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Summerhall (Riverside Fief), The Crownlands.
Months after the King granted the territory.
Now, the territory was still a construction site.
On this gentle slope near a tributary of the Blackwater Rush, bluish-gray stone quarried from the riverbanks was piled in disorder, and freshly cut timber emitted the scent of resin and moisture.
Temporary workshops and tents were scattered across the cleared open ground.
Not far away, the trenches for the planned castle foundations had just been dug into shallow outlines.
But at this moment, it wasn't these civil engineering works that drew all eyes.
Instead, it was the more than five hundred figures lined up neatly on the hard-packed mud in the center of the clearing.
They were all very young, mostly between ten and fifteen years old, wearing uniform coarse hemp trousers and shirts dyed dark gray, rough, yet clean and tidy.
These youths had varied features; some had the light brown hair and gray-blue eyes common to natives of the Crownlands, while others had black or brown hair.
But without exception, the aimlessness or wildness of their days as vagrants had vanished from their eyes.
In its place was a tense expression, an effort to appear resolute.
They stood bolt upright. Though some had backs slightly hunched from long-term malnutrition, they were now desperately straightening themselves.
They were arranged in a phalanx that wasn't perfectly regular but was clearly trained.
Aemond Targaryen stood on a slightly elevated mound not far in front of them.
He was dressed simply today in a black leather jerkin without any ornamentation, his silver-gold hair tied back, appearing almost indistinct in the slanting afternoon sunlight.
And right now, the most eye-catching thing wasn't the Prince himself, but the creature perched calmly on his left shoulder.
Morghul.
This young dragon, hatched only a few months ago, had already grown from the size of a hunting hound to that of a large wolfdog.
His entire body of scales was of an ultimate, light-absorbing black.
Those eyes were dark red vertical pupils with a ring of gold patterns embedded around the edges, currently turning with curiosity as they surveyed the hundreds of upturned faces below.
His powerful hind legs firmly gripped Aemond's shoulder, and his long, strong tail hung behind Aemond's back.
Even more amazing was the intimacy between him and Aemond.
The little dragon would occasionally turn its head, using its cool snout covered in fine scales to lightly touch Aemond's ear or cheek, emitting soft, nasal 'clucking' sounds.
Aemond remained composed, occasionally raising a hand to lightly scratch the gaps in the fine scales under the little dragon's jaw.
Morghul would then comfortably half-close his dark red dragon eyes, letting out a satisfied purr from his throat.
At this moment, Aemond took a small piece of dried meat from a leather pouch at his waist and handed it to his shoulder.
Morghul immediately snatched it precisely, his sharp but still small teeth tearing and swallowing the meat in a few bites.
Then he licked Aemond's fingers, which were still stained with a few crumbs, as if he hadn't had enough.
'I will need to feed him fresh meat soon, ' Aemond thought.
'Or perhaps my own blood again.' (T/N: Sure, like that won't go wrong.)
This incredible scene of intimacy left many of the youths in the ranks dazed, their eyes reflecting a mixture of awe, wonder, and an indescribable yearning.
Aemond's gaze slowly swept across the phalanx.
He didn't speak; he just watched. His gaze was calm, weighing the bones and will hidden beneath each physical shell.
Every youth whose gaze touched puffed out their chest further and tightened their chin.
Just then, the instructors, knights from House Hightower standing at the front side of the phalanx, took a sharp breath and roared in loud, gravelly voices:
"Swear!"
The voices of over five hundred people were somewhat uneven at first, but they quickly converged into a flood that, while youthful, was exceptionally firm, like a vow echoing through the chilly early spring air:
"I... pledge my loyalty to my Prince, Aemond!"
"To love what he loves! To hate what he hates!"
The boys' faces flushed slightly from the effort, but their eyes remained fixed on the silver-haired Prince on the mound ahead, staring at the black young dragon on his shoulder that seemed to belong only in legends.
"Treat me well for my submission! Grant me what I deserve!"
"Then every word and deed! Every action! Shall be guided by his will!"
The last sentence was almost roared out:
"Never to be broken!!!"
The echoes slowly faded over the open territory.
Aemond was satisfied and nodded.
At the signal, the instructors shouted again:
"Dismissed! Eat!"
The tense atmosphere suddenly relaxed.
The youths maintained their ranks, turning in an orderly fashion and walking toward the temporary canteen not far away, where cooking smoke and the aroma of food were rising.
Several large pots set on stone stoves boiled barley porridge, with baskets of white bread and stewed meat piled beside them.
Their steps were quick; their young bodies' craving for food overwhelmed everything, but order remained; there was no shoving, only hurried steps and suppressed low conversations.
Some of them still cast occasional glances toward the Prince's figure on the mound.
Aemond walked down from the mound. Morghul adjusted his claws with the movement, maintaining a firm grip.
"Tsk tsk, truly impressive, my nephew."
A voice full of amusement came from the side.
Gwayne Hightower approached slowly.
He was in his twenties, inheriting the signature brown hair and tall stature of House Hightower; he had a handsome face and was the youngest son of Otto.
Gwayne's features bore a slight resemblance to his sister, Queen Alicent, but his temperament was more relaxed.
He wore dark blue light armor suitable for movement, covered by a finely crafted but simply styled leather coat bearing his family crest.
His gaze first landed on the dragon on Aemond's shoulder, filled with undisguised interest and amazement.
"Is this the black dragon? Morghul?"
He reached out, tentatively wanting to touch the little dragon's smooth crown.
'Hiss!'
Morghul's reaction was lightning fast. The small dragon head snapped toward Gwayne, his dark red vertical pupils instantly contracting like needles.
The previously relaxed scales bristled slightly, his sharp but small teeth bared, and a threatening low growl issued from his throat.
Gwayne was startled and immediately pulled his hand back, a flash of embarrassment and lingering fear crossing his face.
"What a fierce temper!"
Aemond raised his hand and pressed it gently against the side of Morghul's neck.
"Lykiri," he whispered in Valyrian.
The little black dragon's scales slowly smoothed down, but his dark red eyes still stared warningly at Gwayne, his tail flicking restlessly.
"He hates everyone." Aemond turned to Gwayne, his tone flat.
"And he is no pet, uncle."
"Yes, yes, I understand." Gwayne rubbed his nose, wisely giving up on the idea of petting a dragon.
He turned his attention to the boys who were orderly receiving their meals.
"Honestly, Aemond, I've been watching these past few days, and this training method of yours... is quite special. I've truly had my eyes opened."
He pointed to the youths.
"These... orphans? Street urchins? You picked them from all over the Crownlands, even from Flea Bottom? All based on a set of daily oaths? Drills? Literacy? And that so-called... formation and discipline training? They haven't even begun to properly learn how to use spears and swords."
"They are learning something more important," Aemond said, watching the youths holding wooden bowls and crouching on the ground as they ate ravenously.
"Loyalty. Order. Belonging."
"Willpower is important, certainly," Gwayne admitted, standing beside him.
"But why not choose adults? Mercenaries, or recruit freemen from the territory? They have experience and strength; they can become a fighting force much faster. These orphans... it will take at least two or three years before they can be of use."
Aemond turned his head slightly to look at his uncle.
"Adults have attachments," he said slowly.
"Their minds are too cluttered, their desires too many."
His gaze fell back on the boys.
"They have no parents, no attachments. Their past is a blank slate or filled with suffering. I feed them, I clothe them, I keep them from wandering, and I give them hope for the future. Only these people, without any ties or bonds, can follow me... wholly."
Gwayne listened, his relaxed smile gradually fading. He carefully studied Aemond's calm profile.
"The way you think... always exceeds my expectations, Aemond. Father was right, you are more... than your brother..."
He stopped that topic and asked instead, "Then, what about the castle? How do you plan to build it? Two hundred thousand Gold Dragons is no small sum."
"Planning?" Aemond's gaze turned toward the distant foundations that had just been excavated.
"Build slowly. Build deliberately. Build with quality."
Gwayne was stunned for a moment.
"Just like that? No rush to raise high walls? This is your territory, your seat."
Aemond did not answer immediately.
He raised his hand, and Morghul took the opportunity to rub his head against Aemond's palm, then spread his wings and flapped them twice.
He gave a low whistle and leaped from Aemond's shoulder, gliding toward a pile of timber nearby.
"No matter how strong a castle is built," Aemond said, watching the dragon land, "if the master leaves, or is no longer permitted to own it, the territory is merely toiling for another's benefit."
Gwayne didn't understand what Aemond meant and felt a hint of confusion.
But Aemond knew that he only needed to cultivate a core force that belonged entirely to him, a force that could move.
As for this territory, it would likely be reclaimed by an enraged King after what he was about to do.
"As for those stones and timbers, the craftsmen and laborers," Aemond continued, "just going through the motions is enough."
Gwayne nodded, then lowered his voice.
"That woman you had me arrange for, Terra, and those few people under her... they have already followed those rat catchers and mapped out most of the winding secret passages beneath the Red Keep."
Hearing this, Aemond asked, "Have they mapped it out thoroughly?"
"Almost. The most critical passages, leading to Maegor's Holdfast and near the King's solar, have all been confirmed. Even those secret passages connecting to the outside have been figured out."
Gwayne paused, then saw the killing intent in Aemond's eyes.
"You mean...?"
Aemond looked at him.
"Secrets are secrets," he said slowly, "because the fewer people who know, the better."
He raised his right hand, extended his index finger, and made a light horizontal slash across his neck.
The movement was crisp and clean, without a hint of hesitation.
Gwayne understood. Those secret passages meant a threat to anyone living in the Red Keep.
The rat catchers, knowing the paths they shouldn't take, were a danger in itself.
"...Indeed." Gwayne nodded slowly, his face returning to its usual, slightly detached calm.
"These people were lowborn scum anyway, and their hands weren't clean. Their disappearance won't attract much attention. I will handle it."
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