– Aemon POV –
I knew these factories would blow up in the future. Not literally, of course—but in the way that matters. Business would boom, and the value of nearby land would rise like wildfire. That gave me an opening. A perfect excuse to build real ties with houses in the Crownlands.
Take House Darklyn. They've been simmering for years, ever since King's Landing stole the heart of their trade. Bitterness like that doesn't fade easily. But maybe I could turn it into something useful. Not by demanding loyalty, but by offering them a reason to believe in me.
Then there's House Celtigar, perched out at Crackclaw Point. Their hold on their own lands is shaky—their authority more questioned than followed. If I planted roots there, gave their people work and purpose, it might be enough to steady things. For them, and for me.
So, with the gold my father loaned me, I climbed onto Zalrazar and flew straight for Duskendale.
– Gunthor Darklyn POV –
I was in my solar, going over ledgers from this season's crops and checking the port numbers, when I heard it—the sharp, echoing shriek of a dragon.
I rushed to the window. There it was, circling over the city—dark scales, blue underwings. I'd seen that dragon before. Zalrazar. Prince Aemon's beast.
After one slow, deliberate circle, the dragon veered toward the city gate.
"Prepare bread and salt," I ordered. "Make the men ready. The prince is here."
When I arrived at the gates, there he stood—just a boy, but with the posture of someone who'd already conquered something. He wore standard dragonrider leathers, wind-tossed silver hair catching the light.
I stepped forward. "Duskendale and House Darklyn welcome you, Prince Aemon. I am Lord Gunthor Darklyn."
He gave me a nod and replied smoothly, "I'm warmed by your welcome, my lord. I came unannounced—my mistake. But I've come for an important matter."
His voice—calm, confident, clear. Spoke like a man grown.
"Then let's discuss it properly," I said. "But first, bread and salt."
Once seated in my chamber, I turned to him. "Now, what matter brings you here, my prince?"
He looked me dead in the eyes. "Before we begin, know this: I'm not here on behalf of the Crown. Not my father, not the court. What we discuss stays between you and me."
I frowned. A six-nameday prince making private deals? That could mean anything—and none of it good.
"I see. How can I help you, then?"
"I know my age raises doubts," he said, "but I'm here to buy land. Fair price. In gold. No pressure, no titles—just business."
That caught me off guard. A prince—heir to power beyond my imagining—asking to buy land from his bannermen, not take it? And with his own coin?
"What land are you looking for?" I asked, wary now.
He pulled out a map, unrolled it over my table, and pointed. A strip of land far north in my territory—between Rook's Rest and Duskendale, leading toward Crackclaw Point.
"That area," he said. "I need the land under your control."
I stared at the spot. Sparse population. Hit by drought not long ago. Nothing worth much, not to most.
"That land's never done us any favors," I said carefully. "Not much value in it. If you don't mind me asking, why there?"
"Honestly? I plan to open something called a 'factory' there. To produce these." He handed me a page and a strange-looking quill—or so I thought.
Then he showed me how it worked.
Smooth, clean ink flow. No need for constant dipping. The paper, soft but durable. A product any scribe or maester would kill for.
"You now have options," he said. "Raise the price after knowing how important that land will become. Ask for rent , refuse to sell. Or—see what this invention could do for your land and people. Your call."
My blood went cold. The boy had laid a trap, and I'd walked right into it.
He'd baited me with curiosity. Made me ask why, then let me see why. And now, he was holding the cards while acting like it was all fair play.
I couldn't treat him like a child. Not anymore.
"I... I see the workforce it'll bring. The potential. And since you asked for a fair deal—I'll be fair. I ask 1,500 gold dragons for that land."
He gave a smile. "How could I refuse such sincerity? Deal."
I had to ask. "Who made these… things?"
"Yours truly," he said, tossing a heavy pouch of gold on the table. "Five hundred now. The rest in a moon's time, after the final papers are drawn."
He stood up. "See you soon, Lord Gunthor."
And just like that, he left—his dragon taking to the sky like a living storm.
I stood there long after he'd gone, staring at that map, the pouch, the pen.
Wondering how I'd just been outplayed by a six-year-old.