Undercurrents at Dragon's Roost Port

The morning light had just pierced through the thin mist at Dragon's Roost Port when it was awakened by the clanging of iron in the workshop.

In fact, to some extent, Damon had been planning this port for a long time. As early as when he had just begun his tour of the seven kingdoms of Westeros, on the very night Damon left Crab Island, an old crab who had presumptuously guessed Damon's wishes began to plan the construction of this port before the War of Conquest even began.

The craftsmen of Myr directed the refugees to reinforce the fortress walls made of wood and stone. The shouts of ramming earth mingled with the sound of waves crashing on the shore. On the edge of the distant swamp, several newly dug drainage ditches were beginning to take shape, and turbid muddy water flowed along the ditches toward the Narrow Sea, revealing patches of dark land.

Daemon stood on the high platform of the fortress, holding the secret report King's Landing Larys in his hand, his gaze sweeping over the bustling crowd below—

The Tyrosh refugees were building temporary shelters, the natives of the Crab Claw Peninsula were clearing pine forests, Berna Brune was patrolling the coastline with his private army, and Rupert Crabb was directing craftsmen to measure the water depth at the dock. Everything was proceeding according to plan, but there were subtle undercurrents.

"Your Highness, Alys Rivers is back." Jarman Waters's voice came from behind, his one eye warily fixed on the direction of the "fortress" entrance to the current camp.

Daemon turned around and saw Alys Rivers wearing a green cloak damp with dew, followed by five native chieftains of the Black Hill Tribe. Their animal skins still carried the dampness of the swamp, and they held polished stone spears in their hands. Their eyes were full of awe for the dragon, but also hid a bit of arrogance.

Alys Rivers walked down from the platform, her voice low and somber. "The Black Hill Tribe is willing to submit, but they also request to retain their tribal customs. However, they will pay Your Highness thirty percent of their hunted prey each year. In return, they hope Your Highness can help them drive out the cannibals entrenched deep within Black Hill."

Daemon raised an eyebrow, his gaze falling on the leading native chieftain—an old man with a wrinkled face, a necklace of animal teeth around his neck, and a wooden staff engraved with runes in his hand.

"Cannibals?" he asked in a deep voice, "How long have they been here?"

The old chief replied in broken Common Tongue, "For many years—they ate many of our people; we couldn't defeat them."

Alys Rivers added, "Deep within Black Hill lies a cave where cannibals hide. They are familiar with the terrain and difficult to wipe out. However, they fear Dragonfire. If Your Highness sends dragons to intimidate them, and with the cooperation of the tribal warriors, they should be easily eliminated."

Daemon's fingertips traced the hilt of the Blackfyre. He knew it was the key to subduing the Black Hill Tribe, but he also doubted Alys Rivers's motives. Judging from what he saw today, her understanding of Crab Claw Peninsula seemed to far exceed what he considered to be the "familiar path."

So, was it actually this "swamp witch" who came to this place while gathering herbs?

Some say she also saw something in her mysterious flames and language.

Or perhaps, she had seen something long ago, in the distant past?

"Alright," he finally nodded. "Tomorrow I will lead the Glutton there. Rupert, you will lead two hundred private soldiers to cooperate with the Black Hill Tribe warriors and seal off the cave exit."

Rupert bowed in response, but his gaze inadvertently swept over Alys Rivers, a hint of wariness flashing in his eyes.

Having finished dealing with tribal affairs, Rayford Rosby approached with a scroll of parchment, his face grave. "Your Highness, it's too fast. We replied yesterday, and today the maester and his officials from King's Landing's Landing have arrived. Leading them is Lord Otto's confidant, Maester Maron of the Citadel, and also Ellyn Beesbury, nephew of the current Master of Coin, Lyman Martyn Tyrell, who was once the Earl of the Master of Coin. "Beesbury

They brought His Majesty's decree, which stated that they would assist in governance and oversee the use of resources.

"Supervision?" Daemon sneered, unfolding the parchment. The handwriting was neat, yet it revealed the scheming of our Master of Laws Otto Hightower. Maester Maron was in charge of education, but he probably actually had to record the movements of the refugees.

Ellyn Beesbury was in charge of finances, and it was estimated that the two Reach lords had reached some kind of exchange of interests, in reality, to control the allocation of resources.

"Let them in," Daemon said, putting away the coded message. "Maester Maron will teach the children to read, but he is not allowed to interfere in military or political affairs; Ellyn will be in charge of registering supplies, and every account must be checked by Rayford. If even a single copper coin is missing, he will be held responsible."

Lord Otto Hightower is probably still in King's Landing, smugly planning ahead for his troops.

Little did they know that three days later, when Daemon returned King's Landing and resigned as Minister of Intelligence, it might also be the last time they, Master of Laws, would attend Small Council.

Rayford nodded in agreement, knowing full well that this was meant to put shackles on Otto's men.

In the afternoon, merchant ships from the Reach arrived at Dragon's Roost Port. Garlan Tyrell stood at the bow, wearing a green robe embroidered with roses, followed by servants carrying chests of grain and wine.

As soon as he stepped onto the dock, he approached Daemon with his signature smile, clearly having come prepared. "Your Highness Daemon, these are this year's new grains, sent by my father, Duke Mathos, and also Highgarden's finest wines of the year, hoping to contribute to the development of Dragon's Roost Port and the Crownlands."

It's estimated that this guy had already led Highgarden's fleet back to the Reach to prepare for transporting this batch of supplies when the Joint Fleet returned to port.

Daemon reached out and shook his hand, his gaze sweeping over the grain on the ship. His tone was calm. "Garlan, please convey my thanks to your father, Duke Mathos. The grain will be settled at the price you offered; I will not haggle. As for the wine, I will allow the merchants priority in purchasing it, ensuring fair trade."

A hint of surprise flashed in Garlan's eyes, clearly not expecting Daemon to be so businesslike, but he still smiled and replied, "Your Highness's impartiality is a blessing to Westeros, a blessing to the Iron Throne, and a blessing to the Seven Kingdoms."

By the way, on my way here, I also heard that our arrogant and disdainful Master of Laws, Lord Otto Hightower, has specially sent someone to assist His Highness in governing the Crownlands.

However, Your Highness should be wary; that Ellyn Beesbury is not only notorious in our Reach, but even when he was a squire to my great-uncle Martyn, he was already a notorious sycophant."

Daemon smiled faintly but didn't reply—he already knew exactly what Otto was up to these days.

At dusk, Gael, escorted by Brienne Tarth and Lia Osgrey, brought Mysaria and Johanna Swann to see Daemon, carrying a list of refugees to be resettled. "There are many artisans among the refugees of Tyrosh, including the Smith, carpenters, and weavers. I want them to set up workshops, which will not only solve their livelihood problems but also provide materials for the construction of the fortress."

Since returning to King's Landing after her tour of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros with Damon, she has learned a great deal from her mother, Queen Alyssan, how to be a "good wife." Now, she is quite adept at it, a veritable "second kind queen."

Daemon took the list, looked at the densely packed names under the other person's handwriting, and then at the expectant look in their eyes. A smile silently crept onto his lips, "Let's do it the way you said. We'll divide these workshops into special areas, and pay them according to the skill level of their craftsmen. That way, they'll feel more comfortable staying."

Gael nodded excitedly, then added after calming down, "By the way, before you left, Vaegon specifically told me that according to news from the Citadel, a major rainstorm is expected next month. After you return to King's Landing in three days and then come back, we must speed up the digging of the drainage ditches, otherwise these newly reclaimed lands will definitely be flooded."

"I'll have Berna and the others send extra manpower tomorrow. We must finish before the downpour." Daemon gently held her hand, the warmth of his palm seeping through her fingertips. "You'll have to work hard these days."

As night deepened, the campfire at the temporary camp in Dragon's Roost Port gradually lit up.

Under the further "urging" of Myles Rivers and Tybolt Crakehall, two burly men wielding axes, Maester Maron entered the makeshift tent to teach the children to read;

However, the other one, Ellyn Beesbury, was also quietly checking the accounts under the lamp, but his eyes kept glancing at the list of supplies in Rayford's hand;

Alys Rivers stood at the edge of the swamp, whispering to the night sky, her fingertips once again brushing against the herb pouch at her waist;

Jarman Waters, along with Harlan Hunter, silently lurked in the shadows, monitoring the every move of the people Otto Hightower had sent.

Daemon leaned against the Glutton, gazing at the lights of Dragon's Roost Port in the distance. He couldn't help but feel that the construction of Dragon's Roost Port was only the beginning. Otto's schemes, the tribe's hidden dangers, and external probing were all waiting for their chance in the shadows.

But as long as he holds onto this land and the people around him, he will eventually be able to transform this wilderness into a strong fortress against future storms.

Beside the Grey Ghost Glutton let out another low dragon roar, while the Dreamfyre continued to hover low in the sky, its pale blue Dragonfire illuminating the night sky of Dragon's Roost Port like a star.

Inside the tent, Daemon gripped the Blackfyre tightly, a sharp glint in his eyes—tomorrow, the cannibals would be eliminated, the Black Hill Tribe subdued, and the foundation of Dragon's Roost Port would become even more solid.