Antlers, The Crownlands.
This castle, situated approximately one hundred miles (160 km) northeast of King's Landing, was one of the vital strongholds of the northern Crownlands.
Its walls were not high, but they were thick, flanked by numerous watchtowers and protected by a wide moat, sufficient to repel any ground assault.
At this moment, the army encamped outside the castle was larger than what the interior could hold.
The camp stretched for miles, with tents clustered as thick as mushrooms. Cooking smoke rose from countless fires, weaving into a greyish-white mist across the afternoon sky.
The five hundred heavy cavalry of the Praetorian Guard were camped on the far western side.
Their tents were perfectly aligned, their warhorses tethered in designated stable zones, and their armor and weapons polished to a high sheen.
These nobles were the elite heavy knights of the Greens; every knight hailed from a southern noble family, and each wore dragon-etched plate forged from the finest Targaryen steel.
The Royal Army was stationed in the center. Comprising over three thousand men, they were well-equipped and highly disciplined, the standing army of the Crownlands, paid by the Iron Throne and answerable only to its command.
Their commander, Ser William Darklyn, was a battle-hardened veteran.
The levies of the Crownlands' vassals were camped to the east. Five thousand men from over a dozen Houses, a kaleidoscope of banners and varying levels of equipment.
Some were seasoned Lord's guards, while others were freshly conscripted farmers brought along to bolster the numbers.
Regardless, the figure of five thousand remained a tangible threat.
To the south of the camp, near a small grove, was a group that stood apart from the rest: the private army of Rook's Rest, Prince Aemond's personal guard.
Their tents were even more orderly than those of the Praetorian Guard, but the colors were darker and the designs simpler.
There were no superfluous decorations or boastful banners; only the standard of the black field with the Golden Three-Headed Dragon stood at the entrance.
Black field, Golden Three-Headed Dragon.
Currently, the soldiers of the personal guard sat around fires, drinking steaming meat broth.
Mutton simmered in the pots, seasoned with salt and spices, smelling delicious enough to make one salivate.
Every man had a hunk of black bread, which they broke into pieces to soak in the broth, eating with loud, slurping gulps. Occasionally, they looked up at a silhouette atop a nearby hill.
Prince Aemond sat there, his back against an old oak tree, eating the same.
The evening sun filtered through the leaves, casting patterns of light and shadow across his face.
He wore his suit of Valyrian-steel-infused plate, with the Golden Three-Headed Dragon embossed upon the breastplate.
At his hip hung the sword Blackfyre.
Not far from him, the two dragons were gorging themselves. Vhagar lay on the ground, pinning a whole roasted ox with her massive talons.
The ox had been roasted until the skin crackled with oil; Vhagar lowered her head, tore off more than half the carcass in one bite, and swallowed it without chewing.
Morghul crouched nearby with three roasted sheep before him, tearing off chunks of mutton and savoring them slowly.
Occasionally, Morghul looked at his mother, Vhagar, and the roasted ox she held. He wanted the beef, not the mutton.
But he knew that stealing food from Vhagar's jaws would surely earn him a thrashing. Resentful, he could only turn back to finish his sheep.
Oxen and sheep were being brought up in a steady stream by the soldiers. The spices mingled with the charcoal smoke and the dragons' musk, forming a singular atmosphere.
Hal walked through the camp and ascended the hill. He stopped before Aemond.
"Your Grace."
Aemond did not open his eyes.
Hal continued, "Prince, there is a tent nearby. You may go inside to rest."
Aemond opened his eyes. Those violet depths appeared exceptionally profound in the twilight.
"There is a great dragon in the Riverlands."
Hal blinked, momentarily confused.
"Caraxes," Aemond said.
"Daemon's dragon. The Blood Wyrm is an anomaly among dragons. He is one of the fastest in Westeros, far more agile than Vhagar. If Daemon were to launch a sudden raid, do you think I would be killed in my sleep?"
Hal fell silent. Aemond looked at him with a faint smile.
"To harbor a sense of luck is the greatest misfortune."
Aemond patted the old oak behind him.
"I rest with my back to the tree. If anything happens, I can mount the dragon at any moment."
Hal bowed his head. "Your Grace is right."
Aemond withdrew his gaze, looking at the two feeding dragons.
"The Blacks surely know I have arrived. If we move to attack Rook's Rest, they will come to ambush us."
Hal looked up. "They have Caraxes and the 'Red Queen,' Meleys."
Aemond glanced at Vhagar.
"Vhagar's injuries..."
"Minor wounds," Aemond said.
"They won't affect the battle. But if Meleys and Caraxes coordinate, led by two experienced dragonriders like Rhaenys and Daemon..."
He hesitated for a moment and sighed.
"If I cannot pick them off one by one..."
Hal's brow furrowed. "Then our march to Rook's Rest..."
Aemond smiled, a look of deep intent.
"Who said I must go to Rook's Rest?"
Hal was stunned. "Eh?"
Aemond pulled a map from his tunic and spread it across his knees. He pointed to a single spot.
"Look."
Hal leaned in. It was Dragonstone. His eyes widened.
"Your Grace, you intend to...?"
"Lure them away," Aemond said. He pointed to Rook's Rest.
"Here, we exert massive pressure with the army. Daemon and Rhaenys will think I am here, and they will come to ambush me."
His finger moved to Dragonstone.
"While they are coming, I am going."
Aemond looked up, a thin smile playing on his lips.
"I am going to Dragonstone to capture the pretender."
Hal's breath hitched.
"Capture... capture the princess?"
"Rhaenyra," Aemond said.
"My dear sister. The Blacks will not let her join this ambush. Her spirit is unstable, and her experience is far inferior to Daemon's or Rhaenys's. She will only stay on Dragonstone, waiting for news. Like a beautiful vase."
He paused. "I will go and take her. Alive is better, but dead will suffice."
Hal's face paled. This was a decapitation strike. If it succeeded, it could end the war immediately.
"Your Grace," Hal's voice was dry.
"Then what of us...?"
Aemond tilted his head, his violet eyes fixed on Hal, speaking calmly.
"Bait."
Hal froze. "Bait?"
Aemond nodded. "Daemon and Rhaenys's target is me. When they see the army besieging the castle, they will assume I am there. They will come for me. You only need to feign the siege; as soon as they appear, retreat."
"Retreat?" Hal asked.
"Gwayne," Aemond said, "he will listen. This is my command."
He stood up and patted Hal's shoulder.
"You are my confidant; that is why I tell you this. When the march nears Rook's Rest, keep the personal guard at the rear, ready to withdraw at a moment's notice."
He looked into Hal's eyes. "When Daemon and Rhaenys arrive, tell Gwayne to retreat. Say it is my order."
Hal took a deep breath and nodded.
"Yes."
Aemond's smile carried a sense of trust.
"This is the fastest way to resolve the war. Once I capture Rhaenyra, or kill her, the Blacks lose their banner. Their morale will scatter naturally."
He turned back toward the fire, where the beef was sizzling. Aemond drew a dagger from his waist and sliced off a piece of meat.
It was scaldingly hot, fresh from the flames, with fat bubbling on the surface.
Aemond placed it directly into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.
Hal said nothing; he was well aware of the Prince's "Unburnt" constitution.
Aemond noticed his gaze and sliced another piece, handing it to Hal.
"Taste it."
Hal took the meat. It was still very hot. He took a bite. It scorched his mouth, but it was delicious. Truly delicious.
He knelt by the fire and sliced off several more large pieces with his own dagger, heedless of the heat.
Morghul looked over. Aemond waved a piece of meat at him with his dagger.
Morghul's eyes brightened; he dropped the half-chewed sheep leg and trotted over eagerly.
Aemond tossed the meat, and Morghul caught it in mid-air, chewing with a satisfied snort. He really did prefer beef.
Vhagar also looked up.
She glanced at Morghul with a look of draconic disdain in her eyes, trotting over like a pup for a few scraps of meat.
Truly, an undignified dragon.
'FAILURE'
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