Territory

A few months after the King granted the lands of Dragon's Roost.

The territory still bore the raw look of a fledgling settlement.

On this gentle slope near a tributary of Blackwater Bay, bluish-gray stone quarried from the riverbank lay piled in disorder, and freshly felled timber gave off the mingled scents of pine resin and dampness.

Temporary work sheds and canvas tents were scattered across the cleared ground.

Not far off, the shallow outline of a planned castle foundation trench had just been dug.

But at this moment, none of those earthworks drew every eye.

Instead, it was the five hundred-odd figures standing in neat ranks on the packed dirt in the center of the clearing.

They were all young, most between ten and fifteen, dressed in identical coarse linen tunics and trousers dyed a deep gray—rough but clean and orderly.

These youths had varied features. Some bore the light brown hair and gray-blue eyes common to the Crownlands natives; others had black or brown hair. But without exception, the dazed wildness or feral look of their wandering days had faded from their eyes.

In its place was a taut expression, a strained effort to appear resolute.

They stood straight, though some backs were slightly hunched from long-term malnutrition, now forced as erect as possible.

They formed a square formation—not perfectly aligned, but clearly drilled.

Aemond Targaryen stood on a slightly raised mound of earth not far ahead of them.

He was dressed simply today: a black leather jerkin with no ornamentation, his silver-gold hair pulled tight at the nape of his neck, barely distinct in the slanting afternoon sunlight.

But what drew the most attention at this moment was not the Prince himself, but the creature perched calmly on his left shoulder.

Lothron.

This Young Dragon, only a few months out of the shell, had already grown from the size of a hunting hound to that of a large wolfhound.

His scales were an absolute black.

His eyes were dark red vertical slits, rimmed with a ring of gold, now turning curiously to survey the hundreds of upturned faces below.

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

Even more astonishing was the intimacy between him and Aemond.

The Young Dragon would occasionally tilt his head, brushing his cool, scale-covered snout against Aemond's ear or cheek, letting out a soft, nasal "chirring" sound.

Aemond remained composed, occasionally raising a hand to scratch lightly under the Young Dragon's jaw or between the fine scales on his neck. Lothron would then half-close his dark red dragon eyes in contentment, a satisfied rumble rising from his throat.

At that moment, Aemond took a small piece of dried meat from the leather pouch at his waist and held it up to his shoulder.

Lothron snatched it precisely, his sharp but still-small teeth tearing and swallowing the meat in a few bites, then licked Aemond's fingers, still dusted with meat crumbs, with lingering relish.

Aemond thought to himself that from time to time, he still had to feed Lothron his own blood to speed the Young Dragon's growth.

This unbelievable sight of closeness left many youths in the ranks staring dumbfounded, their eyes a mix of awe, wonder, and a hard-to-define longing.

Aemond's gaze swept slowly across the formation.

He did not speak. He simply watched.

His look was calm, weighing the bones and will hidden beneath each shell.

Every youth his eyes passed over thrust their chests higher and lifted their chins tighter.

Just then, the Instructor—a Knight from House Hightower standing at the side of the formation—drew a deep breath and roared in a loud, gravelly voice:

"Swear!"

Over five hundred voices, at first a little uneven, quickly merged into a torrent—young but exceptionally firm, like an oath—echoing through the early spring air and over the unfinished territory:

"I... pledge fealty to my lord Aemond!"

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

The youths' faces flushed slightly with effort, but their eyes were fixed on the silver-haired Prince on the earthen mound ahead, on the legendary black Young Dragon perched on his shoulder.

"Take me in who submits to him!"

"Grant me what I am due!"

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

"Shall follow his will as my rule!"

The final line was nearly shouted:

"Never to be broken!!!"

The lingering sound faded across the open land.

Aemond was satisfied. He gave a nod.

At the signal, the Instructors barked again: "Dismissed! Meal time!"

The taut atmosphere suddenly relaxed. The youths maintained their formation, turned in order, and headed toward the temporary Mess Hall not far off, where cooking smoke and the scent of food rose.

Several large pots simmered Barley Porridge over stone hearths, and beside them were piled baskets of White Bread and stewed Meat Dishes.

Their steps were quick—the hunger of young bodies overriding everything—but order held. There was no shoving, only hurried paces and low, restrained chatter.

Some of them still occasionally glanced toward the prince's figure on the earthen slope.

Aemond descended from the slope. Lothron adjusted his grip slightly with the movement, claws digging in securely.

"Tsk, tsk, truly impressive, my nephew."

A voice tinged with laughter came from the side.

Garvin Hightower strolled closer.

He was in his twenties, inheriting House Hightower's signature brown hair and tall, straight build, with a handsome face—Otto's son.

Garvin's features bore some resemblance to his sister, Queen Alicent, but his demeanor was more open and relaxed.

He wore a practical dark blue light armor, overlaid with a well-made but simply styled leather jacket bearing his house sigil.

His gaze first fell on Lothron perched on Aemond's shoulder, filled with undisguised interest and awe.

"Is this the black dragon? Lothron?"

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

"Hiss! Caw!"

Lothron's reaction was swift as lightning. The small dragon's head whipped toward Garvin, dark red vertical pupils contracting to pinpricks.

His relaxed scales ruffled slightly, baring slender but sharp teeth, a threatening growl rumbling from his throat as a faint, sulfur-tinged warm breath gathered, ready to strike.

Garvin flinched, yanking his hand back, a flicker of embarrassment and lingering fear crossing his face. "What a fierce temper!"

Aemond raised a hand, gently pressing it against Lothron's neck. "Calm," he murmured in Valyrian.

The young black dragon's bristling scales slowly smoothed, but his dark red eyes still glared a warning at Garvin, tail twitching restlessly.

"He doesn't recognize anyone," Aemond said, turning to Garvin, his tone flat. "And he's not a pet, Uncle."

"Yes, yes, I understand." Garvin rubbed his nose, wisely abandoning the attempt to pet Lothron.

He shifted his attention to the youths lining up orderly for their meal.

"Honestly, Aemond, I've watched these past few days—your training methods... are quite unique."

"I've truly had my eyes opened." He gestured at the youths, uniform in dress but varying in height and build. "These orphans... street urchins you picked from all over the Crownlands, even from Flea Bottom?"

"Relying on just a set of daily oaths? Drills? Literacy?"

"And that so-called... formation and discipline training?"

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

"They're learning something more important," Aemond said, watching the youths squatting on the open ground, wolfing down food from wooden bowls.

"Loyalty, order, belonging."

"Willpower matters, sure." Garvin walked up beside Aemond, standing shoulder to shoulder, also gazing at the orphans.

"But why not pick adults? Mercenaries, or recruit freemen from the lands?"

"They have experience, strength—they can form a fighting force faster."

"These orphans... it'll take at least two or three years before they're useful."

Aemond tilted his head slightly, looking at his uncle.

"Adults have attachments," he said slowly.

"Too many thoughts, too many desires."

His gaze returned to the youths, focused on their food, occasionally stealing glances at him.

"They have no parents, no family, nothing to tie them down."

"Their past is a blank slate, or full of hardship."

"I fill their bellies, give them clothes, stop their wandering, give them hope for the future."

Aemond paused.

"Only those with no attachments, no bonds at all, can follow me..."

Garvin listened, the easy smile on his face gradually fading. He studied Aemond's calm profile carefully. "The way you think... always catches me off guard, Aemond."

"Father was right—you surpass your brother..."

He dropped that topic and shifted gears. "So, what about Dragon's Roost?"

"How do you plan to build it? Over twenty thousand Gold Dragons isn't a small sum."

"Plans?" Aemond's gaze drifted to the freshly dug foundations in the distance, his voice flat. "Build slow, build steady, build well, build with a plan, build safely."

Garvin blinked. "That's it? No rush to raise the walls? This is your land, your castle."

Aemond didn't answer immediately.

He raised his hand, and Lothron rubbed his head against his palm, then spread his wings, flapping them lightly. The young dragon's wings were already strong, the membranes gleaming with a healthy, dark luster in the sunlight.

He let out a low chirp, leaped from Aemond's shoulder, and glided toward a pile of timber nearby.

"No matter how sturdy a castle is built," Aemond said, watching where the young dragon landed, "if its master leaves, or is no longer allowed to keep it, this land is just a wedding gown sewn for another."

Garvin didn't understand what Aemond meant, and felt a flicker of confusion.

But Aemond knew clearly that all he needed was to cultivate a core force that belonged entirely to him, one he could take away at any time.

As for this territory, it would likely be taken back by His Majesty in a fit of rage after what he had done.

"As for the stone, timber, craftsmen, and laborers," Aemond continued, "just go through the motions."

Garvin nodded, then said, "That woman you had me arrange, Terra, and her few people, have already followed that batch of Rat Catchers and mapped out most of the winding secret passages beneath the Red Keep."

Hearing this, Aemond asked.

"Have they thoroughly mapped them?"

"Mostly. The most critical routes—the ones leading to Maegor's Hold and near the King's study—have all been confirmed."

"Even those hidden passages connecting to the outside have been figured out."

As Garvin spoke, he caught the killing intent in Aemond's eyes and felt a stir. "You mean...?"

Aemond looked at him.

"The reason a secret is a secret," he said slowly, "is that the fewer who know it, the better."

He raised his right hand, extended his index finger, and lightly drew it horizontally across the side of his neck.

The motion was clean, sharp, without a trace of hesitation.

Garvin naturally understood Aemond's concern. Those secret passages posed a threat to anyone living in the Red Keep.

These Rat Catchers knowing paths they shouldn't was a hidden danger in itself.

He had to ensure these routes remained only in the hands of his own people.

"...Indeed." Garvin slowly nodded, his face returning to its usual, slightly aloof calm.

"These people were already lowlifes, none too clean with their hands. Their disappearance won't draw much attention. I'll handle it properly."