The room was quiet now—too quiet. Only the soft crackle of candlewax and the rustle of parchment filled the air, thick with ink, dust, and anticipation.
Aemon reached across the table and picked up the first relic—the curved dagger, cold and silent in his hand.
He had already deciphered the runes. Hours of transcription and phonetic mapping had revealed them as part of an ancient writing system, their meanings fragmented but undeniable.
He turned the dagger in his hand, candlelight flickering along the spine where the glyphs were etched—each mark sharp and precise, too intentional to be mere decoration.
"Alright, S.E.R.A.," he said, eyes narrowing. "Scan for magical residue. Ambient signatures. Anything."
A soft chime echoed in his mind.
[Analyzing relic…]
[No arcane energy detected. Baseline: null. Residual levels indistinguishable from standard aged metal.]
Aemon grunted. "Figures."
He set the dagger down and reached for the bronze circlet, brushing away a veil of dust. The runes were negligible here, etched on the inside rim—tucked where only the wearer might see them.
"Scan it too."
[Scanning circlet…]
[Negative. Undetectable magical trace. Material composition: 93% copper alloy, 7% tin. Symbol etchings match previously recorded runes.]
Next came the bronze chest plate.
Aemon had dismissed it at first as ornamental—something meant for ceremony, not battle. But now, he looked again. Closer. Eyes narrowing.
Etched faintly into the bronze along the inner collar, half-hidden beneath a frayed leather strap, the same glyphs lay concealed in plain sight.
His breath caught. He slid the plate closer and leaned in, letting his fingers trace the edge with care.
"S.E.R.A., show me all repeated runes across the dagger, the circlet, and this plate. Just the shared ones."
[Cross-referencing relic data…]
[Four glyphs detected across all three artifacts:]
ᚢ — curling like a bull's horn.
ᚦ — jagged, thorn-like.
ᛋ — twin spirals, engraved deep into both dagger and chestplate.
ᛉ — the trident, tucked neatly into the circlet's band.
Aemon drew his parchment toward him, ink-stained fingers suddenly precise and steady.
"There you are…" he whispered, sketching each rune with clean strokes.
He circled them once, then again, harder the second time.
The placements varied. The metal changed. But the runes remained.
"That's not random," he muttered.
"That's deliberate or intentional."
But the meaning still danced just out of reach.
He sat back and stared—not just at the symbols but at the relics themselves.
Steel and bronze. Worn by men, carried by kings. Not just trinkets but weapons. Crowns. Armor.
"We already deciphered them. We know they are a writing system, but why repeat the same ones across different objects? Why weapons and circlets and chest plates?"
He stared at the page, then at the relics, then back again.
He tapped the dagger's spine, lips pursed in thought.
"These weren't decorations."
His voice dropped, thoughtful now.
"These could be marks. Messages. Maybe….. maybe invocations."
He looked up at the circlet, at the tiny trident rune nestled in the rim like a hidden sigil.
"S.E.R.A.," Aemon said quietly, eyes tracing the curved rune on the bronze circlet. "People say the runes of the First Men had magical properties. The Children of the Forest used them in rituals—some even believe they shattered the Arm of Dorne with rune magic."
He paused, his voice lowering with uncertainty. "But that was thousands of years ago. The world says magic died—after the Doom, after the Dance. Even maesters barely believe in it anymore."
S.E.R.A. responded with her usual calm precision:
[Historical consensus indicates a sharp decline in magical phenomena following the Doom of Valyria and the extinction of dragons. Current scholarly belief deems residual magic minimal to non-existent. However…]
Aemon's eyebrow lifted. "However?"
[Northern folklore includes fragments suggesting that specific runes may retain passive properties, particularly when used in sacrificial or ritual contexts.]
He blinked. "So they might still work?"
[There is insufficient data to confirm functionality. Hypothesis: If magic still exists in latent forms, these runes could serve as catalysts—activated through specific elements: blood, fire, intent.]
Aemon leaned forward, eyes scanning the parchment again. Four glyphs stared back at him—repeated across the circlet, dagger, and chest plate:
ᚢ, ᚦ, ᛋ, ᛉ.
His voice dropped to a murmur. "The repetition… it means something, doesn't it? These weren't just ornamental."
He thumbed the ᛋ rune on the circlet's edge, gaze distant. "Could they be more than writing? Functional. Like triggers."
He looked up sharply. "S.E.R.A., could these glyphs do something? Hold power? Maybe even a passive effect?"
A pause. Then:
[Hypothesis: These runes may serve dual functions—both linguistic and symbolic. Their repetition across unrelated objects suggests a purpose beyond mere communication. They are likely tied to cultural magic: ambient, subtle, and ritualistic rather than active or structurally enchanted.]
Aemon stared at the relic in his hand, as if willing it to spark to life. "Gods," he whispered. "What if these weren't just words… but code? Ritual code—symbols etched into steel to leave lasting effects?"
He looked again at the chest plate. The dagger. The circlet.
"What if the myths weren't wrong?"
[Current scans detect no active arcane resonance. However, symbolic repetition implies ceremonial use, activation requirements, or latent function. Some magical systems require catalysts: blood, fire, spoken words.]
Aemon narrowed his eyes.
"Catalysts," he echoed. "So maybe the runes aren't the power themselves… but the circuits. The patterns. The locks."
His gaze dropped back to the parchment, where the glyphs lay circled and underlined—silent, patient, waiting.
He traced the spiraled rune again, slower this time, letting its shape sink deep into his thoughts.
"What if they need catalysts?"
The idea echoed in his mind as a stone dropped into still water—concentric rings of possibility rippling outward.
But the possibility wasn't proven.
Aemon sat back slowly, gaze sharpening. Theories were words. Words weren't enough.
"We need proof," he muttered. "Theory's not enough."
He pushed aside the clutter, cleared a fresh space on the desk, and flipped over a clean sheet of parchment. Ink bottle, check. Quill, check. His heart was thundering like a drumbeat beneath his ribs.
"S.E.R.A.," he said, voice low but firm, "scan everything I do from now on. Every breath. Every rune stroke. Alert me if even the faintest magical signature sparks."
[Affirmative. Real-time monitoring engaged. Preparing arcane detection protocols. Baseline signature: null.]
Aemon took a breath and grabbed the curved runic dagger, its spine already lined with runes that looked like they could cut more than flesh. It felt heavier than it had before. Maybe it was his pulse. Or the weight of expectation.
He laid it gently to the side and drew the bronze plate closer, clean, unmarked, and waiting.
He dipped his dagger in ink, narrowed his eyes, and whispered, "Let's see if you bite."
With slow, practiced strokes, he began to copy the runes onto the bronze surface.
ᚢ, then ᛋ, then ᛉ—each glyph drawn with deliberate care, mimicking the original shapes from the relics.
The first attempts were jagged and clumsy—his hand slipped once, twice.
But by the third rune, something clicked.
His strokes grew steadier. The flow is smoother.
ᚦ. ᛋ. ᛉ.
The plate remained still, cold, lifeless, utterly inert.
[No change in signature.]
He frowned, jaw tightening.
Fine.
He added more.
ᚨ. ᛏ. ᚦ.
He pulled from memory, from Geradys' transcriptions, from the engravings on the dagger and the circlet. The bronze began to resemble a patchwork of a forgotten language and symbols layered like fossilized prayers.
[No change in signature.]
"Maybe ink's not enough…" he muttered.
Aemon again dipped the blade into the ink, black and thick, and then brought it down against the bronze plate. He began to carve, not with metal, but with pressure and stain, dragging the blade in smooth, deliberate arcs.
Each symbol left a gleaming streak of black on bronze, dark as soot and twice as stubborn.
He paused, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Anything?"
[No arcane fluctuations detected. Baseline unchanged.]
He leaned back, frustrated. "Come on, there has to be something…"
There was a pause, then S.E.R.A. spoke again:
[Reference: final translated notes in the Geradys manuscript. Quote—' Only through blood and intent may the truth of the runes awaken. For they are not spells but mirrors.']
Aemon blinked. "Blood and intent?"
[Correct. Hypothesis: blood—biological marker—may serve as an activation key. Combined with mental focus or ritualized intent. Attempt advised.]
He sighed, grabbed a dagger, and nicked his palm with a wince.
"Alright, let's try it your way."
He smeared a drop of blood across the ᛋ rune on the plate. The red smeared into the lines, staining the bronze.
He held his breath.
Nothing.
He tried it again—blood on ᚢ, then ᚦ, then ᛉ. Focused hard.
Still nothing.
Aemon sat back, eyes narrowing to slits.
"Okay," he muttered. "Now I'm offended."
Over the next hour, he kept going—combinations, sequences, mirrored runes, even copying the entire inscription from the dagger onto the plate.
Blood. Intent. Focus. Repeat.
No fluctuations.
But deep down, something itched in him—an instinct, faint but insistent, that he wasn't far off. That he was brushing against the edge of something important. Like a door, almost open, but not yet open.
He leaned back, chest still rising with shallow breaths, and let his eyes unfocus.
The dagger. The ink. Blood.
None of it worked.
Not yet.
And then—like flint struck on stone—the thought came.
A pause.
A breath.
A flicker of memory.
"They say…" he said slowly, voice just above a whisper, "the Children of the Forest didn't just carve runes—they carved them into the walls with dragonglass."
His eyes sharpened. That was it.
"That was their weapon of choice."
He leaned forward again, the words tasting like flint and old stories.
"Maybe."
His voice trailed off, but the fire behind his eyes was back.
The spark had lit.
And it would not go out.
He shot upright, spinning on his heel toward the chaos behind him.
"S.E.R.A.," he called, half-laughing already, "tell me I still have that chunk of obsidian from Dragonstone—the one I took from the dragonmount before coming to King's Landing."
[Memory scan confirms: One dragonglass shard—roughly eight inches. Located beneath the bed, adjacent to paintbrushes and a shriveled apple core.]
"Perfect," Aemon said, diving for the mess.
After a few curses, a stubbed toe, and a minor war with a fallen tapestry, he emerged triumphant—hair wild, obsidian block in hand. It was jagged, volcanic black, sharp enough to whisper murder with a glance.
"Beautiful," he breathed.
He grabbed the curved runic dagger, held the dragonglass steady, and began chipping away. Carefully, methodically, until it shaped into a crude but serviceable dagger—its tip pointed, its sides glossy and irregular like volcanic glass always was.
Aemon turned it in his hand. "Now… let's see if you're the missing piece."
He took a slow breath, pricked his thumb again with the obsidian tip, and watched the blood pool.
"Here goes," he muttered.
He leaned over the desk, dragged his blood across the blade's surface in one firm stroke—and with clear intent, etched a single rune into the dark sheen:
ᚢ
He didn't know its name. Didn't know its function. Didn't care.
He just felt it.
[Magical signature detected.]
Aemon froze.
[Low-level arcane resonance confirmed. The Host has successfully initiated a binding. Congratulations.]
Aemon blinked.
Then his face split into the wildest grin yet.
"YES!" he shouted, jumping up like the gods had lit a fire under him. "Yes, yes, yes!"
He spun around, arms in the air, nearly knocking over his inkpot. He pointed the blood-stained dragonglass at the window.
"Who's your daddy now, huh?!" he shouted at the flock of pigeons perched on the sill.
The birds startled, fluttered, and took off en masse like a gust of feathers and squawking disapproval.
Aemon didn't care.
He was too busy laughing like a madman, dagger in hand, blood on glass, and the taste of ancient power humming under his skin.
He'd done it.
He'd cracked the language.
And now?
Now he'd made it sing.
Aemon's eyes gleamed with that particular brand of dangerous curiosity reserved for mad alchemists and overeager ten-year-old princes with sharp objects.
He stared at the blood-glinting rune on the dragonglass as if it had just whispered a secret meant only for him.
"I need to try another one."
[Host, caution advised. You have successfully inscribed one rune. Stacking additional glyphs without understanding their function may result in interference, nullification, or unintentional effects. Further study is required.]
"I heard you," Aemon said, waving a dismissive hand, "but what if—just what if—I inscribe one more?"
[Recommendation: Proceed with caution. While your initiative is commendable, you are not yet adequately prepared to inscribe compound glyphs safely. It is advisable to fully understand the effects of a single rune before attempting to combine multiple elements.]
Aemon sighed dramatically and slumped into his chair. "Fine. One rune. Just one. Happy?"
A beat passed.
Then he looked up.
"But what about one more rune?"
Silence.
"S.E.R.A.?" he asked innocently. "Just one. It'll be small. Please."
Still no response.
He lowered his voice, almost childlike. "Pleeeeease? I swear I'll stop after this."
[One additional rune permitted. Proceeding under formal objection. Recording all actions and outcomes for post-analysis]
He shot upright like lightning.
"YES! Knew you'd cave. Deep down, you love me. Admit it—don't even try to pretend you don't."
[Emotional projection noted. Logging under 'Persistent Host Fantasies.']
Aemon snatched the dragonglass dagger, thumb already pricked, blood smeared anew. He grinned like a boy caught between guilt and glee, then pressed the blade down again and carefully inscribed the next rune:
ᛉ
He had no idea what it meant. Protection? Power? Goose-foot looking thing?
Doesn't matter.
The rune shimmered faintly against the dragonglass, glowing only to the edge of vision.
[Low magical signature detected. Resonance stable. You have successfully inscribed a second glyph. Additional experiments—safe ones—will be required to determine exact properties and usage parameters.]
Aemon's breath caught.
Then he burst out laughing—wild, giddy, almost euphoric. He turned toward the window again, waving the blood-dark dagger like a scepter of divine chaos in the air.
He cackled louder.
But as the laughter faded into a breathless chuckle, his body swayed slightly.
He swayed on the chair, legs tensed for balance, limbs trembling with barely visible fatigue. His breath came in uneven bursts, sweat clinging to his brow. The ache had settled in—neck, hands, back. His pulse still surged, but his body was struggling to keep up.
The room swam for half a heartbeat, and he blinked hard to steady it.
[Warning: The Host has not consumed food in eleven hours, nor slept in eighty-four hours. Blood glucose is critically low. Caloric deficit exceeding 1,800 kilocalories. Muscular fatigue is present. Neural overstimulation approaching redline. Continued output without replenishment may result in faintness or collapse.]
Aemon let out a short, shaky laugh. "I'm fine," he muttered hoarsely.
[You are not well.]
He barked a breath of a laugh, voice raw, throat dry. "We just confirmed rune-based magic still works. That's a game-changer, S.E.R.A. All the effort—all the hours—it was worth it."
He suddenly stood on the chair, then the table—barefoot, unsteady, blood-streaked dragonglass raised high like a sword of legend. Ink, parchment, and rune-stained tools surrounded him like the aftermath of a one-boy war.
His teeth flashed in the candlelight.
"You can log that under 'victory,'" he declared, half triumphant, half deranged.
That's when the door opened.
Ser Barristan stepped in, a tray in his hands, face weary from whatever court meeting had detained him. "Apologies, Your Grace, I got delayed—the king—"
He stopped mid-step.
The tray tilted slightly.
There stood Aemon on the table. Blood on his fingers. Hair matched like a raven's nest. Dragonglass in one hand. Grinning like he'd just conquered the gods.
Barristan blinked once.
Twice.
"…What in the seven hells am I looking at?"
Aemon turned, very slowly, toward him—cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide with adrenaline, and absolutely no shame in his posture.
"Ah. Ser Barristan," he said, voice a little too bright and calm. "You're just in time."
Barristan stared, glanced at the dagger, then at the smear of blood on Aemon's palm.
"Tell me that's not what it looks like," he said flatly.
Aemon grinned. "Depends. What does it look like?"
The knight exhaled through his nose, marched to the table, and set the tray down with the delicacy of someone defusing a trap.
Aemon hopped off the chair and casually wiped his hands on a cloth, smearing red into the fabric like ink. "Just… experimenting," he said, reaching for a slice of cake. "The usual."
Barristan gave him the look. That 'you're either lying or about to invent fire' look.
"Any injuries?"
"Only to my sanity."
"And the room?"
"Mostly intact."
Barristan's eyes flicked to a scorched corner of the parchment stack.
Aemon took a bite of the cake, then pointed at the window with his dragonglass blade. "The birds didn't appreciate my enthusiasm."
"I can imagine."
Silence hovered. Aemon chewed thoughtfully, glancing at the runes still drying on the plate.
"It's nearly evening, you know. You haven't slept in… gods, how long has it been?" Barristan said.
"I'm fine," Aemon said too fast. "Just a few more hours—"
"No," Barristan said—his voice calm, but unyielding. "You'll eat, then you'll sleep. That's an order."
Aemon arched a brow. "Are you ordering your prince around?"
Barristan smirked. "Yes, I am. You'll be my squire soon enough—Seven help us both—so you might as well start getting used to following orders now."
Aemon blinked. Then he gave a dramatic sigh. "Gods, I miss the days when I could just disobey and blame it on being adorable."
"Those days are over," Barristan said, already turning toward the bed. "Now you look like a gremlin that got into the ink well."
Aemon dropped into the chair and descended on the tray like a starving wolf. Fruit vanished. Cakes disappeared. The milk didn't stand a chance. He devoured everything in under a minute, then leaned back with a full belly and a sleepy sigh.
Barristan crossed to the bed with the patience of a man long used to disasters. He stared at it in disbelief.
"Gods help me," Barristan sighed. He yanked the sheets straight, brushed aside a quill and a few crumpled sketches, then gave the pillow a half-hearted fluff.
He made the bed as best he could and pointed. "Come on. In."
Aemon shuffled over and slid beneath the covers. Momentarily, he looked far younger than ten—like a boy who'd just built a castle out of secrets and shadows and finally needed rest.
Barristan tugged the blanket up over his chest, almost without thinking. Like a father might.
Aemon blinked slowly, the adrenaline fading, replaced by something soft.
"Thank you," he murmured. "For being here. For… everything. I know you didn't sign up to babysit a lunatic."
Barristan hesitated. Then he smiled—tired and faint, but sincere.
"Goodnight, Aemon."
He turned toward the door, then stopped at the threshold.
"And for what it's worth," he said quietly, "if I had to watch over any mad boy in this world… I'm glad it's you."
The door clicked softly behind him.
Aemon stared at the ceiling, the rune-etched dragonglass resting beside his bed, still faintly glowing with the mark of the ᚢ rune.
He smiled.
And then, for the first time in weeks, sleep found him.
Deep, quiet, and sincere.
.
.
.
.