Morning at Dragon's Roost always carried a distinct sound—not human voices, but the rhythmic hammering from the forges in the eastern quarter of the distant town.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
But this afternoon, another sound drowned out everything else.
It was the roar of dragon wings tearing through the air—low and violent. A wave of heat thick with the scent of sulfur reached the ground before the sound itself.
The linen laid out to dry in the small castle courtyard was lifted by the gust. The warhorses in the stables neighed uneasily.
The guards heard the dragon's cry and saw who came. At once they tightened their grip on their spears and straightened their backs. There was no fear on their faces. They were accustomed to it.
Lothorne descended from the sky.
The black dragon's growth had been astonishing. In the span of three short years, it had grown from a whelp the size of a hound into a young dragon twelve meters long.
Its wings stretched close to twenty meters when spread. Its scales were a pure black; its vertical pupils were a dark red like molten gold, and deep within them, it seemed as though flames slowly turned.
It carried itself with its own peculiar pride as it landed, head held high, two streams of white vapor flecked with sparks snorting from its nostrils.
Aemond slid down from the dragon's back. He did not stagger upon landing. For three years now, he had often kept company with this young dragon.
As for Vhagar, Aemond rode her only when need demanded it.
She was old. She lacked the liveliness of young dragons, the love of flight, and was most often in a state of slumber.
Save when she fed and opened her eyes, she remained outside the Dragonpit of King's Landing.
The tourney was already halfway done, and no grave crime had arisen in King's Landing. That pleased him.
Today, he had come to inspect his own domain.
"Be still," Aemond said, patting Lothorne's neck in a tone of command.
The dragon gave a low growl of displeasure.
The sound did not come from its throat, but from deep within its chest—a vibration like distant thunder.
Its massive head turned toward Aemond. The molten-gold vertical pupils narrowed into thin lines as it stared fixedly at its rider.
Aemond did not retreat. He raised his right hand and pressed it directly against the scales along the side of the dragon's snout.
The scale was warm to the touch, almost hot, and beneath it he could feel the pulse of blood rushing.
"I know you are hungry," Aemond said, his gaze locked with the dragon's.
"But do not play at temper before me."
"Two oxen last night—was that not enough?"
Lothorne roared again, and this time there was a note of grievance in the sound.
It nudged Aemond's chest with the tip of its snout. The force was carefully measured—enough to make him step back half a pace, yet sufficient to make its displeasure known.
Aemond nearly laughed.
He could understand Lothorne's mood—not true language, but a vague perception carried through the bond in their blood.
Hunger. Irritation. And a trace of… petulance?
"Enough," he said, shaking his head as he turned toward the castle. "I will have a proper meal arranged for you."
After a few steps, he halted without looking back. "Follow."
The dragon hesitated for a brief moment, then obediently began to move, walking behind Aemond.
The guards and servants in the courtyard were long accustomed to the sight.
They bowed their heads in salute, their movements swift, clearing a wide path for the man and the dragon.
Only one newly arrived stable boy was so frightened that he fell to the ground. The old stablemaster yanked him up at once and scolded him in a low voice, "Fool! Do you wish to die?"
Aemond heard it, but paid it no heed.
He made his way to the dedicated dragon yard within the inner court of the castle. It had once been his own training ground, but he had refitted it into a temporary lair for Lothorne.
The ground was layered with thick sand. Along the edges were piled reef stones brought from Blackwater Bay, meant to imitate the environment of Dragonstone.
"Will," Aemond called when he saw the man approaching.
A short, thickset man hurried out from a side door. He was "Three-Fingers" Will.
Now he served as the acting steward of Dragon's Roost, overseeing the castle's daily operations.
"Your Highness!" Will ran up, bowed while catching his breath, and his gaze quickly swept to the black dragon behind Aemond. "Is Lord Lothorne hungry? I will make the arrangements at once!"
Aemond nodded.
"Understood! Understood!" Will turned and waved to several burly men waiting at a distance.
"Go! Bring the three that were dealt with this morning—" He coughed.
The men ran off.
Lothorne seemed to understand. A rumbling sound of anticipation rose from its throat, and its tail swayed lightly, tracing a curved line across the sand.
Aemond walked to the stone bench at the edge of the dragon yard and sat down, unfastening the waterskin at his waist to take a drink. Lothorne lay down beside him, resting its head upon its foreclaws.
Before long, four burly men dragged in two flat carts. Rough cloth covered the loads, but beneath the fabric the outlines were clearly human. The heavy scent of blood spread through the air.
Will lifted one corner of the cloth for Aemond to inspect. "Your Highness, they are… the three prisoners who collapsed at the mine this morning."
Aemond frowned, his eyes sweeping over the three bodies. All were middle-aged men, bearing signs of beatings and dusted with mine ash.
"How does the labor reform proceed?" Aemond asked.
Will immediately brightened. "In reply to Your Highness, it goes very well!"
"Those fellows from the King's Correction Company—they have a knack for handling prisoners!"
"They have been through it themselves. A prisoner tries to shirk or attempt tricks, and they see through it at once!"
He gestured as he spoke. "And as Your Highness instructed, their enforcement carries restraint. They do not strike vital points, they cause no lasting maiming—only pain. Pain enough that the prisoner remembers the lesson."
"Efficiency at the mine has increased by thirty percent compared to when we used slaves alone!"
Aemond said nothing. He rose and walked toward the carts.
Lothorne lifted its head as well, nostrils flaring slightly, plainly interested in the scent of blood.
"It is yours," Aemond said to the dragon.
"But do not eat here. Take it to the rear."
Lothorne let out a pleased low roar, rose to its feet, and walked to the carts.
It seized them directly in its jaws, dragging both bodies and carts together, then beat its wings—not to gain height, but to glide low toward the rocky ground behind the castle.
That was its true feeding ground.
Aemond watched the dragon depart, then turned to Will. "Take me to the mine."
"I would see this correction company with my own eyes."
...
The mine of Dragon's Roost lay at the southern edge of the forest beyond the castle.
It had once been part of the kingswood, thick with trees and prowled by beasts.
But since Aemond discovered the iron vein beneath the earth, a vast stretch of forest had been felled.
Now nothing of its former wildness remained. The ground was scarred with pits and sheds, carts moving to and fro bearing ore.
Because King's Landing was wholly in the Greens' control, the mine no longer required concealment.
A wooden watchtower stood at the entrance, crossbowmen stationed above.
On either side, thick logs formed a fence, their tops sharpened to points.
Above the gate hung a wooden board, painted in coarse black letters:
[Directly under the Crown — Dragon's Roost Mine]
[Labor Reform — Forge a New Life]
When Aemond arrived on horseback, an instruction was in progress at the entrance.
Five men in uniform gray coarse prisoner garb knelt upon the ground, their hands clasped over their heads.
Around them stood six members of the King's Correction Company.
They wore black light armor and nasal helms, and each held a three-foot hardwood rod.
The rod was not so much a weapon as… a teaching implement.
A man who appeared to be the squad leader stood at the fore. He too held a rod, yet did not strike; instead, he explained: "The Prince has instructed that when one beats a man, there must be method."
His voice was loud, ensuring both the kneeling prisoners and the onlooking workers could hear.
"First, do not strike vital parts. The head, chest, belly, groin—those places are not to be touched."
"Second, strike so that it pains, but not so that it cripples."
"Third, once the beating is done, explain the reason, so that he understands why he was beaten."
He paused, then pointed with the rod at the prisoner kneeling foremost. "You. Rise and say why you were beaten."
The prisoner was tall and thin, bruised upon the face, yet defiance still lingered in his eyes. "I… I was only tired. I wished to catch my breath."
"Catch your breath?" the squad leader cut him off, pointing his rod toward the sun overhead. "The sun has not yet set!"
"We have been at work but two hours!"
"You have already stopped to rest three times!"
"While others labor, you shirk. What conduct is this?"
The prisoner opened his mouth, but no words came.
"This is conduct that drags down the diligent!" the squad leader answered in his stead.
"You idle, and your share of work must be borne by others!"
"Production cannot rise, and everyone's commutation is affected by you!"
"Tell me—should you be beaten or not?"
The other kneeling prisoners lowered their heads.
The squad leader looked to his men. "Come. Demonstrate the correct way to strike."
"Remember—hit the arse and the outer thigh. The flesh is thick there. It hurts, but it does not damage sinew or bone."
"Five blows each. Take turns."
The men stepped forward, their movements neat and uniform.
When the rods fell, they cut the air with a hiss, but at the instant they met flesh the force eased by three parts in ten—plainly the result of practice.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
The sound was loud. The prisoner bared his teeth in pain, yet no one screamed—clearly they were used to it.
When it was done, the squad leader asked again, "Will you shirk again?"
"N-no… I dare not…" the prisoner said, drawing breath through clenched teeth.
"Louder! Let everyone hear you!"
"I dare not!"
"Good. Back to work." The squad leader waved a hand.
Just then, he saw Aemond and Will riding closer.
The look on his face changed in an instant—not fear, but a fervor bordering on madness.
He snapped his body straight.
"Company—attention!"
The six men halted at once. Their rods came in tight at their sides; heels together; chests out; chins raised.
"Salute!" the squad leader bellowed, his voice cracking on the word.
Seven men—the squad leader and six members—raised their right hands into fists and hammered them hard against the left side of their chests, over the heart.
It was not a light tap, but a true blow, sounding with dull thuds—
Thump, thump, thump.
"Loyalty!!!"
The shout was so loud it startled birds into flight from the trees.
Aemond reined in his horse, his eyes passing over the seven of them.
Their gazes were so hot they might have caught fire, fixed upon him.
That worship was not feigned. Aemond could tell. It was indoctrination and brainwashing…
He looked to Will.
Will immediately lowered his voice in explanation. "Your Highness, these men of the correction company… in truth, none of them has ever seen you in person."
"So I… I hired a painter, and had a likeness made from your appearance."
"One for each squad. They are required to swear fealty before it morning and evening."
He swallowed, watching Aemond's reaction. "And I also… also made up some slogans and rules myself."
"Such as: Your Highness is the sun, and we are the shadows."
"All glory to Your Highness; loyalty above life…"
"Crude words, but they work."
"Now, across the whole correction company—more than five hundred men—there is not one who does not know you."
Aemond stared at Will in silence for a few seconds.
This damned man was a talent…
Then he nodded, approval in his tone. "Well done, Will."
Will's face flushed red at once, so excited his hands shook.
He too clenched his fist and struck his chest—though he wore no armor, the gesture had become a sort of rite among the correction company.
"Loyalty!" Will roared even louder than the seven men had.
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