"Kormon, did you find anything useful about Valyrian black stone while you were at the Citadel?"
The master architect shook his head with genuine regret. "Your Grace, I'm sorry. The Citadel only had fragments—old traveler accounts, nothing technical. After piecing everything together, we believe the secret of black stone is tied directly to dragons."
"Dragons?" Gaemon's brows rose. He had expected some lost alchemical formula, not living flame.
"Yes, Your Grace. The records all mention temperatures no ordinary forge could reach. Only dragonfire burns hot enough to fuse the stone. The deep black color comes from being scorched at those extremes—essentially charred to perfection."
Gaemon nodded slowly. It made sense the way steelmaking made sense: you could mix the right ores, but without the right heat, nothing bonded. And now he had the perfect furnace circling overhead.
"Bahamut can certainly supply the fire," he said, glancing toward the sky where the platinum dragon was lazily banking above the river. "But the exact process is still a mystery."
Kormon's eyes gleamed with the quiet excitement of a true craftsman. "Even without the full recipe, the scrolls gave us enough clues to experiment. We may not recreate true Valyrian black stone on the first try, but we might produce something close—stronger and darker than ordinary cut stone."
"Good. We'll test it. Quarry stone alone won't keep up with the pace we need, and pulling every laborer off other projects would slow the whole domain to a crawl. Let's see what your notes can do."
With the black-stone question set aside for now, Kormon led Gaemon inside the largest wooden cabin. A massive sheet of parchment—nearly six feet long—was spread across a rough-hewn table.
"Your Grace, this is the latest survey map of the Oros site and surrounding lands."
Gaemon leaned over it. The detail was astonishing. Every bend of the Wendwater, every rise of the limestone hills, every patch of marsh near the delta had been meticulously inked. It matched exactly what he had seen from Bahamut's back—sometimes even sharper.
"Outstanding work," he said, genuinely impressed. "This is better than I expected."
Kormon allowed himself a small, proud smile. "Then may I suggest we accelerate the port and docks first? Right now every crate and timber has to be dragged overland. Once trade begins in earnest, that waste of manpower will become unbearable."
"Agreed. The docks come first. And while we're at it, reinforce the riverbanks—raise and harden the levees. I don't want spring floods turning half the city into a lake, or washing away good farmland."
"Already noted, Your Grace. We can lay the main water pipes and sewer lines during the dock work itself. No later digging, no rework."
Gaemon tapped the map where the future waterfront would sit. "The fresh-water system and sewers are non-negotiable. They're the veins and bowels of the city. One mistake and Oros will stink worse than King's Landing on a hot summer day. I want clean water at every fountain and waste carried away underground."
Kormon chuckled. "You haven't seen King's Landing before the rebuild, Your Grace. The streets used to be open sewers. What we have now is a palace garden by comparison."
The other engineers laughed with him, the mood in the little cabin lightening at once.
Gaemon grinned, but his voice stayed firm when he spoke again.
"Master Kormon, I'm placing the entire construction of Oros in your hands. Whatever men, materials, or coin you need, tell me and I'll move heaven and earth to get them. My only demand is this: when I turn sixteen and come of age, I want to stand on these shores and see a living, breathing city where there is nothing but dirt and dreams today."
Kormon met his gaze without hesitation. The architect's voice rang with absolute conviction.
"It will be done, Your Grace. On the day you reach your majority, Oros will stand ready."
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