Bonus at 150 Stones
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The Kingswood, Deep Night.
The iron mine's mouth was wedged between two rock walls, veiled with withered vines; only someone who knew the terrain could pick out the well-trodden path in the moonlight.
From within came faint clinks and scrapes as miners hauled out the day's ore, loading it onto carts waiting outside the cavern.
Three black-clad figures crouched behind distant brush, watching in silence for two full hours.
"Third cart," whispered the figure on the far left.
"Each one's at least five hundred pounds. At this rate..."
"...monthly output will top five thousand," the middle figure finished.
"The Prince opened this vein without royal leave; that alone is a capital crime, enough for the King to revoke his lands."
"More than that." The man on the right spoke even lower.
"Look at the guards: matching armor, regulation spears, orderly watches. He's trained nearly a thousand men here, and his seat lies beneath King's Landing itself..."
"With the taxes of his domain, three hundred armed men would be the limit."
"Now he mines in secret, keeps a private army close to a thousand strong, fully armored. What do you think he's planning?"
"If His Grace learns the Prince commands a standing force of a thousand so near the city, what will he think?"
The three exchanged glances; there's no more to be said.
Tonight's discovery had far surpassed expectations.
At that moment, the hanging vines were pushed aside, and four miners trundled out a heavy cart. An oilcloth covered the load, yet black ore glinted through the gaps; the drivers worked in silence.
"Enough," the middle spy murmured.
"We pull out. Before dawn, we deliver word, "
The sentence died in his throat.
A cold voice sounded behind them, close enough to feel breath on skin.
"Out late, aren't we, little mice?"
All three froze. They turned.
Moonlight showed Aemond Targaryen standing thirty paces away, hands resting on his sword hilts.
Feet slightly apart, weight low, arms relaxed yet coiled with force, battle readiness honed by years of drill.
More terrifying was what loomed behind him.
From the brush, at least twenty shapes emerged without a sound: dark green leathers, longbows drawn, arrowheads glinting cold in the moon.
At their head stood "Shadow" Carter, his gaunt face unreadable.
They were surrounded.
"Run!" the middle spy snarled.
Too late.
Aemond charged, swift as a loosed shaft.
Fifteen years old, his body snapped like a bent bow released; left and right blades blurred into one streak.
The leftmost spy hadn't finished turning before a chill kissed his neck and warm liquid fountained out.
The world spun; he saw moonlight, treetops, his own headless frame still running, then only black.
The head rolled among dead leaves, eyes open, reflecting the moon.
The other two, horror-struck, bolted in opposite directions. One dived left into thickets, the other sprinted for a steep slope: over the edge lay a gully and a chance to escape by water.
Carter lifted a hand; the Foresters' bowstrings tightened.
Aemond flung up his right palm, fingers splayed.
Every archer held.
At the same instant, the sky tore with a rushing roar.
Not wings, something far larger, heavier, ripping the air.
A vast shadow skimmed the treetops.
Morghul had come.
The black dragon stooped from height, eight meters of scaled fury turning to black lightning as it fell.
Wings snapped shut, and the whole mass slammed into the earth. Rear claws spread wide.
The spy, fleeing right, heard the wind, looked up, and saw only black talons swelling in his sight.
Impact.
Not a grab or tear, pure, crushing force.
Morghul struck, claws slamming down. Under the thousand-pound blow, the man burst like overripe fruit.
A crimson mist, true scarlet haze of blood, flesh flecks, and bone chips, bloomed in the moonlight, spattering trunks and soil.
No scream; death arrived faster than sound. All that remained was an unrecognizable smear and two feet still poised to run.
One kill claimed, Morghul never paused.
Wings flared, he banked left and streaked after the last spy.
That man had reached the brink of the gully; hearing his comrade's end, he leapt without looking back.
Dragon-wind knocked him sprawling. He rolled, scrambled up, and found Morghul already perched at the slope's lip.
The dragon did not strike at once; wings folded, blood-red eyes studied him with predatory curiosity.
The spy collapsed, shrieking, as the dagger flashed out. Fire glowed in Morghul's throat, the flame held on the edge of release.
"N-no... no!" He flung the dagger away, arms shielding his head.
"Hey."
A calm voice stayed the dragon.
Aemond stepped through the leaves and stopped before the spy. Morghul rumbled, hot breath washing over the man, reeking of blood.
"A beautiful night, wouldn't you say?" Aemond asked.
The spy's lips trembled; his right hand shot toward the fallen dagger.
Aemond's boot pinned the wrist, a slight shift of weight.
CRACK.
Bone snapped. A scream half-escaped before Aemond seized the other arm, twisted, and dislocated the shoulder with a sodden pop.
The cry strangled into a rasping whimper.
Carter's men ringed the clearing, torches blazing, light revealing blood, shredded flesh, and the lone survivor.
Aemond knotted fingers in the spy's hair, forcing his head up.
The face was twisted, filthy with tears and soil.
"Who sent you?" Aemond murmured, violet eyes fixed on him.
Teeth chattered; defiant despair flared, speak, and his family died.
Aemond watched a moment, then nodded.
"Want to play the hard man?" He released the hair, rose, and drew both swords.
Moonlight ran liquid along the blades: no hesitation, no flourish, no chance for final words.
The two edges crossed.
Thud.
A third head hit the earth.
Morghul gave a satisfied growl and tore into the corpse.
The crunch of fangs through flesh and bone sounded loud in the hush.
Carter and the Foresters watched without expression.
They were used to it: a dragon must eat, and enemy flesh, scarce livestock.
Aemond sheathed his swords and turned to Carter.
"Clean it up. Double the outer ring. Anyone who approaches without leave, kill them."
"Yes, my Prince." Carter hesitated.
"This is the third time this year. They won't stop."
"I know." Aemond gazed north, toward King's Landing.
"They want to know how many counters I hold."
He nudged the severed head with a boot, a common face, common clothes.
"All of them fanatics," he said.
Carter crouched to search the body; Morghul swung round, teeth inches away, red eyes blazing.
"Easy, dragon-lord..." Carter raised his hands and backed off.
Aemond glanced over; Morghul met his gaze, hissed, and returned to feeding.
Carter completed his search, stood, and shook his head.
"Nothing on them, my Prince."
"As expected." Aemond's tone was calm.
"Increase the mine's output by another third. I need more iron, more armor, more blades, to arm more men."
"But, " Carter began carefully.
"From tomorrow, give the miners meat," Aemond cut in.
"Set quotas: meet them and be rewarded, fall short and be punished."
Carter nodded. As overseer, he had ways to make targets met.
The Prince's promise of freedom after a set term was merely a goad to greater effort.
"See it done." Aemond dismissed them; the party dispersed.
By now, Morghul had devoured every scrap, licking blood from his claws.
The black dragon padded to his master, lowered his head, and nudged Aemond's arm, a gesture of affection.
Blood soiled the sleeve; Aemond paid no heed, fingers stroking the warm scales of the dragon's neck.
This youngster was his true stay.
Night after night, the long watches relied on his strength.
It was the dragon bound to his life, sharing thoughts wordlessly, each knowing the other's mind at a glance.
As for the old dragon, Vhagar... that was more alliance than bond.
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