Antlers.
This castle lay roughly 250 kilometers northeast of King's Landing, one of the key strongholds in the northern Crownlands.
Its walls were not tall, but they were thick. Arrow towers stood in clusters, and a wide moat encircled it—enough to repel any ground assault.
At this moment, the army encamped outside the walls outnumbered what the castle could even hold.
The camp stretched for miles. Tents packed together like mushrooms after rain.
Smoke rose from countless cookfires, weaving into a gray-white haze beneath the afternoon sky.
Five hundred heavily armored cavalry of the Royal Guard were stationed on the western flank.
Their tents were arranged in perfect order. Warhorses were tethered in designated stables. Their armor and weapons shone, polished to a mirror gleam.
These nobles were the elite heavy knights of the Greens. Every knight came from a southern noble house, each clad in dragon-engraved armor forged of Targaryen steel.
The royal army occupied the center.
Over three thousand men—well-equipped and well-trained.
They were the standing army of the Crownlands, paid by the Iron Throne, commanded by the Iron Throne.
Their commander, Ser Willem Darklyn, was a seasoned veteran.
The forces of the Crownlands' vassals camped to the east.
Five thousand men, drawn from more than a dozen houses. Their banners were a riot of colors, their equipment uneven.
Some were household guards. Others were newly conscripted peasants, dragged in to fill the ranks.
But regardless, five thousand men was still five thousand men.
And to the south of the camp, near a small woodland, stood a group that was distinctly different.
The private army of Dragon's Roost.
Prince Aemond's personal guard.
Their tents were even more orderly than the Royal Guard's, but darker in color and simpler in design.
No unnecessary decoration. No ostentatious banners.
Only a single standard planted at the camp entrance—
Black field. Three-headed golden dragon.
At this moment, the guards sat around their fires, drinking steaming bowls of meat stew.
The broth was thick with lamb, seasoned with salt and spices, rich enough to make mouths water.
Each man held a chunk of black bread, breaking it apart and soaking it in the stew, slurping noisily as they ate.
From time to time, they would glance toward the figure seated on the nearby hill.
Prince Aemond sat there.
Leaning back against an old oak, hands resting on his knees, eyes closed in quiet repose.
The setting sun filtered through the leaves, scattering light and shadow across his face.
He wore finely wrought steel armor, the sigil of the three-headed golden dragon engraved across his chest.
At his waist hung the sword Blackfyre.
Not far from him, two dragons feasted.
Vhagar lay sprawled on the ground, pinning a whole roasted ox beneath her massive claws.
The beast had been roasted to perfection, its skin sizzling with fat.
Vhagar lowered her head and tore away half the carcass in a single bite, swallowing it without chewing.
Lothorne crouched nearby. Three whole roasted sheep lay before him. He used his claws to tear off pieces, eating more slowly, savoring each bite.
From time to time, he would glance at his mother, Vhagar—and at the roasted ox before her.
He wanted beef. Not lamb.
But he knew better than to snatch food from Vhagar's jaws.
He would only get beaten for it.
Resentful, Lothorne turned back to the sheep and continued eating.
Four roasted oxen. Ten roasted sheep.
More were being carried in by the soldiers without pause.
The scent of spices filled the air, mingling with charcoal smoke and the musk of dragons into a strange, heavy aroma.
Hall crossed the camp and climbed the hill.
He stopped before Aemond.
"My prince."
Aemond did not open his eyes.
Hall continued: "Your Highness, there are tents prepared nearby. You may rest inside."
Aemond opened his eyes.
Those violet eyes seemed especially deep beneath the dying light.
"There is a great dragon in the Riverlands."
Hall froze for a moment.
"Caraxes," Aemond said.
"Daemon's dragon."
"The Blood Wyrm. An aberration among dragons."
"One of the fastest in Westeros. Far more agile than Vhagar."
"If Daemon were to strike suddenly—do you think I would be killed in my sleep?"
Hall fell silent.
Aemond looked at him with a faint smile.
"To harbor even a trace of luck is the greatest misfortune."
He patted the old oak behind him.
"Resting against the tree—if anything happens, I can mount my dragon at once."
Hall lowered his head.
"As you say, my prince."
Aemond withdrew his gaze.
He looked at the two dragons feeding in the distance.
"The Blacks will certainly know I've arrived."
"If we move to attack Rook's Rest, they'll come to ambush us."
Hall raised his head.
"They have Caraxes—the Blood Wyrm—and Meleys."
Aemond glanced at Vhagar.
"Vhagar's wounds…"
"Light," Aemond said.
"They won't affect her in battle."
"But if Meleys and Caraxes coordinate—and with two seasoned dragonriders, Rhaenys and Daemon—"
He hesitated for a moment, then let out a quiet sigh.
"If I can't defeat them one by one…"
Hall frowned.
"Then going to Rook's Rest…"
Aemond smiled.
The smile ran deep.
"Who said I must go to Rook's Rest?"
Hall froze.
"What?"
Aemond drew a map from his cloak and spread it across his knees.
He pointed to a spot on it.
"Look."
Hall leaned closer.
It was Dragonstone.
His eyes widened.
"My prince, you mean to—"
"Draw them away," Aemond said.
He tapped the location of Rook's Rest.
"Here—we bring the full weight of our army."
"Daemon and Rhaenys will think I'm here. They'll come to ambush me."
His finger shifted to Dragonstone.
"And while they come—I leave."
Aemond looked up, smiling at Hall.
"I go to Dragonstone and seize the false king."
Hall's breath hitched.
"Seize… the king?"
"Rhaenyra Targaryen," Aemond said. "My dear sister."
"The Blacks won't let her take part in this ambush."
"She's unstable, and less experienced than Daemon and Rhaenys."
"She'll stay on Dragonstone, waiting for news."
"Like a beautiful vase."
He paused.
"I'll go and take her."
"Alive would be better. Dead will do."
Hall's expression changed.
This was decapitation.
If it succeeded, the war could end at once.
"My prince," Hall said, his voice a little dry.
"Then the rest of us…"
Aemond tilted his head slightly. His violet eyes rested on him, calm.
"Bait."
Hall froze.
"Bait?"
Aemond nodded.
"Daemon and Rhaenys want me."
"When they see the army besieging the castle, they'll think I'm there."
"They'll come for me."
"You only need to feign an assault. When they appear, withdraw."
"Withdraw?" Hall asked. Of course he knew that a hasty retreat would bring heavy losses.
"Gwayne will obey," Aemond said. "This is my command."
He rose to his feet.
Gently, he patted Hall's shoulder.
"You are one of my closest men. That's why I told you."
"When we near Rook's Rest, have the personal guard take position at the rear of the army—ready to withdraw at any moment."
He looked straight into Hall's eyes.
"When Daemon and Rhaenys arrive, have Gwayne pull back. Tell him it's my order."
Hall drew in a deep breath and nodded.
"Yes."
There was trust in Aemond's smile.
"This is the fastest way to end the war."
"Once I seize Rhaenyra—or kill her—the Blacks will lose their banner."
"And men's hearts will scatter of their own accord."
He turned away.
On the fire, the roasted beef sizzled.
Aemond drew the dagger at his waist and sliced off a piece.
The meat was still scorching, just off the fire, its surface bubbling.
He put it straight into his mouth.
Chewed.
Swallowed.
Hall said nothing. He knew of the prince's fireproof nature.
Aemond noticed his gaze.
He cut another piece and handed it over.
"Try it."
Hall took the meat.
It was still hot.
He bit into it.
Hot.
But rich.
Truly rich.
He crouched by the fire and used his dagger to carve off several more large chunks.
He didn't care how hot they were.
Lothorne lifted its head and glanced over.
Aemond waved the meat on his dagger at it.
Lothorne's eyes lit up.
It dropped the half-eaten leg of lamb and trotted over eagerly.
Aemond tossed the meat to it.
Lothorne caught it in one bite, chewed, and snorted in satisfaction.
He did love beef.
Vhagar also lifted her head.
She glanced at the youngster, Lothorne. There was disdain in her draconic gaze—running over for a few scraps of meat. What a disgrace for a dragon.
---
I will post some extra Chapters in Patreon, you can check it out. >> patreon.com/TitoVillar
---