At that moment, the lord did not rise.
"Anything else?"
"Yes, Your Highness." Lord Mills drew a letter from his chest, the seal burned in red wax bearing the crowned stag of House Baratheon.
"This time, I come by order of Duke Boremund Baratheon. Ten days hence, the duke will host a feast at Festhall Keep for his seventieth nameday, and we sincerely invite you to attend."
Aemond's gaze widened even more as he looked to the soldiers training at the outskirts of the town—around two hundred youths, half clad in partial armor that glinted coldly in the sunlight.
They trained in squads of ten: the first ranks with shields and spears, the rear with swords and axes, advancing and retreating in precise order. The other half, lightly armed, practiced archery, their targets set fifty paces away, and their aim was remarkably swift.
Lord Mills, being a nobleman, knew the cost of mustering troops. Heavy infantry in full armor cost no less than thirty gold dragons each, and monthly pay, rations, and upkeep were constant expenses. He reckoned Aemond's guard must expend a staggering sum yearly. His own hall had struggled to maintain more than two hundred standing soldiers, incompletely armed—not counting over four hundred lightly armored rangers.
"Does the king care?" the captain of the knights whispered.
"My lord, rumors abound that… Moonspire has another source of revenue."
"Revenue?"
"Rumors… veins can be found within the Imperial Forest."
"You see, the area east of the town is always patrolled, and the idle ought not approach. Some say they hear the ringing of iron, day and night."
The lord narrowed his eyes. If the rumors were true, if Aemond mined, smelted, and even forged weapons without permission from King's Landing… the problem was serious. But it did not concern him—other princes were bound by protocol, and he could not offend a prince wielding actual power.
Moreover, Prince Aemond, still master of Vhagar, was not one to forgive slights lightly—he would strike again if crossed.
Meanwhile, a carriage passed the town's only tavern, the Three Casks of Ale. Voices carried from within:
"… Follow His Highness the Prince to eat meat!" a rough voice shouted. "My old Scar has hidden in the forest for over ten years, and now I have eaten my last meal without the next? Ranger! Three silver stags per month, lodging and food, hunting pelts divided thirty percent!"
Another young voice replied: "No! My father farmed for Lord Rosby of the town, and the whole family went hungry after paying rents. I fled here last year and gained two acres of fine riverside land, tax-exempt for two years!"
"Simply the rules are stricter," muttered a third, "Fighting and theft are punished harshly—from the severing of fingers to dismemberment or hanging…"
The territory was deliberately fenced and guarded by the Boys' Corps, with four watchtowers erected for constant surveillance.
Aemond immersed himself in it all, accompanied by his treasurer, Will.
After a hundred paces, the air warmed, and the ringing of iron became distinct. Deep within the Imperial Forest lay a natural cavern, pointed out two years prior by refugees. Aemond led his men to explore it and discovered rich iron veins and remarkable reserves.
He did not report to King's Landing: under the laws of the Seven Kingdoms, mineral veins were divided between the crown and local lords, with profits shared proportionally, yet mining required the king's permission.
Today, the entire eastern region had become a workshop: thirty furnaces burned day and night, smiths swung hammers over open hearths, their sweat glinting in the firelight. The hammering rose and fell, filling the air with the scent of soot and metal.
"Current monthly output of raw iron: six thousand pounds," Will reported. "Following the method brought by the smith from Tolos, productivity has increased fifty percent over the old technique." About four thousand five hundred pounds of wrought iron were refined, half of it fashioned into agricultural tools and implements sold via the port; the proceeds maintained the workshop and paid wages.
"And the rest of the fifty percent?"
Aemond approached the site. Here it was hotter still, as smiths forged standardized armor components—breastplates, vambraces, greaves. Bundles of helmet heads lay in corners, all crafted to uniform specifications.
"Quality?"
"To knightly standards," Will replied, tapping a breastplate lightly with a hammer, producing a clear ring. "But lighter and more durable. He employed the carburization process you mentioned."
Aemond nodded.
"Three hundred and fifty men, divided into three shifts. All slaves purchased from Slave Bay will be freed after five years of mining, ensuring loyalty and reliability."
Will feared that slavery might be considered a grievous crime in Westeros, and if word leaked, the prince could be punished. What Aemond did next would likely override any anger from his father.
He recalled his ten-year-old brother Darren, raised in House Hightower… Could there be a way to persuade Viserys to entrust this land to Deyron?
The king had been indulgent, granting amnesty to convicts in King's Landing. Soon, the mother would bear this child.
On Dragonstone, Rhaenyra had borne another son, the second child from Damon, named Viserys.
If Rhaenyra were an ordinary woman, she would need only to bear children within lawful marriage, and none could dispute her status as heir. No matter how Viserys I and her husband Damon hinted, she remained indifferent.
Now history was rewritten by them, and QueenAlicent, his mother, was once more with child. One had to know that the Green Party of the Targaryens had previously only four heirs, and now they had yet another brother or sister…