Two years later, Dragon's Roost.
A damp southern wind swept across Blackwater Bay, carrying with it the scent of sea salt and forest.
Below King's Landing, more than fifty kilometers south of Blackwater Bay, along the Blackwater River at the northern edge of the Kingswood, a stretch of riverbank that had once been barren now thrived with life.
From above, Dragon's Roost resembled no traditional noble castle—there were no carvings, no spires, no gardens.
It was a massive military camp of sharp angles, built from stone and timber, with function set above all else.
A wall three meters high, raised from logs and rough stone, enclosed the camp. Four watchtowers kept vigil over the roads leading to the town, the riverway, and deep into the Kingswood.
Within the walls lay the drill grounds, armory, barracks, and a crude main hall, occupying most of the space.
The only ornament was the great banner upon the stone wall of the keep: black as night, bearing in dark red thread the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
Aemond stood before a low castle window.
Outside, his black dragon, Lothorne, lay upon a rock platform built for him within the camp, resting.
In two years, the young dragon hatched from a dead egg had grown to eight meters in length, his rate of growth so swift that even the accompanying dragonkeepers marveled in wonder.
As for Vhagar… since he had not been summoned and could not return to King's Landing, he had not seen the old dragon in two years.
Only Lothorne, by special leave of King Viserys, had been permitted to follow him to this land.
Beyond the castle, Dragon's Roost Town had grown like creeping vines about the camp.
The shanties that once stood outside had been replaced by orderly wooden houses and stone-based cottages. Streets paved with crushed stone spared them the mire of the rainy season.
A lumberyard, tannery, smithy, tavern, granaries, and even a small sept stretched along the roads and the banks of the stream.
Smoke rose from hearths; voices mingled in the air. It bore the look of modest prosperity.
The population had surpassed twenty thousand—mostly dispossessed farmers of the Crownlands, fugitives, and vagrants of the Kingswood taken into service.
Aemond's promise to them was simple and firm: labor, keep to the rules, and there would be land to till, work to be had, and protection assured.
To those struggling merely to survive, such a pledge was a gift beyond measure.
...
At this moment, within the main hall of Dragon's Roost, the coals crackled.
Fifteen-year-old Aemond sat behind a heavy oak table, violet eyes bright.
Three young men—called by the townsfolk the "Three Fingers," the stewards of the settlement—stood respectfully before the table, giving their report.
The eldest was eighteen, the youngest fifteen.
"Iron Anvil" Hall spoke first. Entrusted by Aemond with overseeing the corps of orphaned youths, the black-haired young man, broad of shoulder and thick of back, spoke with steady composure.
"Your Highness, the new armor for the Second Company has all been issued."
"The guard now numbers five hundred and seventeen—two hundred in heavy armor, and more than three hundred in light."
Hall had once been the leader of the street children in the slums of King's Landing. Three years ago, Aemond had taken him in. Seeing in him a talent for command, Aemond had placed him in charge of the training of the entire guard.
He was now one of the men in charge of the guard, responsible for hammering those youths of the same birth into true soldiers.
Beside him, Carter followed with his report, his voice even. "The patrol line west of the Kingswood has been pushed to the border of Greenvale. Last week we intercepted three cases of villagers poaching; all were fined and warned according to regulation."
Lean of build, sharp of eye, he had once been a boy of the black market in Flea Bottom, skilled in tracking and stealth. Now he commanded the entire intelligence network of the territory and its outer reconnaissance, permitted to lead a portion of the foresters moving through the Kingswood.
Next to him, Will pushed forward the parchment before him, dense with figures. "Last month's trade increased by thirty percent."
"The Lys merchant vessel Silver Gull delivered fifty barrels of Lyseni dye and took away two hundred prime stag hides and fifty lengths of ebony."
"Our harbor expansion will be completed next month. Larger cargo ships will be able to dock then."
He had been the son of a merchant; his family had died at the hands of bandits in the Riverlands. Alone, he had fled to King's Landing and fallen to the streets.
Now Aemond had appointed him to oversee the supply dispatch and trade dealings of Dragon's Roost Town.
When the three had finished their reports, they lowered their heads.
Aemond listened in silence, his gaze sweeping across three young and loyal faces.
Raising this group from the lower ranks was precisely to free himself from the prospect of being constrained by nobles in the years to come.
Now the struggle between the Greens and the Blacks grew fiercer by the day. Many nobles of the Seven Kingdoms still watched and waited.
He could not rely solely upon House Hightower. The more he demanded of them, the heavier the return he would owe in the future.
He must build a foundation and a cadre of his own. These lads born of the lower ranks might not be as polished as nobles, yet their loyalty was their strength.
Men grow. Given time, they would be forged.
Aemond looked at the three bowed before him and spoke slowly.
"You have done well, but remember, our enemies have never been a few poaching villagers."
"Nor the discontented petty lords nearby."
"What I require of you, you will do. Do you understand?"
The three bowed solemnly. For three years, pledging themselves to Prince Aemond had become the sole creed of their lives.
The prince gave them what they needed to survive and the hope of one day becoming nobles. In return, he asked only for loyalty.
At that moment, a young guardsman announced from outside the hall, "Your Highness, Lord Mils Errol of Haystack Hall seeks an audience."
Aemond knew who had come and what he sought. The corner of his mouth lifted faintly. "Let him enter. You may withdraw."
The three saluted and departed.
...
Mils stepped into the main hall, his brow tightening despite himself.
The hall was overly plain. Bare stone walls, a rammed-earth floor covered with hides, and save for a large table and a few chairs, almost nothing else.
It carried the air of a military camp.
A stark contrast to the grand hall of his own castle, hung with tapestries and laid with carpets.
"Lord Errol," Aemond did not rise, only lifting a hand to indicate the chair opposite.
"Pray be seated. Is it concerning your son?"
The lord sat down and studied the handsome prince, forcing a smile onto his fifty-year-old face.
"Just so, Your Highness. My useless second son, Aelin…"
"Young and hot-blooded, fond of the hunt. A few days ago, he took his attendants into the Kingswood."
"The second time," Aemond said calmly. "Three months ago, his men attempted to hunt deer in the western forest district. The foresters warned them and imposed a fine."
"I recall he gave his word then that he would not offend again."
The lord's smile stiffened. "Yes… but the boy, you understand…"
"The Kingswood is royal property," Aemond cut him off.
"Under the Kingswood Management Edict I have proclaimed, commoners who poach are punished according to the severity—by flogging or by the loss of a finger. For nobles, a first offense is fined."
"This time your son poached one stag and two does. You must understand that the deer within the Kingswood belong to the wealth of the Crown."
"What does the stag symbolize? You should know."
At this, Mils drew a deep breath.
"Your Highness, I am willing to compensate tenfold according to noble custom. The stag valued at fifty gold dragons, each doe at forty gold dragons—tenfold amounts to one thousand three hundred gold dragons. I have brought the full sum today."
Having said so, his heart ached. The sum equaled one-third of his domain's yearly tax revenue.
It was enough to arm more than a dozen heavy knights.
Aemond watched the lord's barely concealed pain, fingers tapping lightly upon the table. The hall fell silent.
He spoke.
"Very well."
The lord let out a breath.
"But this will be the last time it is handled according to noble custom."
Aemond's violet eyes fixed upon him. "Next time—whether it is your son, a knight of Haystack Hall, a soldier, or a commoner—if any man enters the Kingswood to hunt without leave, I will personally cut off the hand that draws bow or grips spear."
"As I did to Ser Rodrick of Tumbleton."
A chill crept along Mils's spine.
He recalled the recent matter: Ser Rodrick of Tumbleton, near the Kingswood in the Reach, had led twenty men into the deep forest three months ago, slain four deer and a bear, wounded a forester, and fled back.
Three days later, Aemond had led the guard in person into the great hall of Tumbleton, before the lord of Tumbleton and his sworn retainers—
And there he had cut off Rodrick's right hand.
It was said the prince had spoken but one sentence then: "The Kingswood lies under Targaryen rule. Let this stand as a warning to any who would challenge the authority of the Crown."
From that day forth, the lords of the surrounding lands regarded the young prince with caution.
For in their eyes, the Kingswood had long been their own wealth. Only when the Targaryen royal house hunted upon great festivals had they shown restraint.
Now the prince invoked law and ownership. They could not openly defy him, for the Kingswood belonged to House Targaryen, though it had long gone unmanaged.
The lord lowered his head.
"I understand, Your Highness."
"There will be no next time."
"Good," Aemond nodded. "Pay the fine, and you may reclaim your son."
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