Dragon's Roost.
The young black dragon coiled atop the highest point of the castle—Lothorne.
Aemond sat astride the dragon's back, looking down over his entire domain.
A few years ago, this place had been nothing but barren hills, with only a handful of shepherds' stone huts scattered along the slopes.
Now, gray stone walls stretched from the water's edge deep inland, enclosing the entire highland into a vast encampment.
Inside the walls stood neatly arranged wooden houses, warehouses, stables, and training grounds.
There were now sixty thousand people.
Sixty thousand people living, building, and multiplying on his land.
Among them were more than thirty thousand Velaryon remnants forcibly relocated from Driftmark.
On the castle slope, Aemond sat, watching the ant-like figures busily moving across the construction sites.
Most of them were still unpaid laborers—euphemistically called "labor reform."
Below him, Lothorne snorted.
A blast of hot air carrying the stench of sulfur burst from the dragon's nostrils.
It shifted its head impatiently, the scales along its neck gleaming black under the sunlight.
Aemond reached out and patted its neck.
"Easy," he said softly.
His gaze passed over Lothorne's rising and falling spine and settled on the winding mountain road beyond the castle gates.
A figure was approaching quickly.
Krytt.
Aemond watched as the young man drew closer.
His pace was fast. When he reached thirty paces from Lothorne, he stopped.
He dropped to one knee.
Head lowered.
Aemond said nothing.
He simply watched.
Lothorne's nostrils flared twice.
Its head slowly turned, those amber slit pupils locking onto the kneeling "food" thirty paces away.
It snorted again.
This time, there was a hint of bloodlust in the breath.
Krytt remained kneeling.
He did not raise his head.
A low rumble rolled from Lothorne's throat.
It was the sound a dragon made when displeased—it did not understand why its master would not allow it to devour the snack delivered right to its mouth.
It stared at Krytt for a few more seconds.
Then its head turned toward Aemond.
The meaning in that gaze was unmistakable.
Can I eat this one?
Aemond looked at it.
He did not speak.
Nor did he nod or shake his head.
He simply watched.
Lothorne waited for a few breaths, but no permission came.
It grew irritated.
It turned its head back toward Krytt.
Its throat began to glow.
An orange-red light seeped through the gaps between its black scales, brighter and brighter.
That was the sign of dragonfire about to erupt.
Thirty paces away, Krytt still knelt.
He did not raise his head.
He did not run.
He did not tremble.
He even—closed his eyes.
But it was not the closing of someone awaiting death.
It was the closing of someone awaiting a trial.
Aemond smiled.
Lothorne's throat now burned like molten lava, the orange-red glow illuminating Krytt's entire body.
Even from thirty paces away, the heat could be felt—the air began to warp, and the grass on the ground shriveled and blackened.
Lothorne waited one last time.
Still, no command came.
At last, it lost patience.
It lifted its head.
A pillar of orange-red dragonfire shot skyward!
The blazing column roared for over ten seconds, dyeing the sky above Dragon's Roost in a strange, burning orange.
The heatwave swept outward. Workers inside the castle threw themselves to the ground in terror, while warhorses screamed within the stables.
Those migrants from Driftmark collapsed to their knees in droves, trembling uncontrollably.
Lothorne finished breathing fire.
And now—it was even more displeased.
He let out a heavy snort, turned his head aside, and stopped looking at the boring morsel.
Aemond finally let out a laugh.
He patted Lothorne on the neck.
"Enough."
"He's one of ours."
"Not food."
With its head turned aside, Lothorne let out a low rumble, as if voicing its displeasure.
But it did not breathe fire again.
Aemond slid down from the dragon's back.
He walked up to Krytt.
"Raise your head."
Krytt raised his head.
It was a young face—just past boyhood, brown hair, brown eyes, plain features. But those eyes—
Those eyes were bright.
Aemond looked into them.
There was no fear in them.
Only one thing.
Desire.
"Why did you not dodge?" Aemond asked.
Krytt looked at the prince.
"Because I am not afraid."
His voice was steady.
"Everything I have was given by Your Highness. If Your Highness wishes to take it back…"
He paused. "Even my life belongs to you."
Aemond said nothing.
He simply looked into Krytt's eyes.
After a long moment, he said, "You are very good."
Krytt's eyes shone even brighter.
"Between wanting and having—there's only one thing that matters."
"Doing it."
He paused.
"You must do it."
He looked at Krytt.
"Only by doing it can you obtain it."
Krytt remained kneeling, but his back was straight as a spear.
His eyes met Aemond's directly.
"I have made up my mind," he said, word by word, "I will see it done."
"I will never let you be disappointed in me."
Aemond looked at him.
He liked this kind of person.
Confident. Bold. Ambitious.
Full of fierce vitality.
Never hiding their desires.
There were too few among the nobility like this.
Those born with lands, titles, and wealth mostly only knew how to preserve what they had.
They feared losing what was already theirs, so they did not dare to take risks, did not dare to gamble, did not dare to fight for more.
The ones who truly dared to gamble were often those who had nothing.
Because they had nothing to lose.
"The intelligence work in King's Landing," Aemond said, "can you handle it?"
Krytt's eyes burned like fire.
"I can."
"And the Crownlands? The Seven Kingdoms?"
Krytt took a deep breath.
"I can."
"If I fail, I am willing to be put to death."
Aemond nodded.
He walked back to Lothorne and took something from a pouch beside the saddle.
It was a Targaryen sigil.
He tossed it to Krytt.
Krytt caught it with both hands.
"Regarding the mission to Dragonstone," Aemond said, "I am very satisfied."
"You are also one of the old hands from the youth corps…"
Krytt's heart suddenly pounded.
"Now, I grant you the rank of knight," Aemond said.
"From this day forward, you are a noble in service to House Targaryen."
"Under Dragon's Roost, I grant you an estate."
Krytt clenched the sigil tightly.
A knight.
An estate.
From an orphan in Flea Bottom—from a rat who once crawled through the sewers of King's Landing—first taken in, then forged into a death-sworn retainer…
Now he had become a knight.
The kind with lands.
He would even have a surname of his own, the chance to found a noble house.
He knew very well how difficult such a leap across class truly was.
He opened his mouth.
He wanted to say thank you, wanted to swear he would not fail, wanted to pledge his life.
But he found his throat choked.
Aemond watched him.
He did not laugh.
He simply waited.
Krytt took a deep breath.
He lowered his head.
His forehead touched the ground.
"Thank you, Your Highness."
Aemond nodded.
"You may go."
Krytt stood.
Turned.
His steps were still steady, but Aemond could see the slight tremor in his shoulders.
It was not fear.
It was excitement.
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