Rook's Rest.
The castle was located approximately five hundred miles northeast of King's Landing, one of the most important strongholds in the northern Crownlands. Its walls were not high, but they were thick, with arrow towers and a broad moat—sufficient for any land attack. At this moment, more troops were encamped outside the city than the castle could hold.
The camp stretched for miles, tents clustered thick as mushrooms. Smoke rose from countless fires, intertwining into a grey haze against the daytime sky.
Five hundred heavy cavalry of the Praetorian Guard camped on the westernmost side. Their tents were neatly uniform, horses tethered in dedicated stables, armor and weapons polished to a gleam. These nobles were the elite heavy knights of the Greens, each from a southern noble house, each wearing dragon-patterned armor of Nagaryen steel.
The Royal Army camped in the center. Over three thousand men, well-equipped and trained. They were the king's standing army, eating the Iron Throne's wages and obeying the Iron Throne's commands. Their commander, Ser William Darklyn, was an experienced veteran.
The Crownlords' vassal army camped on the flank. Five thousand men from more than a dozen houses, with varied banners and uneven equipment. Some were seasoned men-at-arms; some were newly conscripted farmers brought in to fill the ranks. But in any case, roughly five thousand men—that number was there.
On the southern side of the camp, beside a grove, there was another group. The private army of Moonspire. Prince Aemond's personal guard. Their tents were neater than even the Praetorian Guard's, but darker and plainer in style. No superfluous decorations, no lavish banners—only the three-headed golden dragon on black, planted at the camp's entrance.
Black field, three-headed golden dragon.
At this moment, the soldiers sat by campfires, drinking hot broth. The stew was made with mutton, salt, and spices, so fragrant it made one's mouth water. Each man held a piece of black bread, breaking it, soaking it in the stew, and eating with relish. Occasionally they looked up at the figure on the nearby hill.
Prince Aemond sat there.
His back against an old oak, hands on his knees, eyes closed, resting. The twilight sunset filtered through the gaps in the leaves, casting light and shadow across his face. He wore mithril steel armor, with the three-headed golden dragon emblem on his breast. The sword at his waist was Blackfyre.
Nearby, two dragons were feasting.
Vhagar lay on her belly, holding a roasted whole cow in her massive claws. The cow weighed over a thousand pounds, roasted until crispy on the outside and tender within; the skin still sizzled with oil. Vhagar lowered her head, tore off most of the cow's leg in one bite, and swallowed it without chewing.
Lothron crouched nearby, three roasted whole sheep before him. He tore off pieces of lamb with his claws, savoring them slowly. Occasionally he glanced at his mother Vhagar, who was roasting a cow right in front of him. He very much wanted to eat beef, not mutton. But he knew that if he tried to take food from Mother Vhagar's dragon jaws, he would certainly be beaten. Reluctantly, he could only turn his head back to deal with the lamb before him.
Four roasted cows and ten roasted sheep were carried in an endless stream by soldiers. The scent of spices filled the air, mingling with coal smoke and dragon musk, creating a strange atmosphere.
Hal Bellere walked through the camp and climbed the hill. He stopped before Aemond.
"Your Grace."
Aemond did not open his eyes.
Hal continued. "My prince, there is a tent nearby. You could go in and rest."
Aemond opened his eyes. Those violet eyes looked especially deep in the twilight.
"There is a great dragon in the Riverlands."
Hal was momentarily stunned.
"Caraxes," Aemond said. "Daemon's dragon. The Blood Wyrm is an exception among dragons. He is one of the fastest dragons in Westeros, and far more agile than Vhagar. If Daemon were to raid, do you think I would be killed in my sleep?"
Hal was silent.
Aemond looked at him with a smile.
"Luck is the greatest misfortune."
Aemond patted the old oak behind him.
"Leaning against a tree—if something happens, I can go to my dragon at any moment."
Hal lowered his head. "Your Grace is right."
Aemond looked away. He looked at the two dragons feeding in the distance.
"The Blacks must know I am here. If we go to attack Rook's Rest, they will come to ambush us."
Hal looked up. "They have Caraxes the Blood Wyrm, Meleys the Red Queen, and Syrax."
Aemond glanced at Vhagar. "Vhagar's injuries..."
"Minor wounds," Aemond said. "They do not affect battle. But if Meleys and Caraxes cooperate, plus two experienced dragonriders—Rhaenys and Daemon—" He paused. "Unless I can break them apart... I need to be evasive. They are sharp."
Hal's brow furrowed. "Then we shall go to Rook's Rest..."
Aemond smiled. The smile was somewhat deep.
"Who said I am going to Rook's Rest?"
Hal was stunned. "What?"
Aemond took a map from his robes and spread it on his lap. He pointed to a spot on the map.
"Look."
Hal leaned in to look.
It was Dragonstone.
Hal's eyes widened.
"Your Grace, you want to—"
"Bait them," Aemond said. He pointed to Rook's Rest. "Here, our army crosses the border. Daemon and Rhaenys will think I am here. They will come to ambush me."
His finger moved to Dragonstone.
"I will go while they are coming."
Aemond looked up and smiled at Hal.
"I am going to Dragonstone to capture the false queen."
Hal's breath caught.
"Capture... capture the queen?"
"Rhaenyra," Aemond said. "My dear sister. The Blacks will not let her join this ambush. She is mentally unstable and less experienced than Daemon and Rhaenys. She will remain only on Dragonstone, waiting for news. Like a pretty vase."
He paused.
"I will go for her. Better alive; dead is acceptable."
Hal's face changed.
This was decapitation. If it succeeded, it could end the war directly.
"Your Grace," Hal's voice was somewhat dry. "Then we will..."
Aemond tilted his head, his violet eyes fixed on him, and said calmly.
"Bait."
Hal was stunned.
"Bait?"
Aemond nodded.
"Daemon and Rhaenys are targeting me. When they see the army besieging the city, they will think I am here. They will come for me. You just need to pretend to attack the city, and withdraw when they appear."
"Withdraw?" Hal asked. He knew that a hasty retreat would inevitably mean heavy losses.
Aemond said, "Listen—this is my command."
He stood. He gently patted Hal's shoulder.
"You are my trusted man, so I have told you this. When the march nears Rook's Rest, have the personal guard stay behind the army, ready to withdraw at any moment."
He looked into Hal's eyes.
"When Daemon and Rhaenys come, you can order Galwyn to withdraw, and say I commanded it."
Hal drew a deep breath and nodded.
"Yes."
Aemond smiled with confidence.
"This is the fastest way to end the war. Once I capture Rhaenyra or kill her, the Blacks lose their banner. Men's hearts will naturally scatter."
He turned.
The roast beef on the fire was done.
Aemond drew a dagger from his belt and cut a piece of meat. The meat was very hot, fresh from the fire, its surface still bubbling. Aemond put the meat straight into his mouth. Chewed. Swallowed.
Hal said nothing. He knew the prince's constitution—he did not burn.
Aemond noticed his look. He cut another piece of meat and offered it to Hal.
"Try it."
Hal took the meat. The meat was still hot. He took a bite. Hot. But fragrant. Very fragrant.
He went to the fire, crouched, and cut several more large chunks of meat with his dagger. He did not care how hot it was.
Lothron raised his head and glanced at him.
Aemond waved the meat on his dagger toward him.
Lothron's eyes lit up. He set aside the half-gnawed lamb leg and came over with a huff.
Aemond tossed the meat to him.
Lothron caught it, chewed, and snorted contentedly. He loved eating beef.
Vhagar also raised her head. She looked at her child, and Lothron glanced back at her with something like disdain in his dragon eyes—running after a few pieces of meat. Truly a promising dragon.
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