Summerhall, The Kingswood.
Two years later.
The humid south wind swept across the Kingswood, bringing the scent of pine resin and earth.
A hundred miles south of King's Landing, on the banks of a tributary of the Blackwater Rush, a stretch of once-barren riverbank was now flourishing.
Viewed from above, Summerhall did not resemble any traditional noble castle, no carvings, no spires, no pleasure gardens.
It was a massive, angular military camp constructed of stone and wood, where functionality reigned supreme.
Three-meter high walls were built from logs and rough stone, and four watchtowers monitored the roads leading to the small town, the river, and the depths of the forest.
Inside the camp walls, the training ground, armory, barracks, and a simple main hall occupied most of the space.
The only decoration was the enormous black banner on the stone wall of the main fort, embroidered in dark red thread with the three-headed dragon sigil of House Targaryen.
Aemond stood before the low castle window.
Outside the window, his black dragon Morghul was resting on a rock platform built for him in the camp.
In four years, the young dragon hatched from a dead egg had grown to eight meters, a growth rate that astonished even the accompanying Dragonkeepers.
As for Vhagar... because Aemond had been exiled and confined to his lands, he had not seen the old dragon in two years.
She remained at the Dragonpit in King's Landing, too large to be kept here comfortably without alarming the neighbors.
Only Morghul, by special permission of Viserys I, was allowed to accompany him to this territory.
Outside the fort, the new settlement, unofficially called Dragon's Perch, grew like a vine, dependent on the military camp.
The shanties outside had been replaced by neat wooden houses and stone-foundation cottages, and the gravel-paved streets prevented mud during the rainy season.
Lumberyards, tanneries, blacksmiths, taverns, granaries, and even a small Sept stretched along the roads and stream banks.
Cooking smoke curled upwards, mixed with human voices, presenting an air of prosperity.
The population had exceeded twenty thousand, mostly landless farmers from the Crownlands, refugees, and vagrants collected from the Kingswood.
Aemond's promise to them was simple and powerful: work, follow the rules, and you will have land to till, work to do, and people to protect you.
For these common folk struggling to survive, this was an immense blessing.
At this moment, charcoal crackled in the main hall of Summerhall.
Fifteen-year-old Aemond Targaryen sat behind a heavy oak table, his purple eyes clear and bright.
Three young men, managers known by the townspeople as the "Three Fingers," stood respectfully before the table giving their reports.
The oldest was eighteen, the youngest fifteen.
"Hal," the leader, spoke first. Aemond had tasked him with managing the 'Orphan Army'.
The broad-shouldered, black-haired youth spoke steadily.
"Your Highness, the new armor for the Second Company is fully deployed. The Guard consists of five hundred seventeen men: two hundred heavy armor, and over three hundred light armor."
Hal, who was once the leader of the street children in King's Landing's slums, was taken in by Aemond three years ago.
Aemond believed he had management capability and put him in charge of training the entire guard force.
Now he was one of the leaders of the Guard, responsible for forging these boys of similar background into true soldiers.
Carter, standing beside him, reported next in a flat voice.
"The patrol line west of the Kingswood has been pushed to the Felwood border. Last week, three instances of villager poaching were intercepted and handled with fines and warnings according to regulation."
He was thin and sharp-eyed, a youth from the black market of Flea Bottom, skilled in tracking and stealth.
Now he managed the entire territory's intelligence network and external reconnaissance, leading the foresters through the Kingswood.
Next to him, Will pushed forward a parchment covered in numbers.
"Trade volume increased by thirty percent last month. The Lysene merchant ship Silver Gull delivered fifty barrels of dye, trading them for two hundred sheets of fine deerskin and fifty logs of ebony. Our port expansion will be completed next month, allowing larger freighters to dock."
He was originally a merchant's son whose family died at the hands of bandits in the Riverlands.
He fled alone to King's Landing and ended up on the streets. Now, Aemond had appointed him to manage the material logistics and trade of Dragon's Perch.
After the three men finished their reports, they lowered their heads.
Aemond listened silently, his gaze sweeping over the three young, loyal faces.
Cultivating this core group, all from the lowest strata of society, was precisely to avoid the possibility of being constrained by the nobility in the future.
With the conflict between the Greens and the Blacks intensifying daily, large numbers of nobles across the Seven Kingdoms were still watching and waiting.
He could not rely solely on House Hightower; the more he demanded from them, the heavier the repayment would be later.
He had to establish his own foundation. These boys from the lower classes, while not as influential as nobles, excelled in loyalty.
Aemond looked at the three men bowing before him and spoke slowly.
"You have done well. But remember, our enemies are never just a few poaching villagers. Nor are they the discontented minor lords in the surrounding area."
"You will do exactly what I tell you to do. Do you understand?"
The three men bowed solemnly. For three years, loyalty to Prince Aemond had become their sole creed in life.
The Prince gave them what they needed to survive and the hope of becoming something more; all he asked for in return was loyalty.
Just then, a young guard outside the hall announced:
"Your Highness, Lord Mills Errol of Hay Hall requests an audience."
Aemond knew who it was and what he wanted. His lips curled slightly.
"Let him in. You three are dismissed."
The three bowed and exited.
Lord Mills Errol stepped into the main hall, his brow furrowing involuntarily.
The hall was overly simple: bare stone walls, packed earth floors covered with furs, and almost nothing else besides a large table and a few chairs.
It had the distinct feel of a military camp. It was worlds apart from the magnificent halls in his own castle, hung with tapestries.
"Lord Errol," Aemond said, not rising, merely raising a hand to indicate the chair opposite him.
"Please sit. Is this about your son?"
The Lord sat down, scrutinizing the handsome Prince, forcing a smile onto his fifty-something face.
"Indeed, Your Highness. My worthless second son, Erlin... He is young and impulsive, and loves hunting. A few days ago, he took his retainers into the Kingswood."
"This is the second time," Aemond said calmly.
"Three months ago, his men attempted to hunt deer in the West Woods. The foresters issued a warning and a fine. I recall he promised not to repeat the offense then."
The Lord's smile stiffened.
"Yes... but the boy, you know..."
"The Kingswood is Crown property," Aemond interrupted him.
"According to the 'Kingswood Management Edict' I issued, commoners caught poaching face flogging or loss of fingers depending on the severity, while nobles face a fine for the first offense."
"Your son poached one stag and two does this time. You must understand that the deer in the Kingswood are royal assets."
"What does the stag symbolize? You should know, shouldn't you?"
Hearing this, Lord Mills took a deep breath.
"Your Highness, I am willing to compensate ten times the value of the prey, according to noble custom. A stag is valued at fifty Gold Dragons, and a doe at forty Gold Dragons, making the tenfold fine one thousand three hundred Gold Dragons. I have brought the sum today."
After saying this, his heart ached, knowing this amounted to one-third of his territory's annual tax revenue. This money was enough to equip more than ten heavily armored knights.
Aemond watched the distressed Lord, tapping his finger lightly on the table.
The hall was silent.
He spoke: "Agreed."
The Lord breathed a sigh of relief.
"But this is the last time the matter will be settled according to noble custom."
Aemond's purple eyes fixed on the Lord.
"Next time, whether it is your son, a knight of Hay Hall, a soldier, or a commoner, if they enter the Kingswood to hunt without permission, I will personally cut off the hand that holds the bow or spear."
"Just as I did to Ser Roderick."
A chill ran down Lord Mills' spine. He recalled that not long ago, Ser Roderick, a knight from near Tumbleton, had taken twenty men deep into the Kingswood.
He killed four deer and a bear, wounded a forester, and fled back.
Three days later, Aemond personally led his guard into the great hall of the knight's castle, in front of the Lord of Tumbleton and his entire retinue.
He publicly chopped off Roderick's right hand.
It was said the Prince spoke only one sentence then:
"The Kingswood belongs to the Targaryens. Let this be a warning to all who challenge royal authority."
Since then, the attitude of the surrounding lords towards the young Prince had turned to apprehension.
Previously they viewed the Kingswood as their own resource, cautious only when the Royals visited.
Now that the Prince was strictly enforcing legal precedent and ownership, they could not disobey.
The Lord lowered his head.
"I understand, Your Highness. There will absolutely be no next time."
"Good," Aemond nodded.
"Pay the fine, and you may retrieve your son."
-----
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