Well, that was quite a haul.
After going through all the gold, silver, and jewelry, it adds up to around 62,000 gold dragons. The look on Father's face said it all—equal parts shock, suspicion, and reluctant pride. Honestly, who wouldn't be? If we converted that much gold to Earth's prices, it'd be somewhere around $20.93 million USD.
Imagine your nine-year-old digging up that much cash from a ditch.What do you even do at that point?Ground him?Congratulate him?Call the crown's version of the IRS?
And now imagine that same nine-year-old turning around and saying, "I want to start a metaverse crypto mining company. Become a Top G , move to Dubai."
Yeah. Exactly.You wouldn't even know how that works. Neither does he. Neither do I. But that's the kind of absurdity we're dealing with.
So, in that context, Father's reaction? Honestly… kind of mild.
Still, it is what it is. Now I have to hold up the trust he's placed in me. Whether or not he'll go down as a great king, I'll say this much: he's trying his best to be a good father—to me, to Rhaenyra. That counts for something. He hasn't tried for another child in almost three years now. Mother's never been healthier or happier.
This—this moment—is everything I wanted. I wish I could freeze it in time.
But I can't stop now.
Right now, if I combine everything—liquid cash, treasure, investments—I have about 135,000 gold dragons. I've separated 30,000 dragons just for construction costs previously. Which is... insane. That's a king's ransom in any part of the realm.
Now that the budget's locked, the headquarters construction begins. And with it, the other projects I've lined up. One build at a time—we're going to change the Crownlands.
The very next day, I put up job postings—3,000 positions, with monthly pay ranging from 5 to 8 silver stags. These are for builders, masons, transporters, smiths. I've even invited a few architects from the Free Cities. I've already sketched the blueprint for what the HQ will look like. Now comes the harder part—making it real.
But it's not that simple.
First problem? Steel and iron. I need an absurd amount, and Forgehold just can't handle that load right now. We need a blast furnace, but that takes time, manpower, and more resources.
Second problem? Food. What do I feed three thousand workers?
And third—inflation. If I release too much gold and silver into the economy at once, value plummets, prices skyrocket. Everyone suffers. If demand surges but supply doesn't keep up, we'll be dealing with an economic mess.
So my workaround? Rationing.
If I provide daily rations but lower the base pay, I can still attract workers without flooding the market with coins. But here's the catch—I don't have enough surplus food to start rations right now.
So I need to increase food production.
That's why, a year ago, I gathered the minor and mid-tier lords of the Crownlands and made them a proposition:I'll double their crop yield using a technique I've developed(Four-Field Crop Rotation), handpumps, and fertilizer. In exchange, they'll give me 25% of the harvest. They agreed.
Six more moons, and I'll start seeing the returns.
{A/N: I'm not going into detail on how the handpumps extend the growing season. Just know that with fertilizer and irrigation, a field that once gave 1 ton of wheat now yields 1.5 to 2 tons. It's math and mud.}
Now, about Flea Bottom.
Building a massive headquarters next to one of the filthiest slums in the realm isn't exactly the best branding decision. But what if... we clean it up? What if the presence of a value-creating, high-functioning piece of infrastructure actually uplifts the area?
So, I've started a side project—quietly.
I'm employing orphans between the ages of 10 and 15—around 100 of them from the orphanages Mother runs. Kids who are usually kicked out the moment they age out. Most people don't see value in them. I do.
They're going to be the first members of a force I'll build in secret. I'm selecting based on instinct and temperament. No time for long vetting. I'm on the clock.
I plan to build a secret base.
The location I've chosen is Brindlewood—a quiet, forest-covered hilly region with one small village nearby. I've surveyed the land. That's it. No construction yet.
I sit in my chambers, brain overclocked, probably the busiest nine-year-old in the realm, if not the continent.
Among all the chaos, I notice two letters on my table—the ones I found in the chest. I hadn't opened them yet.
They were written in High Valyrian.
As I read the first letter, I realize it was written by a former Dragonlord of Old Valyria. It talks about a keep on the outskirts of the old Valyrian peninsula, and instructions to follow after finding the letter and the money—which don't apply to me. But what does matter is the location mentioned: a keep once owned by a Dragonlord.
Then I open the second letter.
It's... heavy. It's a father's apology to his son. Regretful. He writes about how he failed him, and how he intended to pass on his legacy. The letter was written five years before the Doom of Valyria.
So... if his son was in Valyria when it exploded—he didn't make it.
The father probably did—one of the few survivors. But he wouldn't have lasted long. Assassins took out most of them during the Century of Blood. Work of Facelessman no doubt.
The most important part? An address—no map, just written directions tied to landmarks and keeps.
That presented a dilemma. Valyria was obliterated. How was I supposed to find a place based on street signs that don't exist anymore?
Then I remembered the experts Father hired to design the Valyria model in the Red Keep. I contacted them immediately and asked if they recognized any of the names or features from the letter.
Their answer?
Even more surprising than I expected.
They managed to estimate the rough location of the keep based on the landmarks. But then they told me something wild: Aerea Targaryen—daughter of Rhaena, former rider of Balerion—brought back books from Valyria before she died. Those books might hold the exact information I need.
I went straight to Grand Maester Orwyle and requested them.
He gave them to me.
They contain Valyrian history, maps, trade ports, geographic references—and yes, some horrific glorification of slavery, which I skipped. But in the middle of it all, I found the place from the letter.
It's called Oros.
A fertile region just north of Valyria, close to the Free City of Volantis. That could be it. That could be the answer to everything.
So, naturally, I sprang into action.
I called in my friends—Baelor, Theon, Alister, and Perestan. Told them the plan. Their immediate reaction? United and predictable: "Absolutely not. This is madness."
But then I explained:I want to build a heat-resistant suit, a smoke-filtration mask, and a medieval oxygen tank that can provide 20 minutes of air supply.
They sighed. Shook their heads.
And then—because they're idiots like me—they started brainstorming how to make it work.
And just like that, we got to work.
***********END*********
A/N: In the last chapter I wasn't clear—Aemon gave the Valyrian steel ingots to his father for safekeeping. They're useless to him right now anyway.Kinda like when your mom took your birthday money "for safekeeping."...Did anyone ever get that money back? Anyone? No?