Territory

Dragon's Roost had been granted to him by the king several months ago.

Now, the territory still looked newly established.

On this gentle slope near a tributary of Blackwater Bay, blue-gray stones quarried from the riverbank lay scattered in untidy piles, while freshly cut timber gave off the scent of pine resin and damp earth.

Temporary workshops and tents were scattered across the cleared ground.

Not far away, the trenches for the planned castle's foundations had only just begun to take shape.

But at that moment, it was not the construction work that drew every eye.

It was the more than five hundred figures lined up in neat rows on the trampled, packed earth in the middle of the clearing.

They were all young, most between ten and fifteen years old, dressed in matching dark gray hemp tunics and trousers. Though coarse, their clothes were clean and orderly.

The boys' faces varied. Some had the light brown hair and gray-blue eyes common among the people of the Crownlands; others had black or brown hair. But without exception, the bewilderment or wildness of their days as wanderers had faded from their eyes.

In its place was a tense expression, as if they were striving to look resolute.

They stood straight. Even those whose backs had begun to stoop from years of malnutrition now strained to straighten them.

Their formation was not perfectly neat, but it was clear they had been drilled.

Aemond Targaryen stood on a slightly raised mound a short distance in front of them.

He was dressed simply today, in a black leather tunic without any ornamentation. His silver-gold hair was tied back, almost indistinguishable in the slanting afternoon light.

Yet the most striking sight was not the prince himself, but the creature perched calmly on his left shoulder.

Lothron.

Though the little dragon had hatched only a few months ago, he had already grown from the size of a hunting dog to that of a somewhat larger wolfhound.

His scales were an intense black.

His eyes were dark red, with vertical pupils ringed in gold. Now they turned with curiosity as he studied the hundreds of upturned faces below.

His powerful hind legs gripped Aemond's shoulder securely, while his long, strong tail hung down behind him.

Even more astonishing was the affection between him and Aemond.

The little dragon occasionally turned his head and brushed his cool, finely scaled snout against Aemond's ear or cheek, making a faint, nasal chittering sound.

Aemond remained composed, sometimes raising a hand to scratch between the fine scales beneath Lothron's jaw or along his neck. The dragon would half-close his dark red eyes in pleasure and purr contentedly.

At that moment, Aemond took a small piece of dried meat from the pouch at his waist and offered it to the dragon on his shoulder.

Lothron snatched it with perfect aim. His sharp, still-small teeth tore the meat into pieces in a few bites, and he swallowed it before licking the bits of meat still clinging to Aemond's fingers.

Aemond thought that from time to time he would also have to feed Lothron his blood, so the little dragon would grow faster.

The incredible sight of their closeness left many of the boys staring, their eyes filled with awe, wonder, and a hint of yearning they could not quite name.

Aemond's gaze swept slowly over the formation.

He said nothing. He simply watched.

His gaze was calm, weighing the bones and resolve hidden beneath each body.

Every boy his eyes passed straightened his chest a little more and raised his chin a little higher.

At that moment, the instructors standing at the front corner of the formation—the knights from House Hightower—drew a sharp breath and roared in a loud, rough voice:

"Swear your oaths!"

The voices of more than five hundred boys were uneven at first, but quickly gathered into a single current—still youthful, yet extraordinarily resolute—that rang through the chilly early-spring air and over the unfinished territory like an oath:

"I... pledge my loyalty to my lord, Aemond!"

"Love what he loves! Hate what he hates!"

The boys' faces flushed faintly with the effort, but their eyes remained fixed on the silver-haired prince on the mound, and on the legendary black dragon perched on his shoulder.

"He has treated me well since I gave myself into his service!"

"May he grant me what I deserve!"

"Then every word I speak! Every move I make!"

"Shall be guided by his will!"

The final words were almost shouted:

"I SHALL NEVER DISOBEY!!!"

The echoes drifted away across the open territory.

Aemond was satisfied and gave a nod.

At his signal, the instructors shouted again, "Dismissed! Time to eat!"

The tense atmosphere abruptly relaxed. The boys kept their formation as they turned in an orderly fashion and headed toward the temporary mess hall nearby, where smoke curled into the air and the smell of food drifted over.

There were large pots of barley porridge simmering on stone stoves, baskets piled high with white bread, and cooked meat.

The boys walked quickly, their young bodies' hunger for food overcoming everything else. But they still kept order. No one shoved; there were only hurried steps and hushed conversations.

Some of them still glanced now and then toward the prince on the mound.

Aemond walked down the mound. Lothron adjusted his claws with the movement and held on securely.

"Well, well. Truly impressive, my nephew."

A voice filled with amusement came from the side.

Garvin Hightower approached at an easy pace.

He was in his twenties, with the brown hair and tall, straight build characteristic of House Hightower. Handsome, he was Otto's son.

Garvin's features bore some resemblance to those of his sister, Queen Alicent, but his manner was more relaxed.

He wore light blue armor suited for movement, with a well-made, simply styled leather surcoat bearing his house's sigil over it.

His gaze first settled on Lothron, perched on Aemond's shoulder, full of undisguised interest and amazement.

"So this is the black dragon? Lothron?"

He reached out, tentatively trying to touch the little dragon's smooth head.

"Hiss! Grr!"

Lothron reacted as swiftly as lightning. His small head snapped toward Garvin, his dark red pupils narrowing to pinpoints.

The scales that had been resting flat lifted slightly. He bared his long, sharp teeth, and a threatening growl rose from his throat as a faintly warm gust tinged with sulfur gathered in his chest.

Garvin jumped, quickly pulling his hand back. A trace of embarrassment and lingering alarm crossed his face. "What a fierce temper!"

Aemond raised a hand and gently pressed it to Lothron's neck. "Calm down," he said softly in Valyrian.

The little black dragon's raised scales slowly settled, but his dark red eyes still watched Garvin warningly, and his tail flicked uneasily.

"He doesn't accept anyone else," Aemond said, turning to Garvin in a calm voice. "And he's not a pet, uncle."

"Yes, yes. I understand." Garvin rubbed his nose and wisely gave up on trying to pet Lothron.

He turned his attention to the boys lining up in an orderly fashion for their meal.

"Honestly, Aemond, I've been watching for the past few days, and your way of training them... it's unusual."

"My eyes have truly been opened." He gestured toward the boys, whose matching clothes did nothing to disguise their varied heights and builds. "You picked these... orphans? Street children? from all over the Crownlands, even from Flea Bottom."

"And all it takes is a daily oath? Drills? Literacy lessons?"

"And those so-called... formation and discipline exercises?"

"They haven't even started properly learning to use spears and swords."

"They're learning something more important." Aemond watched the boys crouched on the ground, holding wooden bowls and wolfing down their food.

"Loyalty, order, a sense of belonging."

"Resolve is important, of course." Garvin came to stand beside Aemond, looking at the orphans with him.

"But why not choose adults? Hire sellswords, or recruit freefolk from the territory?"

"They have experience and strength. They'd be ready to fight much sooner."

"These orphans, on the other hand... it'll be at least two or three years before they're useful."

Aemond turned slightly to look at his uncle.

"Adults have ties," he said slowly.

"Their minds are too scattered. They have too many desires."

His gaze returned to the boys, who were focused on their meals, though they occasionally stole a glance at him.

"They have no parents and no ties."

"Their pasts are blank, or filled with suffering."

"I give them enough to eat, clothes to wear, a place to stop wandering, and hope for the future."

Aemond paused.

"And only people with no ties, no attachments at all, can follow me..."

As Garvin listened, the easy smile gradually faded from his face. He studied Aemond's calm profile closely. "The way you think... you always manage to surprise me, Aemond."

"Father was right. You're more than your brother—"

He stopped himself and changed the subject. "So, what about Dragon's Roost?"

"How do you intend to build it? Over two hundred thousand Gold Dragons is no small sum."

"The plan?" Aemond gazed at the foundation trenches just beginning to take shape in the distance and replied in an even voice. "Build slowly. Carefully. Well. With a plan, and with caution."

Garvin stared at him for a moment. "That's it? You're not in a hurry to raise the walls? This is your territory, your castle."

Aemond did not answer right away.

He raised his hand, and Lothron rubbed his head against his palm before spreading his wings and beating them twice. The little dragon's wings were already powerful, and their membranes gleamed with a healthy, dark sheen in the sunlight.

With a low cry, he sprang from Aemond's shoulder and glided toward a nearby pile of timber.

"However sturdy a castle may be," Aemond said, watching where the dragon landed, "if its master leaves, or is no longer allowed to keep it, then the territory is nothing more than a wedding dress made for someone else."

Garvin did not understand what Aemond meant and felt a little confused.

Aemond knew that all he needed was to raise a core force that belonged to him alone, one he could take with him whenever he wished.

As for the territory, the furious king might well take it back after everything Aemond had done.

"As for the stone, timber, craftsmen, and laborers," Aemond continued, "we only need to make a show of it."

Garvin nodded, then said, "The woman you asked me to arrange things for, Terra, and the people under her have been working with that group of ratcatchers. They've almost mapped out the winding passageways beneath the Red Keep."

At that, Aemond asked, "Have they mapped them all?"

"More or less. They've confirmed the most important routes, including the ones leading to Maegor's Hold and the area near the king's study."

"They've even figured out the hidden passages leading outside."

As Garvin spoke, he noticed the murderous look in Aemond's eyes. His heart stirred. "You mean...?"

Aemond looked at him.

"The fewer people who know a secret," he said slowly, "the better it remains a secret."

He raised his right hand, extended his index finger, and drew it lightly across his throat.

The gesture was sharp and decisive, without the slightest hesitation.

Garvin understood Aemond's concerns. Those passageways posed a threat to anyone living in the Red Keep.

The ratcatchers knew routes they had no business knowing. Their very existence was a liability.

He needed to make sure those passages remained in the hands of his own people alone.

"...Indeed." Garvin nodded slowly, his usual cool, somewhat distant composure returning.

"These men are commoners to begin with, and not particularly honest. If they disappear, it won't draw much attention. I'll see to it."