The early morning at Moonspire Fortress always had a unique rhythm—not the voices of men, but the rhythmic pounding of the smithies in the central and eastern parts of the city, far off.
The clang of bells, the ringing of chimes.
But today, a different voice swept across the land.
It was the roar of a dragon's wings tearing through the air—low, furious—and a wave of heat carrying the smell of sulfur reached the ground even before the sound.
Lenn, drying in the courtyard of the small castle, lifted in the wind, and the warhorses in the stables neighed restlessly.
The guards heard the dragon's roar and saw the arrival. Immediately, they gripped their spears, bodies straightening—but fear was absent. They were accustomed to this.
It was Lothron descending from the sky.
This black dragon had grown at a staggering pace. In just three years, he had grown from a puppy-sized hatchling to a twelve-meter beast.
When he spread his wings, they measured nearly twenty meters across. His scales were pure black, his vertical pupils dark red like molten gold, and a slow flicker of flame danced within them.
He landed with an unmistakable pride, head held high, twin puffs of white smoke curling from his nostrils.
Aemond slipped from Lothron's back, landing without a wobble. Three years of companionship with this young dragon had honed his balance.
As for Vhagar, Aemond only commanded her when necessary. She was old, not as lively as a young dragon, enjoyed flying, and spent long periods in hibernation. Apart from opening her eyes while feeding, she occasionally appeared outside her lair in King's Landing.
The tournament was already halfway through, and there was no cruelty in King's Landing today, much to his relief.
Today, he had come to inspect his domain.
"Quiet." Aemond patted Lothron's neck in a commanding tone.
The dragon gave a low, discontented growl.
The sound came not from his throat, but from deep within his chest, like muffled thunder.
His massive head turned toward Aemond, vertical pupils narrowing into a slit, staring at his master.
Aemond did not flinch.
He raised his right hand and pressed it directly to the scales along Lothron's muzzle.
The scales were so warm that he could feel the pulse of blood thrumming beneath them.
"I know you're hungry," Aemond said, meeting the dragon's gaze.
"But don't be petty with me.
Two cows last night… did you eat so little?"
Lothron roared again, this time with a note of indignation.
He pressed the tip of his snout against Aemond's chest, the force controlled but enough to make him step back a fraction—a gesture sufficient to convey displeasure.
Aemond almost laughed.
He understood Lothron's emotions—not true words, but vague impressions conveyed through their bond: hunger, irritation, and perhaps… a touch of playfulness?
"Alright, alright," he shook his head and turned toward the castle.
"I'll prepare you a proper meal."
He walked a few steps, not looking back:
"Don't fall behind."
The dragon hesitated for a moment, then obediently followed.
The guards and servants in the courtyard no longer appeared surprised.
They bowed their heads in respect and quickly stepped aside to make way for the man who commanded such awe.
Only the new stableboy fell to the ground in fright, hauled up by the old groom with a quiet scolding:
"Fool! Looking for death?"
Aemond heard but ignored it.
He approached the special dragon enclosure in the castle's inner courtyard, originally his training ground, later converted into a temporary lair for Lothron.
The ground was covered in thick sand, the edges piled with reefs brought from Blackwater Bay, simulating Dragonstone's environment.
"Will." Aemond called, looking at the man.
From a side door, a short man hurried out—Three-Finger Will.
He now served as Moonspire's steward, managing the castle's daily operations.
"Your Grace!" Will ran forward, gasping, and saluted, his gaze quickly flicking to the black dragon behind Aemond.
"Master Lothron is hungry? I'll arrange it immediately!"
Aemond nodded.
"Understood! Understood!" Will called to several strong men nearby.
"Bring forward the three heads dealt with this morning… ahem!"
The men ran.
Lothron seemed to understand. His throat rumbled in anticipation, tail curling across the sand.
Aemond approached a stone bench at the edge of the dragon enclosure, sat, and drank from a water bag at his belt. Lothron lay beside him, head on his forelegs.
Soon, four strong men dragged in two carts. Covered with burlap, the forms underneath were humanoid. A strong scent of blood hung in the air.
Will lifted a corner of the burlap, allowing Aemond a glimpse:
"Your Grace… these are the three prisoners who died suddenly in the mine this morning."
Aemond frowned, scanning the bodies—middle-aged men, bruised, with traces of mineral ash on their skin.
"How is the labor reform proceeding?" Aemond asked.
Will snapped to attention:
"Your Grace, it is going very well!
These men are part of the educational team, overseeing the prisoners.
The prisoners, used to idleness, notice every shortcut immediately.
According to your instructions, no critical points are harmed, no permanent injuries occur, yet the prisoners suffer enough to remember the lesson.
Productivity in the mine has risen 30% compared to when pure slaves were used!"
Aemond said nothing, standing and approaching the platform.
Lothron raised his head, nostrils twitching at the scent of blood.
"This is yours," Aemond said to the dragon.
"But do not eat here. Take it to the back."
Lothron emitted a low, joyful roar, took the carcass in his jaws, and carried it to the feeding area, wings slicing the air but staying low.
Aemond watched the dragon depart, then turned to Will:
"Take me to the mine.
I want to see the educational team with my own eyes."
The Moonspire mines lay at the forest's edge, south of the castle.
Originally part of the Imperial Forest, it had thick trees and wild beasts.
After Aemond discovered iron veins underground, the clearing was expanded, natural scenery concealed, and the land marked with pits and sheds, horse-drawn carts transporting ore back and forth.
Since King's Landing was entirely under Green Party control, the mine no longer required secrecy.
At the entrance stood a wooden guard tower with crossbowmen.
Left and right fences were made from thick logs, sharpened at the top.
Above the gate hung a sign in bold black letters:
Directly subordinate to the royal family, Moonspire Fortress Mine
Labor Reform, Reimagining a New Life.
When Aemond arrived on horseback, an educational session was underway.
Five men in gray prison uniforms knelt, holding their heads in their hands.
Around them, six instructors in black lightweight armor with nasal helms wielded three-foot wooden sticks.
The sticks were not weapons but teaching tools.
A man resembling a squad commander stood at the front, holding a stick, explaining without striking:
"The Prince has instructed you to be precise in striking men."
His voice carried to both the kneeling prisoners and the instructors.
"First, avoid vital points—head, chest, abdomen, groin—these are untouchable.
Second, strike to pain, not to cripple.
Third, after striking, ensure the man understands why he was struck."
He paused, pointing to the prisoner kneeling before him:
"You. Stand and explain why you were punished."
The prisoner, tall and thin with bruised features, looked unsure:
"I… I am tired and wanted a break."
"A break?" The commander interrupted, raising the stick toward the sun.
"The sun has not set! Only two hours into work!
You rested three times!
Everyone else works—your laziness sets a poor example!"
The prisoner opened his mouth but said nothing.
"That's behavior unfit for an advanced collective," the commander said.
"If lazy, you must do more!
If productivity cannot rise, everyone suffers because of you!
Do you understand?"
The other prisoners knelt, heads lowered.
The squad commander motioned to his team:
"Demonstrate correct technique."
"Strikes to the buttocks and outer thighs hurt but avoid bones and muscles."
"One person, five times, in turn."
The men moved carefully and evenly.
The sticks struck with a reduced force—about 30%, a result of practice.
Click! Click! Click! The sound was loud, the prisoners winced in pain but did not cry.
Afterward, the commander asked again:
"Still lazy?"
"No… I do not dare," the prisoner replied, exhaling.
"Speak louder! Let all hear!"
"I… do not dare!"
"Return to work," the commander waved.
At that moment, he saw Aemond and Will approaching on horseback.
His expression changed instantly—not fear, but almost wild excitement.
He straightened.
"All rise!"
The six instructors stopped, sticks at their sides, heels together, chest straight, chin up.
"Salute!" The commander bellowed, voice quivering.
Seven fists—commander and six instructors—struck their chests in unison, producing a resonant "dong-dong-dong."
"Loyal!"
Birds in the forest scattered in terror.
Aemond held his horse and scanned the seven men.
Their eyes burned with such intensity that he could almost feel it.
Such devotion was no mere pretense—Aemond knew it was indoctrination.
He looked at Will.
Will quietly explained:
"Your Grace, these educational team members… have never seen you in person.
So I had an artist paint your portrait.
Each unit received one and now swears loyalty to it morning and evening.
Slogans and rules were established:
'Your Grace is the sun; we are shadows.'
'All glory belongs to Your Grace; loyalty above life…'
The language is simple, but effective.
The team numbers over 500, and none of them have met you."
Aemond stared at Will, silent for several seconds.
A true talent.
He nodded approvingly.
"Well done, Will."
Will's face flushed, hands trembling with excitement.
He clenched his fists and struck his chest—a ritual of sorts for the educational team.
"Loyalty!" Will roared louder than the seven.