Deep into the night, within the depths of the Kingswood.
The entrance to the iron mine lay hidden between two rock faces, its surface tangled with withered vines. Only those familiar with the terrain could, under moonlight, discern the narrow path that had been trampled firm by repeated passage.
From within the cave came the faint sounds of hammering and dragging. The miners were hauling out the ore dug during the day, loading it onto the wagons waiting outside.
Three dark figures lay prone behind distant shrubs, having observed in silence for two hours.
"The third wagon," the leftmost shadow whispered.
"Each carries no less than five hundred pounds. At this rate…"
"The monthly yield will exceed five thousand pounds," the middle shadow finished.
"The Prince has opened a vein without His Grace's leave. That alone is a grave crime. On that charge alone, the King could strip him of his lands."
"More than that," the shadow on the right said, voice lower still. "Look at those guards. Uniform armor, standardized spears, ordered rotations."
"The force he has trained here numbers near a thousand, and the lands lie just below King's Landing…"
"With the taxes of his domain, he could at most sustain three hundred armed men."
"And now he mines in secret and keeps a private host. Nearly a thousand in number, fully armored. Tell me… what does he mean to do?"
"If His Grace knew the Prince was drilling a standing force of near a thousand so close to King's Landing, what would he think?"
The three exchanged glances, understanding without words.
What they had seen these past days far exceeded expectation.
At that moment, the withered vines at the cave mouth were lifted aside, and four miners pushed out a heavily laden ore cart.
An oilcloth covered the top, yet through the gaps one could glimpse the deep black of the ore. The drivers loaded and unloaded in silence.
"Enough," the middle shadow murmured. "We withdraw. Before dawn, the word must—"
His voice cut off.
A cold voice came from behind them, so near it seemed to brush their ears.
"So late, and still there are rats poking their noses about?"
The three men turned cold and stiff.
They looked back.
Under the moonlight, Aemond Targaryen stood quietly some dozen paces away, hands resting upon his sword.
His feet were set apart, weight sunk low, arms relaxed yet coiled with strength—the stance of one long tempered for battle.
More dreadful still was what stood behind him.
From the shadow of the shrubs, at least twenty figures emerged without a sound.
Dark green leather armor. Longbows already drawn, arrowheads glinting cold beneath the moon.
At their head stood "Shadow" Carter, his lean face devoid of expression.
They were surrounded.
"Run!" the middle shadow roared hoarsely.
Too late.
Aemond burst forward, swift as an arrow loosed from the string.
The body of fifteen years became a bow drawn and released in an instant, the sword in left and right hand flashing as a blur.
The scout on the left had not yet fully turned when he felt a chill at his neck. Warm liquid surged forth.
His sight began to spin. He saw the moonlight, the treetops, his own headless body still lunging forward—then all sank into darkness.
The head rolled across the dead leaves and came to rest beside a clump of ferns, the eyes still open, reflecting the moon above.
The other two were struck senseless with terror. They exchanged a glance, and in the next instant fled in opposite directions.
One plunged toward the dense thicket on the left; the other rushed down the steep slope to the right—if he leapt, he could tumble into the stream below and escape with his life.
Carter raised his hand, and the foresters' bowstrings drew tight.
But Aemond lifted his right hand, fingers spread.
All shooting ceased.
Almost at once, a tearing wind split the sky.
It was no beat of wings, but the howl of something larger, heavier, rending the air.
A vast shadow swept over the treetops.
Lothorne had come.
The black dragon plunged from the heights, its eight-meter body turning into a bolt of black lightning as it fell.
At the last instant its wings folded, and its whole weight crashed toward the earth.
Its hind claws opened.
The scout fleeing right heard the wind and looked up in horror, seeing only a pair of black talons swelling fast within his sight.
Impact.
Not a tear, nor a grasp—only pure, brutal crushing force.
With the weight of its dive, Lothorne struck down with both claws.
Beneath a blow of a thousand pounds, the man burst like overripe fruit.
A blood-mist—truly a fine crimson spray—blossomed in the moonlight, mingled with shards of flesh and bone, spattering the trunks and ground about.
There was no scream. Death came too swiftly, swifter than sound.
What remained was a heap of mangled flesh, and two feet still fixed in the posture of running.
Lothorne did not pause after the strike.
It spread its wings and banked sharply left, sweeping toward the last man.
The scout had reached the edge of the slope. Hearing his companion's grisly end, he dared not look back and hurled himself forward to leap.
The gust from the dragon's wings flung him to the ground.
He rolled twice and struggled up, only to see Lothorne settled at the mouth of the slope before him.
The black dragon did not attack at once. It merely folded its wings and fixed him with blood-red vertical pupils, watching with clear interest.
The scout collapsed to the earth, shrieking as he drew a dagger.
Firelight welled in the dragon's throat, the flame poised but not yet loosed.
"No… no!" The scout dropped the dagger and covered his head with both hands.
"Hey." A voice sounded, and Lothorne abandoned the thought of breathing flame.
Aemond stepped through the dead leaves and halted before the scout.
Lothorne gave a low growl. Warm dragon-breath washed over the man's face, heavy with the scent of blood.
"Tonight," Aemond said, "is truly a fine one, is it not?"
The scout's lips trembled. His right hand suddenly darted toward the dagger at his side.
Aemond's left foot came down at once, precise upon the man's wrist, pressing lightly.
A sharp crack—the bones shattered.
The scream had barely begun when Aemond seized the other arm, twisted and bent it, and the joint came apart with a dull, heavy sound.
The wail choked in his throat, leaving only a strangled groan of suffocating pain.
Carter and his men closed in with torches. The light spread across the clearing, revealing bloodstains, fragments of flesh, and the lone surviving scout.
Aemond bent down, seized the man by the hair, and forced his head up.
The face was twisted with agony, snot and tears mingled with dirt.
"Who sent you?" Aemond asked softly, violet eyes fixed upon him.
The spy's teeth chattered, yet in his eyes there flickered a despairing resolve. He could not speak. If he did, his family would surely die.
Aemond watched him for several seconds, then nodded.
"Would you play the hard man?" He released his grip, rose to his feet, and drew both swords.
The twin blades flowed in the moonlight.
There was no hesitation, no wasted motion—he did not even grant him a final word.
The two edges crossed and swept through.
A third head fell to the ground.
Lothorne gave a pleased low growl and moved forward at once to feed upon the corpse.
The sound of dragon's teeth tearing flesh and crushing bone rang clear in the still forest.
Carter and the foresters watched without expression.
They were long accustomed to it. A dragon must eat, and the bodies of enemies were better than spending the limited livestock of the lands.
Aemond sheathed his blades and looked to Carter. "See it cleaned."
"Double the outer watch. Any who approach without leave—kill them without question."
"Yes." Carter nodded, then hesitated. "Your Highness, this is the third time this year. Whoever stands behind it will not relent."
"I know." Aemond looked north, toward King's Landing. "They seek to learn how many pieces I hold in hand."
He nudged the head at his feet. The face was plain, without distinguishing mark, and the clothing ordinary.
"Dead men sworn to die," Aemond said.
Carter crouched to search the bodies, but Lothorne, still feeding, suddenly turned its head. Its fangs were within three feet of him, the stench of blood striking full upon his face, agitation surging in those blood-red vertical pupils.
"Easy, my lord dragon…" Carter raised his hands and stepped back.
Aemond cast a glance.
Lothorne met its master's gaze, hissed once, and turned back to its meal.
Carter searched carefully, then rose after a moment and shook his head. "Your Highness, they carry nothing."
"That is as expected," Aemond said evenly.
"Raise the iron output by another thirty percent."
"I require more iron, more armor, more weapons—arms for more men."
"But…" Carter began cautiously.
"From tomorrow, give the miners more meat," Aemond cut in.
"Set quotas. Those who meet them are rewarded. Those who fail are punished."
Carter nodded. He oversaw the mine; if the standard was not met, there were means to see it done.
As for the Prince's promise of freedom upon completing a term of labor, it merely drove them to work the harder.
"See to it." Aemond waved his hand. The men withdrew at his command.
By then Lothorne had finished the corpse and licked the blood from its claws in satisfaction.
The black dragon padded to its master's side and lowered its head, pressing its brow lightly against Aemond's arm—its manner of showing affection.
The scent of blood stained his sleeve, yet Aemond paid it no mind, stroking the warm scales along the dragon's neck.
This little creature was his reliance.
Each night's long watch was borne upon its strength.
This was the dragon bound to his life, their understanding wordless, a meeting of eyes enough to know the other's thought.
As for the old dragon Vhagar… theirs was more a matter of alliance than bond.
---
I will post some extra Chapters in Patreon, you can check it out. >> patreon.com/TitoVillar
---