I let out a long, weary sigh. The numbers were pitiful. Eight hundred people against a wilderness teeming with outlaws and bandits was a recipe for a massacre if we weren't careful. But I couldn't ask for more than they had already given.
"Alright," I said, my voice taking on a cold, practical edge. "If we're short on hands, we'll find them in the woods. We'll hunt down the criminals in those lands, break them, and use them as manpower. A man who chooses between a noose and a plow will work twice as hard as any free man."
Kellan shifted uncomfortably beside me, but the other lords remained silent. In this world, pressing outlaws into service was common practice. It wasn't cruel; it was efficient.
I leaned forward, my blue eyes locking onto each of theirs. This was the part where some of them might lose their nerve. "Now, listen carefully. This isn't a summer outing. We are abandoning our posts to build something from nothing. That means you probably won't go back to your seats for a year, maybe two. You'll sleep in tents, you'll eat what you grow, and you'll work alongside your people."
I paused, letting the reality of their sacrifice sink in. "You understand that, right? No servants to fetch your wine, no castle walls to hide behind. Just you, me, and the dirt."
Lord Celtigar spat on the floor. "I've slept in worse places than a tent, boy. As long as there's meat in the pot and ground under my feet, I can manage two years."
Lord Bar Emmon looked pale, his throat working as he swallowed hard. "Two years... my wife will be terrified." But then he looked at his scarred hands and nodded slowly. "But if it means my children won't starve, I will endure it."
Larys Velaryon simply arched an eyebrow. "The discomfort of a tent is preferable to the comfort of a coffin, Prince Vaegon. We understand."
Lord Sunglass didn't even hesitate. "I've already lost my trade routes. What's a few years of camping compared to that?"
***
The next few days were a whirlwind of controlled chaos. We loaded ships with everything we could salvage grain sacks, iron tools, tents, seed, and weapons. The docks of Dragonstone became a hive of desperate activity as eight hundred souls prepared to abandon their lives.
When we finally set sail toward the northern stretch, the sea was mercifully calm, but the tension aboard the ships was as thick as the morning fog. I spent most of my time on the deck, watching the horizon, my mind already working on the logistics of clearing forest and establishing a perimeter.
As we drew closer to the mainland, the view began to change. The jagged black rocks of Dragonstone gave way to something I hadn't seen in a long time: true, untamed green. Massive, ancient forests stretched toward the sky like emerald waves, and rolling grasslands swayed in the wind, untouched by plow or hoof.
"Look!" A young girl's voice rang out from one of the Velaryon vessels. "It's green! Like the stories!" A group of children, ranging from toddlers to pre teens, crowded the railing, their faces pressed against the salt stained wood. To them, this wasn't a dangerous wilderness it was a wonderland, a place where the world was fresh and full of mystery.
Behind them, their mothers watched with expressions that were hard to read. There was wonder, yes, but it was shadowed by a deep, aching sadness. They were leaving behind the only homes they had ever known for a promise made by a boy who had been dead for three years.
I looked at the faces of my vassals. Lord Celtigar looked like he was preparing for battle; Lord Bar Emmon looked like he was walking to his execution; and Lord Velaryon simply stared at the land with a cold, calculating detachment. Their grim expressions were a mirror to the reality of our situation: this was a gamble with their lives.
"Come on," I said, breaking the silence. I stepped toward the rail, my voice carrying across the deck. "Don't stand there gawking at the scenery like tourists. Disembark now! There is no time for despair and there's no time for sadness." This chapter is updated first at novelping . com.
I grabbed the rope as the first ship's prow crunched against the pebbled shore. "We have work to do, and the land won't clear itself!"
The command acted like a spark. The men began to stir, shouting orders and preparing the landing boats. The children's laughter died down as they saw the serious faces of the adults, but the momentum was building.
"The first camp needs to be established before sunset," I called out to Kellan and Olyvar, who were already coordinating the first wave of landing. "Find a clearing near the treeline. We need protection from the wind and a clear view of the approach."
The sand beneath my boots was coarse and grey, mixed with bits of crushed shell and driftwood. The air here was different from Dragonstone less sulfurous, more alive with the smell of pine needles and damp earth, but no less dangerous. The sound of eight hundred people disembarking was a cacophony of splashing water, shouting men, and the creak of wooden planks.
I turned to the silver haired lord who had been watching the treeline with obvious wariness. "Larys," I called out, using his given name to strip away the distance between us. I needed him to understand that this wasn't a courtly request; it was a command from a commander.
Lord Velaryon turned, his pale eyes narrowing slightly at my familiarity, but he didn't recoil. "Yes, Prince Vaegon?"
"We can't build a civilization while we're looking over our shoulders for every desperate cutthroat in the woods," I said, gesturing toward the dark, looming forest that pressed against the beach. "You take Ser Olyvar and a portion of our soldiers and guards. Fifty men at least. Your objective isn't to kill them it's to hunt them down and capture them alive."
I watched his reaction closely. "We need manpower more than we need corpses. Any bandit who can hold a blade and hasn't been broken by worse will be useful to us. Put them to work in the clearing, under guard, until we decide if they're worth keeping."
Olyvar stepped forward, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "Fifty men, Your Highness? That's a significant portion of our available strength."
"It's a necessary investment, Ser Olyvar," I countered, my voice hard. "A farmer with a sword is better than a soldier with no food. We need hands for the plows as much as we need hands for the spears."
Larys Velaryon studied me for a long moment, then gave a single, slow nod. "Fifty men, Prince Vaegon. We will sweep the immediate perimeter and bring back whatever 'resources' we find." He turned to Olyvar. "You heard the boy. Ready the boats and gather the men."
***
The sun dipped below the treeline, painting the sky in bruised purples and angry oranges. By dusk, the camp was established a cluster of hastily pitched tents that smelled of woodsmoke and sweat. But the fragile peace of our first evening was shattered when the sound of marching boots and shouting broke through the evening calm.
Larys Velaryon rode into the camp, his horse's hooves kicking up clouds of dust. Behind him, a line of shackled men stumbled through the trees. My eyes widened as I counted them. Seventy. Maybe more. They were a pathetic sight: ribs jutting through torn rags, skin caked in dried mud and blood, their eyes hollow and wild like cornered rats.
Larys dismounted, his face grim. "My Prince," he said, approaching me with a measured stride. "We found them nesting in the ravine to the north. They refused to surrender some thought we were here to hang them, others thought we were prey. We had to cut down about thirty of them to break the rest. Fortunately, we took no casualties among our own." He gestelued toward the broken men kneeling in the dirt. "They are in a far worse position than us. More malnourished, poorer. They've been eating bark and carrion." Visit novelping.com for the full chapter.
I didn't waste time with sympathy. I walked past Larys, my boots crunching on the gravel until I stood directly before the line of prisoners. The stench of them unwashed bodies and rotting teeth was overwhelming, but I didn't flinch. I stood tall, letting the dying light of the sunset cast my shadow across their broken forms.
"My name is Prince Vaegon Targaryen," I said, my voice carrying across the camp without needing to shout. It was cold, precise, and utterly devoid of mercy. "I have come here with my people to claim this land and make it grow. I offer you food, I offer you security, and I offer you a future where you don't have to steal to survive."
I paused, letting the words sink in. "But there is a price. In exchange, you work for me. You obey our rules without question. You forget your old lives, your old names, and your old allegiances. You become the hands that build this kingdom."
I leaned down slightly, my blue eyes boring into theirs. "It's either that, or you die here in the dirt where you belong. Choose now."
A heavy silence fell over the camp. Even the children had gone quiet, watching from the shadows of the tents. A man at the front of the line, his face scarred by an old wound, looked up at me. His lips trembled. "Work? Like... like slaves?" he rasped.
I met his gaze with an intensity that made his pupils dilate, forcing him to flinch back. "Until you have earned respect, yes," I said, my voice as flat as a whetstone. "Until you have proven you can contribute, you are simply tools."
"I'd rather die than be a dog for a boy king!" one of them spat, a man with matted hair and eyes blazing with a desperate, futile defiance.
I didn't argue. I didn't lecture. I simply shrugged. "Very well."
I signaled to Ser Olyvar. The guard moved with practiced efficiency, grabbing the man by his greasy hair and forcing him down onto his knees before me. The man struggled, cursing and cursing, but Olyvar's grip was iron. I reached down to the dagger at my waist, unsheathing the blade in one smooth motion. The steel felt unnaturally cold in my palm.
Then, I drove it home.
The resistance of skin, then muscle, then the sickening slide through cartilage as it pierced his heart it was visceral. A wet, choking sound escaped his throat, followed by a gurgle of blood that splattered across my knuckles. My stomach lurched, a wave of nausea so violent I nearly retched. The copper tang of blood filled my nostrils, mixing with the stench of the camp. It was disgusting. It was horrific. It was the most real thing that had happened to me since I woke up in this world.
But as the man's body went limp and his life ebbed into the dirt, I didn't pull away. I couldn't. If I showed weakness now, the others would smell it. I forced myself to take a deep, steadying breath, pushing down the instinct to vomit. I wiped the blade on the dead man's tunic with hands that were shaking despite my best efforts.
I straightened up, my face a mask of cold stone, and locked eyes with the remaining sixty nine prisoners. The torchlight glinted off the blood spatter on my cheek.
"Anyone else?" I asked.
The silence that followed was absolute. The prisoners didn't just look away; they collapsed inward. Heads bowed, shoulders slumped, they stared at the blood soaked earth as if hoping it would swallow them whole. The sight of a seven year old boy committing cold blooded execution without blinking had done more to break them than any chain. They weren't just accepting their fates; they were terrified of the creature standing before them.
"Good," I said, my voice quiet but carrying through the hushed camp. "Olyvar, get them to the eastern clearing. Start them on the perimeter fence. None of them eat until the first three posts are driven."