! My wife—my son—dead! And where were you? Not at my side. Not at Rhaenyra's. You were out cavorting with whores and cutthroats, celebrating as if it were your coronation day!"

Daemon met his brother's gaze with cold defiance, his voice flat.

"You've never wanted me near you. Not at court. Not as your Hand. You'd sooner send me off to the Vale or bury me in the Gold Cloaks than let me stand beside you."

"And why wouldn't I?" Viserys shouted. "Tell me why! Why would I ever entrust you with such a burden?"

"Because I'm your blood," Daemon replied. "Because the dragon runs in my veins, same as it does in yours."

Viserys stared down at him, chest heaving.

"And yet you wound me at every turn."

"I've only ever spoken the truth," Daemon said, voice quieter now. "And I see Otto Hightower for what he truly is."

The king sneered. "A loyal and steady Hand?"

Daemon's lip curled. "A leech. A second son desperate to claim what he could never earn."

Viserys stepped down from the throne's dais, fury etched into every line of his face.

"Otto Hightower is worth ten of you."

"He doesn't protect you," Daemon said, eyes hard. "But I would."

The king laughed bitterly. "Protect me? From what?"

Daemon stepped forward, voice lowering with menace.

"From yourself."

The silence was thunderous.

"You're weak, Viserys. And the men around you know it. Your council is a nest of vipers fattening themselves on your indecision. They drain you, bit by bit, and you do nothing."

That struck true. Viserys's jaw clenched as he straightened his spine, gripping Blackfyre tighter. He raised his chin, voice steady.

"I have made a decision. A new heir will be named."

Daemon froze. His expression cracked for the first time, disbelief flashing across his features.

"I am your heir."

"Not anymore."

Daemon looked as though he had been struck. There was no jest in his brother's eyes—only cold finality.

"You are to return to Runestone. At once. You will resume your duties there with your wife—and you will do so without defiance. That is the command of your king."

The air in the throne room turned heavy with unspoken rage. Daemon didn't speak. He merely took a slow step toward the dais.

All three Kingsguard knights stepped forward, hands on hilts. Their blades rang out in warning, drawn as one. The message was clear—he would not reach the throne without blood.

For a moment, Daemon seemed to consider it. He was reckless enough. Bold enough. But not foolish. He raised his hands in surrender, head inclining ever so slightly.

"…Your Grace."

With that, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the chamber, the echo of his boots vanishing into the night.

When the doors shut behind him, Viserys let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He stood slowly, feeling the full weight of the crown pressing down on him.

As he rose, his hand caught on the sharp edge of the Iron Throne. He winced. A drop of crimson welled up on his little finger.

The Iron Throne had drawn blood again.

---

To be continued...