Dragonstone had become less of a castle and more of a giant construction site. The air was thick with the sounds of progress the rhythmic clink of hammers, the shouting of foremen, and the constant grinding of stone against stone. The village was sprouting new buildings, the port was taking shape with its new quays, and the castle walls were being reinforced with fresh mortar and blood sweat.
But amid the chaos of rebuilding, I finally addressed the one weakness I couldn't delegate to a council.
I stood in the training yard, the ground still uneven and littered with debris. In my grip was a practice sword, its weight familiar but demanding. Across from me, Ser Olyvar didn't bother with a gentle warm up. He came at me like a landslide, his face twisted in a grin that was half encouragement and half challenge.
CLANG.
The impact was so sudden and violent that it sent a shockwave up my arms, making my fingers vibrate against the leather grip. The force behind Olyvar's strike was immense, a reminder that while I had the mind of a man, I still possessed the frame of a nine year old boy.
"Again!" Olyvar roared, already stepping in for another swing. "Don't just hold the sword like a walking stick, Prince! Drive through your hips or I'll knock you into the dirt!"
I gritted my teeth, my muscles screaming as I adjusted my stance. The training wasn't elegant, and it certainly wasn't safe. Olyvar didn't treat me like a royal heir; he treated me like another recruit in his army. He pushed me until my lungs burned and my palms bled through the wraps.
Good, I thought as I parried another blow, my boots sliding in the gravel. Let him be brutal.
I needed to know what it felt like when steel met steel. I needed to know how to survive if my walls failed or if my guards turned. I had built a kingdom of grain and stone, but in Westeros, the only thing that truly secured your life was knowing how to take someone else's.
I lay sprawled on the packed earth, staring up at the grey Dragonstone sky while my chest heaved in ragged, desperate gasps. My arms felt like leaden weights, and every muscle in my body throbbed with a dull, grinding ache. A fresh trickle of blood ran down my temple from a cut where Olyvar's practice blade had caught me off balance, and my ribs screamed with every breath I drew.
The training wasn't just practice; it was a lesson in pain.
Above me, Ser Olyvar stood silhouetted against the sun, looking entirely unruffled. He wasn't even winded. He just stood there with that infuriating, satisfied smirk on his face, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of a scarred forearm.
"Fucking bastard," I hissed through gritted teeth, the words tasting like copper and dust. "I will... I will deduct your pay."
Olyvar let out a booming laugh that echoed off the castle walls. "Deduct my pay? With what, Your Highness? You haven't even paid the blacksmiths for the new swords yet!" He offered me a rough hand, though his eyes remained sharp. "Besides, you didn't die. That means you learned something. Today you learned how to fall. Tomorrow, we learn how to make sure you don't."
I ignored his hand, grunting as I pushed myself up to one knee, my arms shaking violently. I wiped the blood from my eye with the back of my sleeve, staring up at him with narrowed eyes. "Tomorrow, I learn how to put you on your ass instead."
"Then you'd better start practicing your footwork, boy, because you're still as clumsy as a newborn foal," he countered, but there was approval beneath the mockery. Visit novelping(.)com for the full chapter.
I took a moment to steady myself, my heart finally slowing its frantic pace. Around us, the construction noise continued the distant clang of hammers and the shouts of workers but here in the yard, the air still felt charged with the violence of our exchange.
"Get up," Olyvar said, his tone shifting to something more practical. "The sun's dropping, and you need to eat if you want to have the strength to curse me again tomorrow. And clean yourself up you look more like a common street urchin than a Prince of Dragonstone."
I let out a derisive snort as I struggled to my feet, my legs feeling like they were made of wet clay. "As if everyone in this castle hasn't seen me tending the fields back in the Green Hills," I grumbled, wiping the blood and grime from my face with the back of my hand. "I've done harder work pulling stubborn roots out of the earth than this."
My muscles protested every movement, but there was a strange satisfaction in the ache. It was real. It was earned.
I straightened my tunic as best I could, trying to reclaim some semblance of dignity despite the bruises blooming across my ribs. I looked up at Olyvar, who was watching me with that infuriatingly knowing expression.
"Say, be honest," I said, my voice rough but steady. "How am I fairing with a sword? Don't give me the courtier's answer. I want the truth."
Olyvar wiped his blade on a rag before sheathing it with a metallic shring. He studied me for a long moment, his scarred face unreadable. Then, he let out a short, approving grunt.
"You have the instincts, I'll give you that," he said, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "Most pups your age would have been crying for their septas after the first three blows. You kept your eyes open. You kept your chin down. That's half the battle."
His expression hardened slightly. "But you're still weak. Your grip wavers when you're tired, and your footwork is sloppy when you get angry. In a real fight, a man wouldn't wait for you to finish your dramatic speech before he gutted you like a fish."
He stepped closer, pointing a thick finger at my chest. "But you're learning faster than any recruit I've seen in years. Most men take years to develop that kind of stubbornness. You seem to have been born with it."
I nodded grimly. "Good. Because I don't plan on being weak for long."
After a hot bath that had turned the water red with blood and grime, I returned to the council room feeling human again, though my muscles still throbbed with every step. The stone walls were cooler now, the evening air of Dragonstone seeping through the cracks.
I settled into my chair and let the council take the floor. Gareth Sunglass was in his element, leaning over the map with a fervor that bordered on religious.
"The Green Hills are already our strongest asset," Gareth explained, tracing routes from the peninsula toward the mainland. "But the real profit lies in the flow. If we secure the trade lines between our new farms and the neighboring strongholds first, we control the food supply before anyone else even realizes we've cornered the market."
Larys Velaryon chimed in, his voice bright with the satisfaction of a man who had been allowed to play with his toys. "And the port is coming along beautifully. We've cleared the old debris and begun the stone quays. But more importantly, I've positioned our new vessels to patrol the Narrow Sea. We're not just welcoming merchants; we're filtering them. Nothing comes into our waters without us knowing its cargo and its captain."
Kellan listened intently, occasionally interrupting with practical questions about supply chains and labor rotations. He was the anchor of the group, ensuring that the grand visions of the merchants and shipwrights didn't collapse under the weight of reality. New chapters come out on novelping.com first.
Through it all, Vaelen remained silent. He sat in the corner, his one eye fixed on the proceedings, not speaking a word but absorbing everything. He was like a spider in the center of a web, watching the vibrations of the conversation.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table as I studied Gareth. The man's eyes always lit up when he talked about coin, but I needed to cut through the enthusiasm and get to the raw mathematics of survival.
"Gareth," I said, my voice cutting through his excited chatter. "Tell me honestly. Do we have enough surplus to trade with forces outside the houses of the peninsula? I'm not talking about bartering with local lords for scraps. I want to know if we can reach the Reach, the Stormlands, or even the Free Cities without running our own people ragged."
The room went quiet. Even Larys stopped fiddling with his rings, sensing the shift in tone. This was the question that separated a village from a kingdom.
Gareth straightened, his expression shifting from merchant's glee to something more calculating. He pulled a fresh sheet of parchment toward him. "It's a delicate balance, Your Highness. If we push too hard, we risk our own reserves. But..." he paused, tapping the quill against his chin. "The second harvest proved our theory. The soil isn't just holding up; it's yielding more than we anticipated."
He began to sketch out rough numbers. "Right now, our grain stores are at sixty percent of what we need for a full year of self sufficiency. That leaves us with a forty percent margin. If we manage our exports carefully focusing on high value goods like salted fish and surplus vegetables we could absolutely begin trading with the mainland."
His eyes met mine, sharp with ambition. "The Stormlands would pay handsomely for our vegetables during their off seasons, and the Reach would always have an interest in our fish. We could establish trade agreements that make us indispensable to them. We wouldn't just be selling food; we'd be selling stability."
"But at what cost?" Kellan interjected, his voice gravelly. "Trade means ships. Ships mean pirates. And ships mean we're vulnerable to anyone with a fast enough vessel and a grudge."
"Which is why we don't send merchant cogs alone," Gareth countered quickly. "We send them with the Dragonstone militia aboard. We protect our own interest."
I looked at the numbers Gareth was scribbling. "We don't overextend," I said firmly. "We start small. We test the waters with the Stormlands first they're close and their needs are predictable. We build our reputation as reliable traders before we try to cross the Narrow Sea."
Vaelen finally spoke, his voice cutting through Gareth's enthusiasm like a cold blade through silk. "I would ask for caution. We should trade only with the Stormlands for now."
Kellan frowned, crossing his arms. "Why the restriction? The Reach pays better, and the Free Cities pay in gold we can't even imagine. Why limit ourselves to the most tempestuous region in the Seven Kingdoms?"
Vaelen turned his one eye toward Kellan, his expression grim. "Because the Stormlands are bleeding, Lord Kellan. They have suffered more than most realize since the rebellion. The wounds haven't healed; they've just festered."
He leaned forward, the candlelight casting long shadows across his scarred face. "Consider the leadership. Jon Connington is the Lord Paramount, but his heart and soul belong to King Rhaegar. He is a man living in a fantasy of loyalty to a crown that has already given him everything he wanted. He doesn't care about the drainage of fields or the price of grain in the Stormlands. He sees his territory as a duty, not a domain."
Vaelen paused, letting that sink in before continuing. "Meanwhile, Stannis Baratheon is the one actually holding the pieces together. He is desperately trying to make the lands survive he's honest, he's capable, and he's furious. But he's fighting a losing battle against neglect and a Paramount who wouldn't know a plow from a pitchfork."
Larys Velaryon hummed thoughtfully. "So we're talking about a region with a desperate need for food and a leadership vacuum."
"Exactly," Vaelen replied. "If we trade with the Reach, we're just another merchant. But if we trade with the Stormlands specifically if we can find our way to Stannis's favor we're not just selling grain. We're providing a lifeline. People don't just pay merchants with coin; they pay protectors with loyalty."