Rook's Rest, The Crownlands.
Perched upon the highest point of the fortress was the young black dragon, Morghul.
Aemond sat upon the dragon's back, looking down over the entirety of his domain.
A few years ago, this place had been a barren stretch of hills, with nothing but a few stone shepherd huts scattered across the slopes.
Now, grey stone walls extended from the water's edge deep into the interior, enclosing the entire plateau into a massive fortified camp.
Within those walls were rows of neatly arranged wooden houses, warehouses, stables, and training grounds.
There were now sixty thousand people here. Sixty thousand souls laboring, building, and multiplying on his lands.
This included over thirty thousand survivors of House Velaryon, forcibly relocated from High Tide.
On the castle slope, Aemond sat watching the crowds busy at the construction sites like swarms of ants. Most of them were free labor, performing what was euphemistically called "reform through labor."
Beneath him, Morghul snorted. A blast of searing air erupted from the dragon's nostrils, carrying the heavy scent of sulfur.
He shook his head impatiently, the scales on his neck gleaming with a black luster under the sun.
Aemond reached out and patted his neck.
"Patience," he whispered.
His gaze swept over Morghul's ridged spine and settled on the winding mountain path outside the castle gates. A lone figure was approaching at a brisk pace.
Kermit.
Aemond watched the young man draw closer.
His stride was rapid, but he came to a halt when he was thirty paces away from Morghul. He dropped to one knee and lowered his head.
Aemond did not speak. He watched.
Morghul's nostrils twitched. His head turned slowly, his amber vertical pupils fixing on the kneeling "morsel" thirty paces away.
He snorted again, this time with a hint of bloodthirst in his breath.
Kermit remained kneeling. He did not look up.
A low growl vibrated in Morghul's throat. This was the dragon's way of expressing dissatisfaction; he did not understand why his master wouldn't let him eat the snack that had delivered to his door.
He stared at Kermit for a few more seconds, then turned his head toward Aemond.
His expression clearly asked: Can I eat this one?
Aemond looked at the dragon. He did not speak, nor did he nod or shake his head. He only watched.
Morghul waited for several breaths, but no permission came. He grew annoyed. He turned his head back toward Kermit, and his throat began to glow.
An black-red light bled through the gaps in his black scales, growing brighter and brighter. It was the omen of an imminent gout of dragonfire.
Thirty paces away, Kermit remained kneeling. He did not look up, he did not flee, and he did not tremble.
He even closed his eyes. But it was not the closing of eyes in resignation to death; it was the closing of eyes in anticipation of an ordeal.
Aemond smiled.
Morghul's throat was now as bright as molten lava, the black-red radiance illuminating Kermit's entire body.
The heat was palpable even at thirty paces; the air began to warp, and the small patches of grass on the ground began to wither and char.
Morghul waited one last time. He received no command.
Finally losing his patience, he threw his head back and unleashed a pillar of dragonfire into the sky!
The column of fire roared for a full ten seconds, painting the sky above Rook's Rest a haunting shade of crimson.
The shockwave of heat swept in all directions; workers in the castle dove to the ground in terror, and warhorses shrieked in their stables.
The immigrants from High Tide fell to their knees in unison, shivering with fear.
Morghul finished his display. Now, he was even more annoyed.
He let out a heavy huff of air and jerked his head to the side, refusing to look at the boring "snack" any longer.
Aemond finally laughed aloud. He patted Morghul's neck.
"Enough. He is one of ours. He is not food."
Morghul let out a low rumble, seemingly expressing his discontent, but he did not spit fire again.
Aemond slid down from the dragon's back and walked over to Kermit.
"Look up."
Kermit raised his head. It was a young face, a boy just on the cusp of manhood, with brown hair and brown eyes.
His features were ordinary, but his eyes... those eyes were brilliant.
Aemond looked into them. There was no fear there. There was only one thing: craving.
"Why did you not move?"
Kermit looked at Prince Aemond.
"Because I was not afraid. Everything I have was given to me by Your Grace. If Your Grace wishes to take it back..."
He paused. "Even if it is my life, it belongs to Your Grace."
Aemond said nothing. He only searched Kermit's eyes for a long time before saying, "You are quite good. Between 'wanting' and 'getting,' there is a bridge of three words: 'Get it done.'"
He paused. "Only by doing can you receive."
Kermit remained kneeling, but his back was as straight as a spear. He looked directly at Aemond.
"I have made up my mind," he said, one word at a time.
"I will get it done. I will never let you be disappointed in me."
Aemond looked at him. He liked people like this, confident, bold, and ambitious. They were full of vigorous vitality and never bothered to hide their desires.
Such qualities were rare among the nobility. Those born with lands, titles, and wealth were mostly concerned with preservation; they feared losing what they already had, so they lacked the courage to risk, to gamble, or to fight.
Those who truly dared to bet everything were often those who had nothing to start with. Because they had nothing to lose.
"The intelligence work in King's Landing," Aemond said, "can you handle it?"
Kermit's eyes blazed like fire.
"I can."
"And the Crownlands? The Seven Kingdoms?"
Kermit took a deep breath. "I can. If I fail, I am willing to be executed."
Aemond nodded. He walked back to Morghul's side and pulled an object from a pouch on the saddle.
It was a Targaryen badge. He tossed it to Kermit, who caught it with both hands.
"Regarding your mission to Dragonstone," Aemond said, "I am very satisfied. You are a veteran of my youth corps..."
Kermit's heart hammered against his ribs.
"As of now, I grant you the status of a Knight," Aemond said.
"From this moment forth, you are a noble serving House Targaryen. I grant you a manor under the jurisdiction of Rook's Rest."
Kermit's hands tightened around the badge.
A Knight. A manor. He had gone from an orphan in the Flea Bottom gutters, a rat scurrying through the sewers of King's Landing, to an adopted ward, a shadow-soldier... and now a Knight.
A landed one. He would have his own surname; he would found a noble House.
He understood perfectly well how difficult it was to cross such a class divide.
He opened his mouth to speak. He wanted to say thank you, to say he would not fail him, to say he would die ten thousand deaths for him.
But he found his throat constricted with emotion.
Aemond watched him. He did not mock him. He waited.
Kermit took a deep breath. He bowed his head until his forehead touched the earth.
"I thank Your Grace."
Aemond nodded. "Go now."
Kermit stood and turned. His stride remained steady, but Aemond could see the slight tremor in his shoulders.
It was not fear. It was exhilaration.
-------
Kermit Corner:
"Thank you, guys, I made it. "
-----
A/N:
If you are enjoying the start of the story.
Drop some stones to help this book reach higher.
You can read upto 20+ Chapters. + Images
You can also read "+2 Free Chapters".
patreon/
LastDreamer