At this moment, the lord inside the room did not rise.
"Is there something else?"
"Yes, Your Highness." Mils drew a letter from within his robes. The red wax bore the crowned stag of House Baratheon.
"I have also come at the command of Lord Boremund Baratheon."
"In ten days' time, the lord will host a feast at Storm's End to celebrate his seventieth nameday. He sincerely invites you to attend."
Aemond took the letter but did not open it at once. Instead, he studied the wax seal in silence.
Boremund Baratheon—Lord of the Stormlands. House Baratheon was a cadet branch of House Targaryen, and he was among the most powerful lords in the Seven Kingdoms.
More importantly, he was the uncle of the "Queen Who Never Was," Rhaenys Targaryen. Even after the affair of Vaemond, he had remained steadfast in his support of Rhaenyra's claim as heir.
This was an invitation from a core supporter of the Blacks.
"The lord still remembers a prince such as I? I am honored," Aemond said with a faint smile. "Inform the lord that I shall attend the feast on time."
Mils let out a quiet breath of relief, bowed, and withdrew.
...
The lord's carriage rolled along the main street of Dragon's Roost Town, bound for the holding to retrieve his men. What he saw through the window set his heart on edge.
The houses lining the street were plain, yet arranged in orderly rows, clearly laid out under a single plan.
More unsettling still were the soldiers drilling on the open ground at the edge of town—some two hundred youths, half of them clad in uniform half-plate that gleamed cold beneath the sun.
They trained in squads of ten: the front rank with shields and spears raised, the rear rank with swords and axes in hand, advancing and retreating in measured order.
The remaining lightly armed soldiers practiced archery. The targets stood fifty paces away, and their rate of hitting the mark was high.
Mils was himself a lord and well aware of the burden of maintaining troops. Outfitting a single heavily armed infantryman in full armor cost no less than thirty gold dragons, and the monthly wages, provisions, and upkeep were a continual drain.
By his reckoning, the yearly expense of Aemond's guard must be enormous.
At Haystack Hall, maintaining just over two hundred standing men—none even fully armored—was already a strain.
And this prince commanded five hundred guards…
Not to mention the more than four hundred lightly armored foresters.
"Ruination through arms," the lord muttered to the captain of his knights beside him. "A prince, living on the taxes of his fief alone—relying only on royal stipends and the trade of furs and timber—how could he possibly maintain nearly a thousand standing troops?"
"And the king does nothing?"
The captain lowered his voice. "My lord, there are rumors… Dragon's Roost has other sources of income."
"Other sources of income?"
"It is said… a vein of ore was found within the royal forest."
"Look to the eastern quarter of the town—guards are posted there at all times. Idlers are not permitted to approach."
"Some say the sound of hammering carries from there day and night."
The lord narrowed his eyes. If the rumors were true—if Aemond had opened mines, smelted metal, even forged weapons without leave from King's Landing…
Then the matter was grave indeed.
Yet it was none of his concern. The other man was a prince. There was no need for a mere lord to offend one who held real power.
All the more so when that prince was Aemond, rider of Vhagar. To cross him would be folly unto death.
At that moment, the carriage passed the only tavern in town, the Three Barrels of Ale. Voices drifted through the door and into the carriage: "…Follow Prince Aemond and you'll have meat on your plate!" a rough voice boomed. "I, Scarface, hid in the woods for more than ten years, never knowing when my next meal would come. And now? A forester! Three silver stags a month, food and lodging provided, and thirty percent of any pelts I bring in!"
Another, younger voice chimed in, "That's the truth! My father tilled fields for the lord of Rosby. After rent, we starved. Last year we fled here—were given about a third of an acre of good riverside land, tax-free for two years!"
"The rules are strict, though," a third muttered. "Fighting or theft is punished harshly—lose a finger for the lesser offense, a hand for the greater, or the gallows…"
"Better strict than chaos!" the rough voice shot back. "In the woods before, men would stab one another over a rabbit. Now there are laws. Life is steadier."
...
At the same time, the eastern district of Dragon's Roost.
This area had been enclosed by walls and set apart, guarded by the youth corps. Four watchtowers rose around it, allowing constant surveillance.
Aemond entered within, accompanied by the treasurer, Will.
After walking some hundred paces, the air grew warmer, and the ringing of hammer on iron became clear.
Deep within the royal forest lay a natural cavern, its location revealed two years ago by refugees who had sworn fealty.
Aemond had led men to survey it and discovered within a rich vein of iron ore, vast in reserve.
He did not report it to King's Landing. By law, mineral wealth within the Seven Kingdoms belonged jointly to the Crown and the local lord, with profits divided by proportion—but mining required the king's leave.
Aemond chose to mine in secret. Without this hidden income, the vast expense of maintaining his forces would have been impossible to sustain.
Now the entire eastern district had been transformed into a manufactory. Thirty furnaces burned day and night. Smiths, bare to the waist, swung their hammers, sweat shining in the firelight.
The clang of metal rose and fell without pause, and the air was thick with coal smoke and the scent of iron.
"At present, we produce six thousand pounds of pig iron each month," Will reported. "After adopting the methods brought by the Tyroshi smith, output has increased by thirty percent over the old practice. We refine roughly four thousand five hundred pounds of wrought iron. Half is fashioned into farming implements and tools, sold through the port, and the proceeds sustain the workshops and pay the wages."
"And the other half?"
Will pointed toward a more concealed corner in the depths of the eastern district. "That is the special workshop, overseen by more than thirty of our most trusted smiths and their apprentices."
"They forge military equipment exclusively—armor plates, sword blanks, spearheads, arrowheads. At present, the stockpile is enough to equip four hundred men."
Aemond stepped closer to that section. The heat there was heavier still. The smiths were crafting standardized components of armor—breastplates, vambraces, greaves. In one corner lay bundled spearheads, all made to uniform specification.
"The quality?"
"Meets the standard of knightly armor," Will said, lifting a breastplate and striking it lightly with a hammer. The ring was clear and sharp. "Yet lighter and more resilient. It uses the carburizing process you mentioned."
Aemond nodded.
"And the miners?"
"Three hundred and fifty men, divided into three shifts. All were purchased from Slaver's Bay. As you ordered, they are to be granted freedom after five years of mining. For that reason, they are loyal and dependable."
"We have increased patrols around the area, and entry and exit are strictly controlled."
Will was uneasy. Slaveholding was a grave crime in Westeros. If this were exposed, the prince would face severe punishment.
Aemond, too, felt the weight of it.
What he intended to do in the future would likely provoke his father's wrath enough to strip this fief from him.
He suddenly thought of his ten-year-old younger brother, Daeron, fostered at House Hightower…
Was there a way to persuade Viserys to regrant this land to Daeron?
And a year ago, Tella—placed beside Helaena as a maid—had sent word: Queen Alicent, who had not shared the king's bed for many years, had conceived again after one of Viserys's sudden whims.
The king was overjoyed and proclaimed a general pardon for the prisoners of King's Landing.
By the reckoning of days, his mother's child would soon be born.
On Dragonstone, Rhaenyra had borne another son as well—her second child with Daemon, named Viserys.
If Rhaenyra were a rational woman, she need only continue bearing legitimate heirs, and none could shake her position as Princess of Dragonstone.
Just as her fertile she-dragon, Syrax.
Rhaenyra still insisted that Jacaerys and the other two boys were legitimate.
No matter how Viserys or her husband Daemon hinted and counseled her, she would not yield.
Now history had already been altered. His mother, Queen Alicent, was with child again. In the course of events as they had once stood, the Greens had only four Targaryen offspring. Now there would be one more brother—or sister.
When the Dance of the Dragons would erupt remained uncertain.
But war was inevitable.
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