Moonspire.
The young black dragon perched at the highest point of the fortress—Lothron.
Aemond sat on the dragon's back, looking down at the grounds below. A few years ago, this had been a barren hill with a few shepherd's stone huts scattered across the slope. Today, grey stone walls stretched from the water's edge inland, enclosing the entire hill in a vast camp. Inside the walls stood neatly arranged wooden houses, storehouses, stables, and training grounds.
Now there were sixty thousand people here.
Sixty thousand people working, building, and multiplying on his land. Among them were more than thirty thousand Velaryon survivors forcibly relocated from High Tide.
On the slope of the fortress, Aemond sat watching the crowd busy at construction like ants. Most of them were unpaid laborers—part of what was called the Labor Reform.
Below.
Lothron snorted.
A hot, sulfur-scented blast of air burst from the dragon's nostrils. He shook his head impatiently, the scales on his neck glinting black in the sun. Aemond reached out and patted his neck.
"Patience," he whispered.
His gaze swept across Lothron's undulating back and stopped at the winding mountain path beyond the fortress gate.
A figure approached quickly.
Kermit.
Aemond watched as the young man drew nearer. His stride was swift. When he was thirty paces from Lothron, he stopped. He knelt. Lowered his head.
Aemond did not speak. He simply watched.
Lothron's nostrils flared twice. He slowly turned his head, his amber slit-pupils fixed on the kneeling snack thirty paces away. He snorted again. This time, there was a hint of blood in the exhalation.
Kermit remained kneeling. He did not raise his eyes.
A low rumble came from Lothron's throat. It was a dragon's way of expressing displeasure. He did not understand why his master would not let him eat the appetizer that had delivered itself to his door. He stared at Kermit for a few more seconds. Then his head turned toward Aemond.
That look clearly asked: can I eat this one?
Aemond looked at him. He did not speak. No nod, no shake of the head. He simply watched.
Lothron waited a few breaths. Receiving no permission, he grew somewhat frustrated. He turned his head back toward Kermit.
His throat began to glow. Orange-red light shone through the gaps in his black scales, growing brighter and brighter. It was the precursor of dragonfire about to erupt.
Kermit, thirty paces away, remained kneeling.
He did not look up. Did not flee. Did not tremble. He even closed his eyes.
But it was not the closing of eyes awaiting death. It was the closing of eyes awaiting some test.
Aemond smiled.
Lothron's throat was now bright as lava, the orange-red light illuminating Kermit's entire body. The heat could be felt from thirty paces; the air before him began to distort, and the grass at his feet began to curl.
Lothron waited one last time. He was given no command. Finally, he lost patience. He raised his head.
Orange-red dragonfire shot into the sky!
The column of flame spewed for more than ten seconds, turning the sky above Moonspire a strange orange-red. Waves of heat radiated in all directions; the fortress's workers lay flat on the ground in terror, warhorses screamed in their stables. The immigrants from High Tide knelt, trembling.
Lothron finished spewing.
Then Lothron grew even more frustrated. He snorted heavily, turned his head aside, and stopped looking at the boring snack.
Aemond finally laughed aloud. He patted Lothron's neck.
"Good. He is my man. Not food."
Lothron, head turned away, let out a low rumble as if expressing dissatisfaction. But he did not breathe fire again.
Aemond slid down from the dragon's back.
He walked to Kermit.
"Raise your head."
Kermit looked up.
It was a young face, a boy who had just come of age—brown hair, brown eyes, an ordinary face, but with those eyes.
Those eyes were bright.
Aemond looked into those eyes. No fear. Only one thing.
Desire.
"Why did you not run?"
Kermit looked at Prince Aemond.
"Because I am not afraid. Everything I have was given by Your Grace. If Your Grace wishes to take it back... even if it is my life, it is Your Grace's."
Aemond did not speak. He simply looked into Kermit's eyes. After a long study, he said:
"You want very much."
Kermit's eyes shone.
"To want is to have. But there are two words in between."
He paused.
"To act."
He looked at Kermit.
"Only by acting can you obtain."
Kermit knelt, but his back was straight. His gaze was fixed on Prince Aemond.
"I have decided," he said, word by word. "I will do it. I will never disappoint Your Grace."
Aemond looked at him.
He liked such people. Confident. Brave. Ambitious. Full of vigorous energy. Never hiding their desires. Such qualities were too rare among the nobility. Those born with land, titles, and wealth only know how to preserve them. They fear losing what they have, so they dare not risk, dare not gamble, dare not fight. Those who truly dare to fight and gamble are often those who have nothing. Because they have nothing to lose.
"The intelligence network in King's Landing," Aemond said. "Can you handle it?"
Kermit's eyes lit up like fire.
"Yes."
"The Crownlands? The Seven Kingdoms?"
Kermit drew a deep breath.
"I can. If I cannot, I will die trying."
Aemond nodded.
He returned to Lothron and took something from the pouch beside the dragon's saddle. It was a Targaryen heraldic badge. He handed the badge to Kermit.
Kermit caught it with both hands.
"As for the mission to Dragonstone," Aemond said, "I am satisfied. You have earned a place among my scouts."
Kermit's heart leapt.
"Now I grant you the status of knight," Aemond said. "From this day, you are a nobleman serving House Targaryen. Under the jurisdiction of Moonspire, I will give you a manor."
Kermit's hand clenched around the badge.
Knight. A manor.
He had been an orphan in Flea Bottom, a rat creeping through the sewers of King's Landing, then adopted and trained as a death-squad soldier... Now he was a knight. With a holding. In the future, he might have a family name and found a noble house. He knew perfectly well how difficult it was to cross that class barrier.
He opened his mouth. He wanted to say thank you, wanted to say he would prove worthy, wanted to say he would die a thousand deaths. But his throat seized.
Aemond looked at him. Without mockery. Simply waiting.
Kermit drew a deep breath.
He lowered his head.
His forehead touched the ground.
"Your Grace."
Aemond nodded.
"Go."
Kermit stood. He turned. His steps were still steady, but Aemond could see a slight tremor in his shoulders—not fear, but excitement.