Summerhall, The Eastern District.
The mornings at Summerhall always carried a distinct sound, not of human voices, but the rhythmic clang, clang, clang of the blacksmith shops in the eastern district of the town.
But this afternoon, a different sound drowned out everything else.
It was the whistle of dragon wings tearing through the air, low and violent.
A heatwave smelling of sulfur reached the ground before the sound did.
Linen drying in the castle courtyard was whipped up by the gale, and warhorses in the stables neighed in distress.
The guards, seeing the dragon, straightened their backs and gripped their spears; there was no fear on their faces, for they had grown accustomed to this.
It was Morghul descending from the sky.
The black dragon's growth rate was staggering.
In just three years, it had transformed from the size of a pup into a twelve-meter-long young dragon.
With a wingspan of nearly twenty meters, his scales were a pure, abyssal black.
His vertical pupils were a molten, dark red, and deep within them, flames seemed to swirl.
Morghul landed with characteristic pride, head held high, snorting two jets of white steam flecked with sparks.
Aemond slid down from the dragon's back with practiced ease.
Over the last three years, he had spent constant time with this young dragon.
As for Vhagar, Aemond only mounted her when necessary; she was old and preferred sleep, spending most of her time near the Dragonpit of King's Landing.
The tourney in the capital was halfway through, and no major crimes had occurred, which satisfied him.
Today, he was here to inspect his domain.
"Quiet," Aemond patted Morghul's neck, his tone commanding.
The dragon let out a low, dissatisfied growl, a vibration like muffled thunder coming from deep within his chest.
His massive head turned toward Aemond, molten pupils narrowing into slits.
Aemond did not flinch. He pressed his hand against the scales on the side of the dragon's snout; they were hot to the touch, and he could feel the thrum of the blood beneath.
"I know you're hungry," Aemond said, locking eyes with the beast.
"But don't throw a tantrum in front of me. Weren't two bulls enough for you last night?"
Morghul roared again, this time with a hint of grievance.
He nudged Aemond's chest with his snout, just enough to force him back half a step, but enough to express his mood.
Aemond almost laughed. He understood Morghul's emotions; it wasn't a language, but a blurred perception transmitted through their blood connection.
Hunger, irritability... and a bit of a desire to be spoiled?
"Fine, fine," Aemond shook his head, walking toward the castle.
"I'll arrange a good meal for you. Follow."
The dragon hesitated for a split second before obediently following his master.
The servants and guards gave them a wide berth. Only one new stable boy fell over in terror, only to be yanked up by an old groom.
"Idiot! Do you want to die?" the elder hissed.
Aemond ignored them and led Morghul to the specialized dragon yard, his former training ground, now converted into a temporary nest.
"Will," Aemond called.
A short, stout man ran out from a side door.
This was one of the "Three-Fingers" Will, the acting administrator of Summerhall.
"Your Grace!" Will panted, bowing. His eyes flicked to the black dragon.
"Lord Morghul is hungry? I'll arrange it immediately!"
Aemond nodded. Will signaled to several strongmen waiting nearby.
"Go! Bring those three we processed this morning!"
Morghul seemed to understand, letting out an expectant trill and sweeping his tail across the sand.
Aemond sat on a stone bench to drink water as the men dragged out two flatbed carts covered in linen.
Under the cloth, the silhouettes were clearly human, and the scent of blood filled the air.
Will pulled back a corner of the cloth for Aemond's inspection.
"Your Grace, these are the three convicts who died suddenly in the mines this morning."
Aemond frowned. They were middle-aged men with marks of exhaustion and coal dust.
"How is the 'Labor Reform' progressing?"
Will brightened.
"Wonderfully, Your Grace! They really have a way with the prisoners. They're former slaves themselves so that they can spot a slacker or a troublemaker instantly. And as you ordered, they 'enforce with warmth', they don't hit vitals or cause permanent injury; they just make them hurt enough to remember the lesson. Efficiency is up thirty percent!"
Aemond stood up.
"It's all yours," he told the dragon.
"But don't eat here. Take it to the back."
Morghul let out a cheerful growl, picked up the carts, wood and all, in his jaws, and glided toward the rock fields behind the castle.
"Take me to the mines," Aemond told Will.
"I want to see it for myself."
-----
The Summerhall Mines.
The Summerhall mines lay south of the castle. Once a dense part of the forest, it was now a sprawling clearing filled with pits and workshops.
Since King's Landing was firmly under Green control, there was no longer a need for secrecy.
At the entrance, a lesson was in progress.
Five men in grey convict tunics knelt with their hands behind their heads. Surrounding them were six members of the Penance Legion.
They wore black light armor and held three-foot hardwood sticks.
The squad leader stood at the front, using his stick as a pointer rather than a weapon.
"The Prince ordered that there is a craft to striking," his voice boomed.
"First, no vitals. Head, chest, belly, groin, those are off-limits. Second, it must hurt, but not maim. Third, after the beating, you explain why they were beaten."
He pointed his stick at the first convict.
"You. Get up. Tell everyone why you were beaten."
The prisoner was lanky and bruised.
"I... I was just tired. I wanted to catch my breath."
"Catch your breath?" the leader interrupted.
"The sun hasn't set! You've been working two hours and 'caught your breath' three times! While others toil, you slack off. What do you call that?"
The prisoner stammered.
"It's a theft from your brothers!" the leader shouted at him.
"When you slack, others must do your work! Production drops, and everyone's sentence reduction is affected! Tell me, do you deserve it?"
The other prisoners lowered their heads.
The leader turned to his men.
"Demonstrate the proper method. Remember: buttocks and outer thighs. Fleshy, painful, but no bone damage. Five strokes each, in rotation."
The sticks fell with a synchronized thwack!
The convict winced, but didn't scream; he had clearly learned the routine.
"Will you slack again?" the leader asked.
"No... I won't dare..."
"Louder!"
"I WON'T DARE!"
"Good. Back to work."
At that moment, the leader spotted Aemond and Will.
His expression shifted instantly, not to fear, but to a near-fanatical fervor. He snapped to attention.
"SQUAD, ATTENTION!"
The six brigade members froze, sticks at their sides, heels together, chests out.
"SALUTE!" the leader roared, his voice cracking with intensity.
All seven men simultaneously slammed their right fists over their hearts. It wasn't a tap; it was a heavy, muffled thud.
"LOYALTY!!!"
The shout was loud enough to startle birds from the trees.
Aemond reined in his horse, his eyes scanning the seven men.
Their gaze was burning, fixed on him with a devotion that wasn't faked.
Aemond could tell that this was the result of deep indoctrination.
He looked at Will.
Will whispered nervously, "Your Grace, these brigade members... most have never seen you in person. So, I... I hired an artist to paint your portrait. I gave a copy to every squad and required them to swear fealty to your likeness every morning and night."
"I also... made up some slogans. Like 'The Prince is the Sun, we are his Shadow,' or 'Glory to the Prince, Loyalty above Life.' Crude, but effective. Now, all five hundred members of the brigade know exactly who you are."
Aemond stared at Will for several seconds.
'This man... is a psychology genius of a certain sort.'
He nodded with approval.
"You've done well, Will."
Will's face turned bright red, his hands shaking with excitement.
He, too, slammed his fist against his chest.
"LOYALTY!" he roared, louder than all the others combined.
-----
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