Late at night, deep within the Imperial Forest.
The entrance to the iron ore cavern was hidden between two stone walls, its surface covered in dead vines, and only those familiar with the terrain could discern the path repeatedly trodden under the moonlight.
Inside the cave, faint sounds of tapping and dragging echoed as miners transported the day's ore and loaded it onto a wagon waiting outside.
"This is the third cart," a shadow whispered from the left.
"Each wagon weighs no less than five hundred pounds. According to this operation…"
"The monthly yield should exceed five thousand pounds," the black shadow in the center took over.
"It is a crime for a prince to secretly mine veins without His Majesty's permission. That alone would be enough for the king to reclaim the territory."
"More than that," said the black shadow on the right, his voice deeper. "Look at those guards: the armor is standardized, the spear system uniform, rotation orderly."
"The army he trains here numbers nearly a thousand men, and the territory still falls under King's Landing…"
"With his regional tax, he could support only three hundred armed men to survive. Now he mines in secret and amasses a private force nearly a thousand strong, fully armored. You tell me… what does he intend to do?"
"What would Your Majesty think, if you knew the prince was training a standing army of almost a thousand near King's Landing?"
They exchanged glances, understanding one another. What they had witnessed tonight far exceeded expectations.
At that moment, the withered vine at the cave entrance was lifted, and four miners pushed a heavy cart. Oilcloth covered the roof, but gaps revealed deep, black ore. The drivers loaded and unloaded in silence.
"Enough," whispered the black shadow in the center. "Let's withdraw and await news at dawn…"
The words abruptly stopped.
A cold voice came from behind, so near it seemed to whisper in their ears:
"Still late, and yet mice still peep about?"
Three froze, paralyzed by fear.
Under the moonlight, Aemond Targaryen stood tens of steps away, swords gripped in both hands. His legs were set, weight low, arms relaxed but coiled with strength—a stance honed over years of combat.
At least twenty figures emerged silently from the shadows of the bushes. Dark green leather armor, longbows in hand already fletched, the arrow tips gleaming cold in the moonlight.
At their head, "Shadow" Carter, expressionless on a gaunt face. They were surrounded.
"Run!" the black shadow in the center roared.
The other two hesitated, glanced at each other for a moment, then fled in different directions. One dove into a thick bush on the left; the other hurled down a steep slope, hoping to roll into the valley waters and save his life.
Carter raised a hand, and the ranger's bowstring hummed softly. All shooting ceased. Wings unfurled at the last moment, crashing to the ground.
The spy fleeing right heard the wind of wings, looked up in horror, and saw dark dragon claws rapidly closing in.
Impact.
Not tearing, not grasping, but pure, brutal crushing.
The lantern slammed down with its claws, striking like a thousand-pound blow. The man exploded like ripe fruit. A crimson mist—truly red and fine—spread in the moonlight, mixed with shredded flesh and bone fragments, scattering across the surrounding trees and ground.
There was no scream. Death came too fast—faster than sound. Only a puddle of indistinguishable meat remained, while two legs still ran.
Aemond spread his wings, twisted left, and leapt at the last man. The airflow from the dragon's strike knocked him off his feet. He rolled twice and struggled to rise, but saw Lothron perched on the slope ahead.
The black dragon did not attack immediately, merely spreading his wings. Two blood-red vertical eyes fixed on him with interest.
The spy fell to the ground, screamed, and drew a dagger.
"Tonight," said Aemond, "how exquisite it is."
The spy's lips trembled; his right hand snatched the dagger beside him. Halfway through his cry, Aemond seized the other hand, twisting and breaking it, a muffled snap marking every joint dislocated. Only a choking gasp escaped his throat.
Carter had his men surround the area with torches, light spilling over the clearing, illuminating blood, entrails, and the surviving spy. His face twisted in pain, tears and dirt mingling.
Aemond regarded him for a few seconds, then nodded.
"Want to play the tough guy?" He released the hand, stood, and drew his swords. Two blades glimmered under the moonlight. No hesitation, no unnecessary movement, no last chance for words.
"Yes," Carter nodded and swallowed hard. "Your Highness, this is already the third time this year. Those behind this will not give up."
"I know," Aemond replied, looking north, toward King's Landing. "They want to see how many chips I hold in my hand."
Carter crouched to inspect the spoils, but Lothron, who had been eating, suddenly turned his head. His sharp teeth were only three feet away, scenting blood, blood-red eyes blazing with fury.
"Hey, Lord Dragon…" Carter raised a hand and stepped back.
Aemond looked away.
Lothron met the master's gaze, roared, turned back, and continued gnawing.
Carter cautiously surveyed the area, stood briefly, and shook his head. "Your Highness, they are… very clean."
"That's fine," Aemond said calmly.
"Now iron output will rise another thirty percent."
"I need more iron, more armor, more weapons, more arms."
"But…" Carter said cautiously.
"Tomorrow we begin feeding these miners," Aemond cut him off.
"Set quotas, reward completion, and punish harshly if unmet."
This small dragon—his anchor. Each night he patrolled, relying on his strength. A dragon bound to his life; a silent understanding passed between them, each knowing what the other thought with just a glance.