Several months had passed since the King granted Dragon's Roost its lands.
At present, the domain still bore the look of a place newly begun.
On a gentle slope near a tributary of the Blackwater, piles of bluish-gray stone quarried from the riverbank lay scattered about, while freshly felled timber gave off the scent of pine resin and dampness.
Temporary work sheds and tents were spread across the cleared ground.
Not far away, the trenches marking the planned castle foundations had only just been cut, their outlines still shallow.
Yet at this moment, what drew every eye was not these works of earth and stone.
Instead, it was the trampled, compacted mud at the center of the open ground, where more than five hundred figures stood in neat ranks.
They were all young, most between ten and fifteen years of age, dressed uniformly in coarse linen garments dyed a dark gray—rough in texture, yet clean and orderly.
Their faces differed: some bore 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 feral edge of life as wanderers had faded from their eyes.
In its place was a taut expression, an effortful resolve they tried hard to display.
They stood straight-backed. Even those whose spines were slightly bent from long-term malnutrition strained to hold themselves upright.
They were formed into ranks that were not perfectly orderly, yet clearly trained.
Aemond Targaryen stood not far before them, atop a slightly raised earthen mound.
He was dressed simply today, wearing a black leather doublet without any ornamentation. His silver-gold hair was bound tight behind his head, nearly indistinct beneath the slanting afternoon light.
At this moment, however, what drew the most attention was not the Prince himself, but the creature standing calmly upon his left shoulder.
Lothorne.
This young dragon, hatched only a few months earlier, had already grown from the size of a hunting dog to that of a somewhat larger wolfhound.
His entire body was covered in scales of the deepest black.
Those eyes—dark red vertical pupils rimmed with a ring of gold—were turning with curiosity now, surveying the hundreds of upturned faces below.
His powerful hind limbs gripped Aemond's shoulder with ease, while his long, strong tail hung down behind Aemond's back.
Even more striking was the intimacy between him and Aemond.
From time to time, the little dragon would tilt his head and lightly brush Aemond's ear or cheek with his cool, finely scaled snout, letting out a faint, nasal, rumbling "chrr" sound.
Aemond, for his part, remained entirely at ease. Occasionally he would lift a hand and gently scratch beneath the young dragon's jaw or along the seams of the fine scales at his neck. Lothorne would then half-close his dark red eyes in comfort, a satisfied purr rumbling from his throat.
At this moment, Aemond reached into the leather pouch at his waist and took out a small strip of air-dried meat, offering it up to his shoulder.
Lothorne immediately seized it with perfect precision. His sharp yet still small teeth tore the meat apart in a few quick bites before he swallowed it down, then he licked Aemond's fingers, which were still smeared with a few crumbs of meat, with lingering satisfaction.
Aemond thought to himself that from time to time he would still have to feed Lothorne blood, so that the young dragon could grow faster.
This astonishing display of intimacy left many of the youths standing in formation staring in awe, their eyes revealing a mixture of reverence, amazement, and an indescribable trace of longing.
Aemond's gaze slowly swept across the ranks.
He did not speak. He simply looked.
The gaze was calm, weighing the bones and resolve hidden beneath each body.
Every youth touched by that look lifted his chest higher and raised his chin tighter.
At that moment, the instructors standing slightly ahead and to the side of the formation—knights from House Hightower—sucked in a sharp breath and bellowed in loud, rough voices:
"Swear!"
The voices of more than five hundred rose together. At first they were uneven, but they quickly merged into a single current—young yet extraordinarily firm, like an oath itself—echoing across the chill air of early spring and over the unfinished domain: "I… swear fealty to my lord Aemond!"
"Love what he loves! Hate what he hates!"
The boys' faces flushed slightly with effort, yet their eyes were fixed firmly on the silver-haired Prince upon the earthen mound, and on the black hatchling dragon upon his shoulder—something that until now had existed only in legend.
"Treat me well for my submission and allegiance!"
"Grant me what is due!"
"Then every word I speak! Every act I take!"
"Shall take his will as my rule!"
The final line was nearly shouted:
"Never to betray it!!!"
The echoes lingered and slowly faded across the open land.
Aemond was satisfied. He gave a single nod.
Receiving the signal, the instructors barked again, "Dismissed! Meal!"
The taut atmosphere abruptly loosened. The youths maintained their formation, turning in an orderly fashion and heading toward the nearby temporary mess hall, where cooking smoke and the scent of food rose into the air.
Several large cauldrons set upon stone hearths were simmering with barley porridge, beside baskets piled high with white bread and pots of stewed meat.
Their steps quickened. The hunger of young bodies overrode all else, yet order remained—no shoving, only slightly hurried footsteps and restrained, low murmurs of conversation.
Some of them still cast occasional glances back toward the figure of the Prince upon the earthen mound.
Aemond walked down from the rise. Lothorne adjusted his claws with the movement, gripping steadily.
"Tsk, tsk—truly impressive, my nephew."
A voice carrying amusement came from the side.
Gwayne Hightower approached at an easy pace.
In his early twenties, he had inherited House Hightower's characteristic brown hair and upright build. Handsome of face, he was Otto's son.
There was some resemblance between Gwayne's brows and eyes and those of his sister, Queen Alicent, though his bearing was more relaxed.
He wore dark blue light armor suited for movement, over which was fitted a well-made yet simply styled leather surcoat bearing his house's sigil.
His gaze first fell upon Lothorne on Aemond's shoulder, filled with undisguised interest and awe.
"So this is the black dragon? Lothorne?"
He reached out a hand, tentatively intending to touch the young dragon's smooth crown.
"Hiss—kra!"
Lothorne's reaction was swift as lightning. The small dragon's head snapped toward Gwayne, dark red vertical pupils contracting instantly to pinpoints.
The scales that had been relaxed bristled slightly. Slender yet sharp teeth were bared, and a low, threatening growl rumbled in his throat, a faintly warm current of air carrying a sulfurous tang gathering as if ready to burst forth.
Gwayne startled, his hand withdrawing at once. A trace of embarrassment and lingering fear crossed his face. "Such a vicious temper!"
Aemond lifted a hand and gently pressed it against Lothorne's neck. "Calm," he said softly in Valyrian.
The little black dragon's raised scales slowly settled, though his dark red eyes still fixed on Gwayne in warning, his tail giving an uneasy flick.
"He recognizes no one," Aemond turned to Gwayne, his tone flat. "And he is not a pet, Uncle."
"Yes, yes, I understand." Gwayne rubbed his nose and wisely abandoned any thought of touching Lothorne.
He shifted his attention to the youths who were lining up in orderly fashion to receive their meals.
"Honestly, Aemond, after watching these past few days, your method of training… it's quite unusual."
"It's truly opened my eyes." He gestured toward the youths, dressed alike yet varied in height, build, and shape. "You picked these from all across the Crownlands, even from Flea Bottom… orphans? Vagrants?"
"And you rely on nothing but a daily oath? Drills? Literacy?"
"And that so-called formation and discipline training?"
"They haven't even begun to properly learn the use of spear and sword."
"They are learning things more important," Aemond said, watching the youths clutch wooden bowls and squat on the open ground, devouring their food.
"Loyalty. Order. A sense of belonging."
"Will is important, certainly," Gwayne stepped to Aemond's side, standing shoulder to shoulder with him as he too looked upon the orphans.
"But why not choose adults? Sellswords, or recruit free men from the lands?"
"They have experience, strength. They could form a fighting force far more quickly."
"And these orphans… before they can be of any real use, it will be at least two or three years."
Aemond tilted his head slightly and looked at his uncle.
"Adults have ties," he said slowly.
"Their minds are too cluttered, their desires too many."
His gaze returned to the youths who ate with focus, occasionally stealing glances in his direction.
"They have no fathers or mothers, no bonds to hold them."
"Their past is either a blank, or filled with suffering."
"I let them eat their fill. I give them clothes to wear. I take them from wandering, and give them hope for the future."
Aemond paused.
"And only those who have no ties at all, who are bound by nothing, can follow me to the end…"
Gwayne listened, the relaxed smile on his face gradually fading as he studied Aemond's calm profile with care.
"The way you think things through… it always exceeds my expectations, Aemond."
"Father was right—you are more than your brother…"
He let the subject drop and instead asked, "Then what of Dragon's Roost?"
"How do you intend to build it? More than two hundred thousand gold dragons is no small sum."
"Planning?" Aemond cast his gaze toward the freshly dug foundations in the distance and replied evenly. "Build slowly. Build steadily. Build well. Build with a plan. Build securely."
Gwayne paused. "That's it? You're not in a hurry to raise high walls? This is your land, your castle."
Aemond did not answer at once.
He lifted a hand. Lothorne nuzzled his palm in response, then spread his wings and gave them two light beats. The young dragon's wings were already strong, the membranes catching the sunlight with a healthy, dark sheen.
With a low chirring cry, he leapt from Aemond's shoulder and glided toward a nearby pile of timber.
"No matter how solid a castle is," Aemond said, watching where the young dragon landed, "if its master leaves, or is no longer permitted to hold it, then the land is nothing more than a wedding gift prepared for another."
Gwayne did not understand what Aemond meant and felt a trace of confusion.
Aemond, however, was clear: all he needed was to build a core force that belonged solely to him—one he could take with him at any time.
As for this domain, it was very likely that after what he intended to do, it would be reclaimed by an enraged King.
"As for the stone and timber, the craftsmen and laborers," Aemond continued, "put on a show. That will suffice."
Gwayne nodded, then said, "The woman you had me arrange—Tella—and the few people under her, have already followed that group of ratcatchers and mapped most of the winding tunnels beneath the Red Keep."
Aemond asked when he heard this, "Do they have it all mapped?"
"More or less. The most critical routes—those leading to Maegor's Holdfast and the areas near the King's solar—have all been confirmed."
"Even the hidden passages that connect to the outside have been sorted out."
As Gwayne spoke, he noticed the killing intent in Aemond's eyes and felt a stir in his chest. "You mean…?"
Aemond looked at him.
"The reason a secret remains a secret," he said slowly, "is because as few people as possible know it."
He raised his right hand, extended his index finger, and drew it lightly across the side of his neck.
The gesture was clean and decisive, without the slightest hesitation.
Gwayne, of course, understood Aemond's concern. Those tunnels were a threat to anyone living within the Red Keep.
That these ratcatchers knew paths they had no business knowing was itself a hidden danger.
He needed to ensure that those passages were held only by his own people.
"…Indeed." Gwayne nodded slowly, his expression returning to its usual, slightly distant calm.
"These people are baseborn to begin with, and their hands are hardly clean. If they disappear, it will not draw much notice. I will see to it properly."
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