Aemond looked down at the mountain of rebel corpses with cold eyes. For a moment, he considered letting Vhagar feast on the dead right there, but a thought stayed his hand.
"Not here, Vhagar," Aemond murmured, pulling the reins. "Go down there."
The ancient she-dragon growled, a sound like grinding tectonic plates, and leaped from the ridge. She didn't fly; she skimmed the earth, a hundred-meter shadow of death racing toward the Tyroshian encampment at the foot of the highlands.
Two hours ago, Elville had been a man of action. After six failed assaults, he had pulled his remaining forces three miles back to regroup. He had decided to stop relying on the half-hearted slave soldiers and personally lead the Tyroshian garrison in a night raid.
He didn't know that Admiral Akeman's fleet was already fish food. He only knew that he had to slaughter the rebels and reclaim the "property" before Aegon's ships arrived.
The Tyroshian garrison had just finished a heavy meal and buckled their armor when a roar shattered the night. The moon was high, illuminating the gargantuan silhouette of Vhagar as she glided toward them.
"Dragon! Run!"
The scream triggered a blind, pathetic stampede. Garrison elites and slave soldiers alike scrambled for cover, but the plain had been cleared of brush for the camp. There was nowhere to hide from a god.
Boom—
Vhagar braked with her massive chest, plowing through the tents and kicking up a localized dust storm. She casually snatched a screaming officer from the air, tossed him upward like a grape, and incinerated him with a precision burst of pale fire.
The feast had begun—but only for the dragon.
Above on the plateau, the Rebel Army had been preparing a counter-charge, but they froze at the sight of the carnage below.
"Wait! Stay back!" Spartacus shouted, his face pale. He turned to Hidolf. "We aren't... we aren't next on the menu, are we?"
Hidolf's confidence wavered as he watched Vhagar tear through the Tyroshian lines. "That is Vhagar. Her rider is Aemond, the Prince's younger brother. He is... impulsive. Reckless."
"Then what do we do?"
"We wait," Hidolf whispered. "If the dragon is here, the ships cannot be far behind."
Dragonstone
While the Narrow Sea ran red, Aegon was focused on the green.
He sat over a massive vellum map of Dragonstone, dividing the island into four distinct administrative sectors. The North and East were the breadbaskets—fertile enough to be carved into farmlands. The West was the Trade Zone, the gateway for the world's gold. The South was the Production Zone.
Aegon's plan was a masterpiece of social engineering. He would settle the "refugees" from Tyrosh in the North and East, pairing them with experienced Westerosi tenants who would teach the former slaves how to till the earth. To manage them, he would appoint "Proletarian Knights"—common soldiers and civilians who had shown merit—granting them small plots of land and eventually elevating the best to the rank of Baron.
Give a man a title, and he'll fight for you. Give a man land, and he'll work for you, Aegon thought.
Then there were the tolls.
As the First Channel of the Stepstones stabilized, the gold began to pour in. Aegon finally understood why the other Great Houses looked down on the Freys of the Crossing. It wasn't because the Freys were "nouveau riche"; it was pure, unadulterated jealousy.
The Freys had spent three generations building the Twins to tax a bridge. Aegon had seized the Stepstones in weeks to tax the world's most vital shipping lane. More ships passed through his waters in a day than crossed the Green Fork in a month.
He decided to lower the toll from 10% to 1%. It was still a staggering fortune, but 1% was low enough to keep the merchants from revolting, yet high enough to fund an empire. He divided the responsibility—and a fraction of the profit—among his new vassals on Grey Gallows, turning them into self-interested guardians of his routes.
Finally, he looked at the South District. It was the smallest, but it was his "Imperial Industrial Park." Here, he would build state-controlled soap factories, wineries, steel mills, and glassworks. Aegon didn't just want to be a King; he wanted to be the Chairman of the Board.
"Your Highness! Please, come quickly!"
A guard burst into the solar, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"What is it? Has the Triarchy launched a counter-attack?" Aegon asked, his hand drifting toward the hilt of his blade.
"No, Sire! A wild dragon! It's been circling the southern peaks for an hour. It... it looks like it's looking for something."
Aegon's eyes sharpened. A wild dragon near his new industrial zone? That was either a catastrophe or a golden opportunity.
"Lead the way," Aegon commanded. "Let's see which of my 'cousins' has come to visit."
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