Crownlands
Aegon crossed the yard of the Red Keep in a black tunic, a sword at his hip.
The royal stables stood ahead, warm with the smell of hay, leather, and horse sweat. Inside, a middle-aged stable hand looked up promptly when he saw who had entered. He bowed quickly.
"My prince."
"My horse," Aegon said.
"At once, my prince."
The man hurried off and returned moments later leading a brown horse by the reins. The animal tossed its head once, then settled when Aegon stepped near. Aegon rubbed its neck lightly, feeling the warmth of its coat beneath his hand. Then he took the reins, placed a foot in the stirrup, and mounted in one smooth motion.
He rode out from the stable and down through the Red Keep.
The streets of King's Landing were busy even by midday. Merchants shouted over one another. Children darted between carts until their mothers dragged them back. The smell of hot stone, smoke, dung, and baked bread all mixed together in the air. Whenever Aegon passed, the smallfolk noticed. Heads lowered. Some bowed. Others simply stepped aside and made room.
Aegon kept riding.
He passed through the city gates and turned south.
The road there was far from empty. Carts creaked along beneath loads of timber and cut stone. Oxen strained. Wheels groaned. Workmen shouted to one another over the rattle of wood and iron. Above it all, the sky was lightly clouded, and a pleasant breeze moved through the open land.
Soon the road forked.
Aegon took the newer path.
The earth there had been broken and leveled not long ago. Wagon tracks had already cut deep grooves into the fresh road. Farther ahead he saw more carts hauling stone, timber, and barrels of supplies. He rode past them in silence.
The path stretched on beneath a rolling hill.
But when he reached it, Aegon did not stay on the lower road. Instead, he turned toward the causeway that climbed the hill itself. The ascent was slow, the ground rougher there, but the horse handled it well enough.
At the top, Aegon drew rein and stopped.
From the hill, the whole spread of land ahead opened before him.
The road below, the one curving beneath the hill, had been cut for a purpose. To feed the work ahead. To keep carts moving. To bring men, timber, stone, tools, and food to the great patch of royal land now being transformed in the distance.
Roughly forty acres.
The future Royal Knight's Academy.
Even from here he could see the shape of it beginning to emerge. Stone foundations. Timber frames. Roof beams rising into place. Work crews moved like ants across the site. Masons bent over cut blocks. Laborers hauled loads on their backs and shoulders. Teams of men shouted together as they raised heavy beams into place. Here and there, among the workers, figures in grey robes moved with measured purpose.
Maesters.
Watching. Recording. Advising. Counting.
Aegon let his gaze move across the spread.
It was a good place for it.
The land belonged directly to the Iron Throne, which meant no local lord could mutter that the king was seizing his proper grounds. Not Rosby. Not Stokeworth. Not Hayford. At the same time, it sat close enough to King's Landing for easy oversight. Supplies could be brought quickly. Royal officers could inspect it without delay. Yet it was far enough from the city to breathe cleaner air and claim more open ground.
And the Kingswood lay near.
That mattered too.
Boys meant to be made into knights would need more than a yard and a few dummies. They would need ground to ride. Woods to cross. Hills to climb. Places to hunt, track, camp, and learn how to move through the field like soldiers rather than ornaments in silk.
This place gave all of that.
Hoofbeats sounded behind him.
Aegon glanced back over his shoulder.
Lord Corlys Velaryon was making his way up the hill with two guards behind him. Corlys wore a lavish green court tunic, though the climb over the rocky slope forced him to ride more carefully than usual. The guards did the same, their horses picking their steps over the broken ground.
When they came close enough, Corlys smiled.
"My prince," he called. "You have found a fine place to watch the academy being built."
Aegon smiled back. "Lord Corlys." His eyes flicked once toward the city behind them. "Is court done for the day?"
"It is," Corlys said as he reined in beside him. "I thought to see how the work was progressing."
Aegon nodded. "Same here."
Corlys looked out over the construction for a long moment. The breeze tugged lightly at his cloak.
"I have to say," he said at last, "I do not know how you came upon this idea and then managed to place it before the right man." He gave a faint smile. "But you did. King Jaehaerys has already done enough for the realm to last for ages. And now you, with this academy…" He shook his head once, sounding honestly impressed. "You have shown yourself his grandson. Word about the academy is spreading already through the Crownlands. Soon enough it will spread across the realm as well."
Aegon accepted the praise with a small smile.
"This was the best thing a Valyrian sword could be exchanged for," he said. "Hope for the smallfolk. A place to train the worthy. A place to teach chivalry and righteousness."
Corlys nodded slowly. "A better bargain than coin."
Aegon said nothing to that. He only looked back over the land again.
After a moment, Corlys spoke once more.
"I am curious, though. Which other houses have offered to become patrons?"
Aegon glanced at him from the side, a small smile touching his mouth.
"With House Velaryon leading the way…" he continued. "At present… House Lannister, House Tyrell, House Hightower, and House Redwyne."
Corlys gave a low sound of approval. "Good. Then there is enough coin to hasten the work."
Aegon nodded. "That is the hope."
Silence settled between them for a while after that.
The breeze moved around them. In the distance came the dull rhythm of hammers. A cart wheel cracked against stone. Somewhere lower on the slope, a horse snorted.
Then Aegon asked, plain as ever, "Do you want to ask about your sword?"
Corlys chuckled.
"I was waiting for you to say it."
Aegon broke into a smile too. "It should be ready in a month or two."
That pleased Corlys more openly.
"Now that," he said, "is news good enough to redeem a whole month spent at court." Then his mouth curved more slyly. "Though I would like it better still if you came and delivered it yourself."
Aegon raised an eyebrow.
Was Lord Velaryon truly asking a prince to hand-deliver a sword?
Corlys saw the look and answered right away.
"Not in a demeaning way," he said quickly, amusement still in his voice. "Only that you have not visited Driftmark in too long. Your cousin Rhaenys misses you dearly. So do the children." He gestured lightly with one hand. "The sword is reason enough to come, take a little rest, and spend some time at Driftmark."
Then he added, "Bring Princess Gael too. Rhaenys adores her."
That softened Aegon's expression.
"Yes," he said. "Definitely."
Corlys smiled, satisfied.
They remained there a little longer, saying little, with the academy rising in the distance and the wind moving cool over the hill. Then, when the moment had passed, Corlys gave him a parting nod and turned his horse, his guards following after him down the slope.
Aegon stayed where he was.
The sound of departing hoofbeats faded.
Below, the work continued.
Stone upon stone. Beam upon beam. Hammer blow after hammer blow.
Aegon looked over the spread of land in silence.
A school for boys who would never otherwise have had such a chance. A promise to the realm wrapped in timber, stone, sweat, and steel.
Slowly, he let his eyes close.
Then he reached inward.
The Class Tree.
[EXP 467,832]
Aegon opened his eyes and looked out once more over the academy grounds.
A faint smile touched his face.
Stormlands
Blackhaven rose from the southwestern Stormlands like a thing carved from night.
Its walls were black basalt, hard and dark enough to drink the sun. Below them yawned a dry moat so deep it seemed almost bottomless, a sheer drop of stone and shadow that ringed the castle like an old wound. Above, banners snapped in the wind: forked purple lightning on a black field, speckled with four-pointed stars.
House Dondarrion. Lords of Blackhaven. Forever looking toward the Boneway.
In the stables below, a boy worked a muddy cloth over a mare's flank.
Coal-black hair clung damply to his forehead. His green eyes stayed on the horse as he dipped the cloth into a bucket, wrung it out, and scrubbed again. The mare snorted and stamped once, tail flicking at flies. He only put more strength into his arm and kept wiping.
Then the gate opened.
Noise rolled into the yard like a blow.
The boy turned.
Men came through the gate with stretchers on their shoulders. Wounded soldiers. One had his leg wrapped in blood-soaked linen so dark it had nearly turned black. Another lay too still, his face grey beneath the dirt. The men carrying them shouted as they crossed the yard.
"Make way!"
"Move!"
"Maester! Get the maester!"
A horse screamed somewhere beyond the gate. Another man stumbled in with one arm hanging wrong at his side. A servant nearly dropped a bucket trying to scramble out of the way.
The boy watched for a moment.
Then he turned back and wiped the mare again.
"Boy. Oi. Boy."
He looked up.
A middle-aged man was striding into the stable. He wore the plain but cleaner clothes of a castle steward. His face was tight with strain.
The boy straightened at once. "Father?"
"Come," the man said. "Quickly."
The boy dropped the cloth into the bucket. "What happened?"
His father did not answer. He only looked once toward the stable door, then back at him.
"You're coming with me to see the lord."
That wiped every other thought from the boy's face.
He moved at once to the bucket of cleaner water nearby and scrubbed his hands fast, rubbing mud from his fingers and under his nails. "The lord?"
"Aye." His father swallowed. "Come on."
The boy followed.
They crossed into the inner castle at a hurried pace. Everywhere there was movement. Maids passed carrying folded cloth and steaming basins. Servants rushed along the walls with lowered heads. Knights came and went in mail and boiled leather, some half-armed, some with cloaks thrown over one shoulder, all with the look of men who expected to be sent back out at any moment.
Each time one passed, the steward bowed his head.
The boy copied him at once.
Neither spoke.
Soon they stood outside a chamber door.
His father stopped there and turned to him. For the first time since entering the stable, the man seemed uncertain.
"Stand proper," he said quietly. "As I taught you."
The boy nodded.
"Keep your back straight. Speak clear. Don't mumble. Don't stare. And mind your tongue."
"Yes, Father."
His father took one breath, then opened the door.
They stepped inside carefully.
The room was warm with torchlight and thick with the smell of food. Three knights stood near the middle of the chamber, listening while Lord Dondarrion ate at the table. The lord held a torn piece of bread in one hand, freshly dipped in a bowl of soup. He was broad across the shoulders and thick through the chest, with the air of a man used to being obeyed before he had finished speaking.
The steward and his son moved to the side at once and waited in the corner without interrupting.
Lord Dondarrion did not look at them yet.
"Inform the crown?" he barked, loud enough to shake the rafters. "And show what? That House Dondarrion is not capable of securing the Boneway?" He slapped the wet bread back into the bowl. "House Dondarrion never cowers!"
The knights answered at once.
"No, my lord."
"Never, my lord."
Dondarrion jabbed a finger at them with the piece of bread still in hand. "Take the newly recruited men and run patrols. Multiple rounds. Quiet-like. Change the groups. Keep them moving." His voice hardened. "And if any of you spy those Dornish bastards, you support one another at once. No hero's foolishness. Understood?"
"Yes, my lord."
The knights bowed their heads. Two turned for the door.
Then Lord Dondarrion's eyes flicked toward the corner.
He had noticed the steward.
"And you stay," he said to one of the men. "Ser Arlan."
The knight halted and turned back with a short nod.
Lord Dondarrion crooked two fingers toward the corner.
"Cole."
The steward stepped forward at once, his son beside him. Both bowed slightly.
"My lord," the steward said. His voice had gone careful now. Respectful. "This is my boy."
Lord Dondarrion leaned back a little in his chair and looked the boy up and down.
"What's ye name, boy?"
The boy swallowed.
"Criston," he said, and for the first time there was a catch in his voice. "C-Criston Cole, lord."
Lord Dondarrion frowned faintly and looked toward the steward. "Ain't he a little too old?"
"Fifteen this year, my lord," the steward said quickly. "A little old, aye, but the boy works hard. He's dreamed of becoming a squire since he was a child."
Dondarrion grunted.
"Well… whatever. We need new blood anyway." He pointed with the bread toward the knight who had stayed behind. "This is Ser Arlan. He just lost his squire a few days back." His eyes went back to Criston. "You are to become his new one. What do ye think, boy?"
Criston dropped to one knee at once.
"I will not disappoint you, my lord," he said. "I will serve—"
"Well, all good," Lord Dondarrion cut in. He waved a hand as if brushing the rest aside. "Go on then."
Ser Arlan inclined his head to his lord. He was younger than the others had been, though old enough to carry weariness in his face. Dried dirt clung to one boot, and there was a fresh tear at the edge of his sleeve. He looked at Criston only briefly, then gave a small nod.
Criston rose. He bowed first to Lord Dondarrion, then to Ser Arlan.
"My ser."
Ser Arlan turned for the door, and Criston followed him.
Behind them, the steward stood still for half a heartbeat longer.
He watched his son go with a look he had likely imagined for years. Pride. Relief. Joy.
Then Lord Dondarrion's voice cracked through the room.
"Shit. The damn soup's cold." He looked up sharply.
"Eh, Cole. Ask the kitchen to reheat it."
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200 Power Stones → +1 Chapter ✅
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