The arrival of Vaghar marked the true beginning of Baelon's oyster venture.
Without wasting any time, he ordered men to transport the newly acquired oyster saplings to a sheltered valley. This particular valley was deeply recessed, hidden between high cliffs, so secluded that anyone standing even a short distance away could not see its bottom. It was the perfect place to cultivate the delicate oysters without fear of prying eyes or sudden storms ruining the crop.
While his workers busied themselves there, something else was happening on the other side of Dragonstone.
---
In the vast courtyard of the castle, three or four dozen ragged fishermen stood in a loose group. Their faces were lined with apprehension, their eyes darting around as if they were unsure whether to expect opportunity… or doom.
A thin, almost frail young man in his early twenties leaned toward a sturdier companion and whispered, his voice barely audible.
> "Billy, what do you think they're going to make us do?"
The man he addressed—broad-shouldered and sunburned from a lifetime at sea—kept his gaze fixed ahead.
> "Didn't they say they were hiring?" he replied, though there was no confidence in his tone.
Billy was trying to smooth out the wrinkles in his salt-stained tunic, as if the act might somehow iron out his unease as well.
He had once been from a relatively well-off fishing family. But the year before, his father had sailed out into the open waters and never returned. No body, no wreckage—just gone, like a pebble cast into the sea and swallowed without a trace.
On Dragonstone, such disappearances were far from rare. The narrow sea was a fickle master, and sudden storms could turn an ordinary day into a watery grave. But Billy hadn't had the luxury of mourning properly. His mother was bedridden with a lingering illness, and he had five—no, six—siblings still too young to fend for themselves.
So he had done the only thing he could: fish, day and night, fighting exhaustion just to bring home enough catch to keep everyone alive. Life had become a never-ending cycle of mending nets, pushing out to sea, and hoping the day's haul would be enough to stave off hunger for another night.
That morning, when soldiers in gleaming armor had arrived in the village—fully armed and carrying swords—Billy's heart had clenched. But instead of making demands or collecting taxes, they had announced that the prince himself wanted to see certain able-bodied men.
Billy had immediately gone home, thrown on his least tattered clothes, and hurried to the castle.
---
Now, standing here in the towering courtyard, he couldn't help but be awestruck. The castle was magnificent—its black stone walls rising high into the sky, its dragon-shaped gargoyles watching over the grounds with fierce, unblinking eyes. Compared to his wind-battered shack by the shore, it was another world entirely.
Since childhood, Billy and every other fisherman on Dragonstone had known that the island belonged to the Targaryen family. They paid their yearly tax in fish, and in return, the lords mostly left them alone. Life was harsh but predictable.
Billy tilted his head back, squinting against the midday sun. Somewhere deep in his chest, an unfamiliar feeling stirred—something that might have been hope. Life was already so hard that he struggled to imagine anything worse. And if, by some twist of fate, the nobility took an interest in him… perhaps even the smallest act of generosity could change everything for his family.
---
Time dragged on. The heat was oppressive, and sweat trickled down the fishermen's faces. They shifted from foot to foot, murmuring in low voices. The silence of the courtyard slowly gave way to restless chatter.
Then—creak—the heavy doors opened.
Two knights emerged. One carried a large wooden bucket brimming with freshly baked bread. The other held a rolled parchment in one hand.
Between them stood a child with hair as pale as silver and eyes the color of amethyst. Despite his age—he could not have been more than four—his posture was straight, his expression calm.
Yet the fishermen's attention was not on him. All eyes were fixed on the bucket of bread.
The scent drifted across the courtyard—warm, yeasty, mouthwatering. Billy inhaled deeply. His stomach cramped in response, and he felt saliva flood his mouth. Gods, it smells good…
---
Baelon surveyed the scene before him, taking in the worn faces, the sun-cracked hands, the patched clothes. A faint pang stirred in his chest.
In this world, bloodlines ruled all. A fisherman's son would live and die a fisherman. A noble's son would inherit his father's halls. A king's son would sit on a throne. The game of power was reserved for the highborn; common folk were nothing but pieces to be moved—or sacrificed—on the board.
Had he not been lucky enough to win the cosmic lottery and awaken in this life as a Targaryen, his own fate would likely have been no different from these men.
For a moment, his mind flickered back to his previous life.
He had been an ordinary man, awkward and easily rattled. When called on to speak in front of a class, his legs would tremble, his palms damp with sweat. He'd always told himself, No one's really paying attention to you—just get through it.
Now, facing dozens of pairs of eyes, he felt that old nervousness creeping back. But he forced himself to breathe deeply.
If he couldn't hold himself steady in front of a group of fishermen, how could he ever hope to rule Westeros?
He was only four years old. There was time to grow into the leader he imagined. Time to become the man who could change the fate of an entire realm.
And it began here.
---
Baelon lifted his chin, meeting the gaze of the crowd. His voice, when he spoke, was steady.
> "For generations, you have had no right to choose.
You have lived at the mercy of the sea, praying for its charity.
You have watched storms swallow your loved ones, powerless to resist. And one day, the sea will come for you as well—without choice, without warning."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
> "But today, I—Baelon Targaryen—will give you a choice. I will offer you a path beyond this endless cycle."
He waited for some sign—a murmur, a nod, anything. None came. The fishermen stood silent, their expressions blank.
Baelon's toes curled inside his boots, but outwardly he gave no sign of discomfort. He raised one hand.
The knight with the parchment stepped forward and unrolled it, his voice carrying across the courtyard.
> "By the command of Prince Baelon Targaryen: Recruitment will begin on Dragonstone, from now until the end of the day after tomorrow. There are two kinds of work, and you may choose freely.
> First: Oyster harvesting. For every pound of oyster meat collected, you may exchange it for one loaf of bread. There is no limit—the more you gather, the more you earn.
> Second: General labor. Tasks include moving goods, tending fires, and other basic duties. Payment is 600 copper stars per month. Three copper stars will buy one loaf of bread."
When the knight finished, Baelon's voice rang out again.
> "Any who wish to serve me, step forward and register. You will receive a loaf of bread today. Those who do not wish to participate may leave freely. The choice is yours."
---
Bread was a luxury on Dragonstone. The land was barren, the soil thin and stony. Crops failed more often than they grew, and most diets consisted of fish, mutton, and whatever hardy vegetables could be coaxed from the earth. The promise of fresh bread was enough to make even the most cautious fisherman take notice.
Baelon had already calculated the labor needed for his oyster business. Wild oysters were scattered unevenly across tidal flats and shallow bays, and harvesting them by hand was slow, backbreaking work.
A skilled fisherman could gather between 100 and 400 catties of oysters in a day—but since the shells made up most of the weight, the actual meat was only 10 to 20 percent of that. In the best conditions, that meant about 44 pounds of meat per day—without counting the time needed to pry open each shell.
Even with steady effort, the average worker might collect about 20 pounds of meat in an eight-hour day, enough to trade for 20 thick loaves of bread. Considering that two loaves could easily feed a grown man for a day, it was a tempting prospect.
As for the general laborer's wage—600 copper stars was the equivalent of 3.5 silver stags. A loaf of bread usually cost between 1 and 3 copper stars, while a small bottle of the cheapest wine cost 6. It wasn't a fortune, but in hard times, it was steady income.
---
The courtyard remained silent for a heartbeat longer. Then a fisherman stepped forward. And another. And another.
The smell of bread, the promise of choice—even a small one—was enough to move them.
Baelon watched as names were written down and loaves distributed, a quiet satisfaction blooming in his chest.
It was a small beginning. But every empire began somewhere.