King's Landing, City Watch barracks camp.
The sun hung high in the sky.
On the drill field of the City Watch barracks in the northeastern corner of the city, several thousand Gold Cloaks had assembled. They wore no armor, only cloth tunics and leather jerkins.
Today was the day Prince Aegon was to be betrothed to Alyn Rogare, daughter of a noble house of Lys.
By custom, the Watch should have detailed men to stand outside the Red Keep to maintain order for the celebration and receive the cheers of the smallfolk.
Yet the order delivered was the exact opposite: aside from essential sentries and patrols, all were to assemble and receive a reward.
"They say the Queen Regent is pleased—each man's to have a gold dragon," an old veteran with a scar across his cheek muttered under his breath to the young companion beside him.
"I've guarded gates in King's Landing for twenty years, from the days of King Jaehaerys to now. This is the first time I've heard of a prince's wedding where the whole Watch must gather on the field to take their coin."
The young Gold Cloak rubbed his hands together, his gaze flicking toward the officers waiting upon the raised platform. "The Commander's face… it doesn't look right."
The scarred veteran followed his line of sight.
Commander Ser Ross Laggett of the City Watch—his hair graying, his posture still straight as a spear—stood at the front of the platform with his hands clasped behind his back.
He wore the gilded breastplate that marked his rank, though he had not donned his helm. The lines upon his face seemed carved deeper beneath the sunlight.
From time to time, he cast a look toward the camp gates, his expression grave.
"I heard Prince Aemond will come in person to hand out the coin," another soldier leaned close and lowered his voice. "That prince…"
"Hush!" the scarred veteran shot him a fierce glare.
The Driftmark affair had passed more than three years ago, yet the prince who had tamed Vhagar at twelve—and later, before the Iron Throne, personally executed Vaemond—remained fixed in memory.
And four months past, there had been the near outbreak of dragonfire within the Dragonpit upon Rhaenys's Hill, whispered through the streets of King's Landing.
Among these rank-and-file soldiers, the prince's name carried a pall of dread.
"They're here," the young Gold Cloak said softly.
The camp gates swung open. No horns sounded. No honor guard marched.
The first to enter was the Master of Laws, Jasper Wylde. The bald noble, ever known for his smooth smile, had shed much of it now; his face was set in sober official composure.
At his side walked Aemond Targaryen.
The prince was clad in black, his silver-gold hair bound at the back of his head. His stride was steady, his gaze fixed ahead as he made for the platform.
Behind him followed several dozen personal guards transferred from Dragon's Roost. They wore uniform white armor worked with dragon motifs; upon their chests was embroidered the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen in sharp, severe lines, the dragon heads fierce in aspect. From the backs of their white helms hung white horsehair plumes.
These soldiers were all young—the eldest no more than nineteen by appearance—yet their gazes were keen, their hands resting at all times upon their sword hilts. As they advanced, their ranks were aligned in perfect order, carrying a killing intent wholly unlike that of the City Watch.
The prince's arrival caused the low murmur of several thousand men upon the drill field to cease at once, settling into a strained silence.
All eyes fixed upon the black-clad figure mounting the platform.
Ser Ross stepped forward and bowed slightly. "Your Highness Prince Aemond, my lord Master of Laws. Save for essential guards and patrols, the City Watch numbers four thousand one hundred and sixty-five men assembled here, awaiting your command."
Behind him, several dozen noble officers lowered their heads as well.
Aemond did not respond at once.
He stood at the edge of the platform, his deep violet eyes slowly sweeping across the dark mass of men below.
Wherever his gaze fell, the soldiers lowered their eyes or turned their heads aside, unwilling to meet the prince's stare.
The Master of Laws, Jasper Wylde, cleared his throat and spoke in his customary smooth voice. "Men! Today is the joyous wedding of Prince Aegon. Her Grace Queen Regent Alicent, filled with gladness and mindful of your labors in defending the capital, has commanded that I and His Highness the prince come to bestow a reward!"
"One gold dragon to each man!"
No sooner had he finished speaking than several personal guards bore heavy oak chests onto the platform.
When the chests were set down, they gave off a dull metallic thud. The lids were lifted; though the daylight was not bright, the piled gold dragons within still cast a warm and alluring gleam.
At once, a subdued murmur of amazement and the sound of men swallowing rose from the field.
A single gold dragon amounted to nearly more than three months' pay for an ordinary City Watch soldier.
For many Gold Cloaks of humble means, it was without doubt a great sum.
Yet Aemond remained silent.
He turned his head slightly and spoke in a low voice to Jasper beside him. "Are all of them here?"
The flesh of Jasper's cheeks trembled faintly as he replied just as softly. "Your Highness, as you instructed, all who could be summoned are present."
"Ser Ross was personally raised up by Prince Daemon in years past. Within the Watch, there are many officers and soldiers who once received Prince Daemon's favor."
"However," he said with slight hesitation, "in name, I am their superior."
"But, Your Highness, you know—the City Watch has always been a force directly under His Majesty…"
Aemond nodded.
At that moment, Ser Ross stepped forward once more, respect tinged with tension. "Your Highness, now that the reward has been delivered, shall we distribute it by company according to the rolls?"
"Not yet, Ser Ross." Aemond turned toward him. "The reward shall be given. But before that, there are words that all who serve the royal house must hear clearly."
He looked again toward the men below. That gaze made the hearts of several thousand grow cold. The young man beside the scarred veteran could not help but whisper, "What does he mean to say?"
"Be silent. Listen well," the scarred veteran growled low, though his own eyes were fixed upon the platform.
Just as the silence threatened to curdle into uneasy unrest—
A dragon's roar tore through the clouds and burst above their heads.
All lifted their faces in alarm. A vast shadow swept across the camp, driving a fierce wind before it.
It was a dragon, pure black. Its wings, when spread, spanned more than ten meters; its streamlined body was covered in obsidian-like scales that gleamed with a cold sheen beneath the clouds.
It circled low over the drill field, crimson slit pupils gazing down upon the crowd below as upon ants, a threatening rumble rolling in its throat.
It was Lothorne—Aemond's second dragon.
"A dragon! It's a dragon!"
"Will it breathe fire?!"
"Run!"
Panic began to spread.
"Silence! All of you!" On the platform, the young officer named Hall beside Aemond shouted sharply. The guards of Dragon's Roost echoed him in unison, their voices shaking the field.
At the same time, from the camp gates came the heavy, measured tread of boots and the clamor of armor striking against armor.
Rank upon rank of fully armed soldiers poured in.
They numbered some five hundred, clad in the same armor as Aemond's personal guard. They bore spears and shields; some carried crossbows upon their backs.
Swift and silent in their movements, once within the camp they spread along the edge of the drill field, forming a tight ring of encirclement.
The crossbowmen quickly mounted the walls and the heights of the arrow towers, cold arrowheads leveled toward the center of the field.
This was the force of Dragon's Roost—the army Prince Aemond had summoned from his own domain.
By now, even the dullest Gold Cloak understood that today was no simple distribution of coin.
This was a seizure of power without bloodshed. Or… a purge?
Unease seized them all, and anxious eyes turned toward the platform.
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