The council members exchanged glances, and for the first time, I saw something in their eyes that wasn't just desperation or calculation. It was genuine loyalty. They had seen me transform this wasteland into a home, and they had seen a seven year old boy make decisions that saved their lives.
"To be true, Your Highness," Lord Celitgar spoke up, his rough voice surprisingly earnest. "We don't really want to see you go back to the Capital. We've built this place together. We'd rather stay here under your rule in Dragonstone than see you become another piece in their game."
I couldn't help but smile at that. "I agree. I'd rather stay in that volcano than live in the viper hole that is King's Landing." The thought of returning to the Red Keep, to the indifferent eyes of Rhaegar and the cruelty of Aegon, made my skin crawl.
Nevertheless, I let out a long sigh and turned back to the map. The reality of our position was changing. We were no longer just a village; we were a political entity. And in Westeros, ignorance was a death sentence.
"But we have a gap in our defenses," I said, gesturing to the men around the table. "We have a Master of Ships." I pointed at Larys Velaryon. "We have a Master of Coin." I pointed at Lord Sunglass. "And we have a Master of Law." I pointed at Kellan.
I paused, my expression growing serious. "But we need a Master of Whisperers. We cannot stay blind to the words of the capital and the kingdom. We need to know when the wind shifts before it hits us. We need knowledge, secrets, and ears in every tavern from here to the Stepstones."
Larys Velaryon arched an eyebrow. "A spymaster, Prince? That's a dangerous game. It requires a certain... type of person. Someone who can lie with a smile and disappear into a crowd."
"Exactly," I replied. "And since we've already proven we can make a place out of criminals and refugees, I'm sure we can find someone who knows how to listen."
I turned to Lord Celitgar, meeting those hardened eyes with a steady gaze. The mission was simple, but the implications were immense. We needed someone who could move through the shadows without casting one.
"Lord Celitgar," I said, my voice carrying the weight of a royal decree. "I want you to leave the Green Hills for a time. Leave the farms and the docks behind."
I saw him tense slightly, the prospect of leaving his new responsibilities clearly weighing on him.
"I want you to find such a person someone who understands the value of information and has the skills to gather it. Travel across the Crownlands with a small number of our most trusted soldiers. Don't make it obvious; you're not hunting bandits, you're hunting secrets. Take whatever amount of time you need, my lord. I trust your judgment."
Lord Celtigar took a moment to process the request. He wasn't a man who enjoyed wandering, but he was a man who understood necessity. He gave a slow, solemn nod. "I understand, My Prince. I will scout the taverns, the markets, and the docks. I'll find someone who knows how to listen without being heard."
"Good," I said, turning back to the map. "But remember, we need someone who can be loyal to Dragonstone first, and the truth second. We cannot afford a viper in our own nest."
The council session began to wind down, but the atmosphere remained charged. We had the land, we had the people, and we had the grain. Now, we needed the eyes.
"One last thing before we break," I added, looking at Larys. "Lord Velaryon, keep an eye on the shipping lanes. If anyone from the Capital starts sniffing around our waters, I want to know before their sails appear on the horizon."
***
I stood at the edge of the overlook, letting the wind whip through my hair as I gazed out over the Green Hills. It was hard to believe that eight months ago, this place had been nothing but a wall of hostile green and the smell of rotting leaves. Now, it looked like something from a dream or at least, something from a future I had clawed out of the dirt with my own hands.
The landscape was transformed. Neat, branching water streams now carved through the earth, their surfaces glinting like silver threads under the afternoon sun. Small wooden bridges spanned the channels, and the vast expanses of forest had been pushed back to make room for rolling fields of wheat, cabbage, and potatoes. The gold of the grain rippled in waves, a sea of wealth that had nothing to do with Lannister gold. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
"My Prince!"
I turned to see Lord Bar Emmon approaching, his face flushed with an excitement that made him look twenty years younger. The rest of the council followed close behind, their usual guarded expressions replaced by genuine wonder.
"The farmers have just come from the lower fields," Bar Emmon exclaimed, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste. "It's time for harvest! And Prince Vaegon... they say the yield is unprecedented. The soil is even richer than we thought."
"Unprecedented," Larys Velaryon mused, stepping beside me with that familiar, sharp smile. "The first true harvest of the Green Hills. We're not just feeding ourselves anymore, are we?"
I looked out at the wheat, feeling a surge of something I hadn't felt in the Red Keep: satisfaction. Not the petty satisfaction of wounding a sibling, but the profound power of creation.
"No," I said quietly, my voice carrying a new edge of authority. "We're not just feeding ourselves. We're building a stockpile. Every grain we save now is a day of independence later."
The harvest festival was unlike anything I had ever witnessed. In the Red Keep, feasts were performances of power stiff, formal, and hollow.
Here, the celebration was raw and primal. As the grain was hauled into the communal granaries and sacks of root vegetables were distributed to every household, the atmosphere broke. People who had spent months with hollow cheeks and anxious eyes were now weeping openly, clutching vegetables as if they were holy relics. The sound of laughter mixed with the clatter of wooden bowls, a symphony of survival.
For a moment, I allowed myself to simply stand there and watch. Eight months of mud, blood, and sleepless nights had crystallized into this: a community that believed in something again.
I turned away from the celebration, seeking the familiar silhouette of Ser Olyvar. Due to his role as head of the milicia, the title of head of the Dragonstone Guard wasn't truly fitting.That's why the now Commander of the Dragonstone Army was standing near one of the supply wagons, staring down at a particularly large, fat carrot with an expression of profound awe, as if he were examining a dragon egg.
I couldn't help but sigh. "Stop doing nothing, Commander of the Dragonstone Army," I said, stepping up beside him.
Olyvar jumped slightly, then straightened his spine, though he didn't put down the carrot immediately. "Just assessing the quality of our spoils, Your Highness," he grunted, though there was no real bite in his tone.
"Put the vegetable down, Olyvar," I commanded, though my lips twitched with amusement. "I have work for you. The harvest proves the land can feed us, but we still lack the hands to defend it and expand it."
I leaned closer, my voice dropping to a serious register. "I want you to take a contingent of the militia and ride across the territory. Scour the woods, the caves, and the abandoned settlements. Find whatever criminals, stragglers, or desperate souls you find in those lands. Don't kill them bring them here. Bring as many as you can possibly manage."
Olyvar's eyes sharpened. The laziness vanished instantly, replaced by the keen focus of a predator. "You want to recruit them?"
"I want to conscript them," I corrected. "Every man who can hold a spear is another shield for our children. Every man who can swing an axe is another hand for our fields. We have the food now. Now we need the strength to protect it."
The anniversary of our arrival came not with a ceremony, but with the solid thud of stone on stone. Over the past few months, the village had shed its rough, wooden skin. Stone masons and quarrymen many of them former bandits who had found a new purpose in carving rock had begun replacing the makeshift huts with proper buildings. The Green Hills were no longer a camp; they were becoming a town.
I stood in our council chamber, which was now a proper room with stone walls that kept the winter chill at bay. Around the table, the faces of my vassals had changed. They looked healthier, more confident, and perhaps a little less afraid of the future.
"The numbers from the second harvest are in," Lord Bar Emmon said, laying a ledger on the table with a look of genuine wonder. "I'll admit, Prince Vaegon, when you first spoke of 'resting' the land, I thought you were playing at being a maester. But look at this."
He pointed to the columns of figures. "The plots we left fallow last season produced nearly thirty percent more than the first harvest. We expected a steady yield, but this... it's as if the land is rewarding us for our patience."
"It's not magic, Bar Emmon, it's chemistry," I said, though I kept the technical terms to myself. "The earth is alive. If you strip it bare every year, it dies. If you let it breathe, it thrives."
Lord Sunglass grunted, leaning back in his chair. "I've seen farmers in the Stormlands work their land until it's nothing but dust and desperation. I've never seen anything like this. The people are calling you 'the Green Prince' in the fields, Your Highness."
Larys Velaryon smiled, his fingers steepled. "A fitting title. Though I suspect the 'Green Prince' is more interested in the gold those harvests will bring than the color of the fields."
"Gold comes later," I replied, my gaze drifting to the window where the first frost of winter was settling on the stone walls. "First, we secure our survival. We've proven the land is rich. Now we must prove we can defend it when others realize what we've built here."
I felt a strange shiver run down my spine as I looked at Kellan. The room seemed to grow smaller, the stone walls pressing closer as the implications of his words settled over us like a heavy winter fog.
"How many people right now?" I asked, my voice steadier than I felt. "Give me the true count, Kellan. No rounding up."
Kellan didn't answer immediately. Instead, he let out a slow exhale and offered me a small, almost reverent smile the kind of smile a man gives when he realizes he's no longer drowning, but swimming.
"My Prince," he began, "your plan to send Ser Olyvar to demonstrate the results of our first harvest was... more effective than any of us dared hope. The word of the Green Hills has spread like wildfire through the Crownlands and beyond. People aren't just coming for work anymore; they're coming for a new life."
He leaned forward, his hands braced against the table. "We now number more than ten thousand souls. And the Dragonstone Army..." He paused, his expression turning serious. "It has grown beyond the old militia. We now have five thousand trained soldiers under Ser Olyvar's command."
The silence that followed was absolute.
It wasn't just a quiet room; it was the silence of shock. Lord Bar Emmon's mouth hung open, his fingers frozen halfway to his ledger. Lord Sunglass's eyes went wide, his mind clearly racing through the implications of ten thousand mouths to feed and five thousand blades to pay. Even Larys Velaryon's perpetual smirk vanished, replaced by a look of profound calculation.
Five thousand.
That wasn't a militia. That wasn't a collection of guards and farmers with pitchforks. That was a proper army a force capable of challenging lords and holding territory against serious threats. We had gone from a desperate band of refugees to a power that could tip the scales of the Seven Kingdoms.
I looked at my hands, then back at my council. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Ten thousand people," I whispered, the weight of it suddenly feeling like a physical burden on my shoulders. "Five thousand soldiers."