Half a moon's time had passed.
The sea breeze was now but a memory, the salt washed from his clothes, and Aemon had finally settled into his new life in the Vale.
It was dawn.
Golden rays of light pierced through the linen curtains of a modest chamber—once an old, unused room in Runestone's side wing. It now belonged to the heir apparent.
Aemon stretched and blinked sleep from his eyes. His voice was a groggy mumble. "Good morning, everyone."
He wasn't speaking to people, but rather to his collection of prized items.
Four dragon eggs nestled beside his pillow.
The dragonbone bow rested on hooks above his bedpost.
And along the wall, six pieces of weathered bronze armor—rune-etched relics of House Royce.
He rose, still yawning, thinking of the one thing that plagued his dreams the most.
That damned fish thief.
For three consecutive days at sea, every single fish he caught had vanished mysteriously from the basket. A stealthy glutton that only left behind scorched marks and slobbered fish bones.
It wasn't until they reached Gulltown that the mystery ceased. Local fishermen whispered of a pale dragon—light gray-white—that sometimes hunted in the morning mist.
Elusive. Timid. And fond of fish.
Aemon let out a small sigh of amusement. "Just stay in the Vale and not Dragonstone, and we'll get along fine."
The idea of a shy, fish-loving wild dragon made him feel better.
He glanced at the four dragon eggs again, then called softly, "Little White, time to work."
A moment later, the Gold-Nose Rat emerged from under the bed, its whiskers twitching with purpose. It leapt onto the mattress and efficiently stored the dragon eggs into the space pouch hidden within its cheeks.
"Good boy," Aemon said, scratching behind its ears. "You've got the best nose in the kingdom."
He opened his [Magic Essence Panel].
> Aemon Targaryen
Talent: Dreamer (Gold)
Bloodline: Ancient Valyrian Dragonlord (23%)
Skills: Riding (Proficient), Archery (Expert), Sleight of Hand (Proficient)
Magic Cards: Stone Skin +1 (Blue), Kingly Aura (Purple)
Pets: Gold-Nose Rat (Blue), White Stag (Auspicious Beast)
Evaluation: "A healthy developing human cub. Weight stabilizing."
He smirked. "Weight stabilizing" was a polite way of saying his belly hadn't shrunk in weeks.
The real comfort, though, lay in the essence counter:
> Essence: 149
He was growing rich in ways no one else could see.
He had spent weeks observing which objects around him generated magical essence. The dragon eggs topped the list, giving twelve points every three days. The White Stag followed with ten points per week. The dragonbone bow and bronze armor gave the occasional trickle—only a few points every fortnight.
Ula grass helped a bit too.
All told, 149 points.
"I'm practically hoarding it," Aemon whispered, grinning.
The Gold-Nose Rat squeaked back in agreement, climbing onto his shoulder.
Time to start the day.
---
In the Dining Hall
Johanna stood at the table, dressed in a tailored maid's gown, her long black hair braided neatly behind her. She bowed as Aemon entered.
He greeted her with a half-wave, then devoured his breakfast. Bread, eggs, roast mutton, and honeyed figs vanished quickly.
"Prince," Johanna said gently, "you should take a walk after breakfast."
Aemon paused mid-bite, giving her a suspicious look.
So that's what this was.
He narrowed his eyes. "Did Mother send you to spy on my eating habits?"
Johanna didn't answer. She'd long since gone numb from watching the prince inhale food like a starving lion. No other child she'd known had such an appetite.
"I've been training," Aemon muttered, patting his belly. "Really. Swordplay, archery, horseback. Ser Steffon can vouch."
While his cheeks remained round, his limbs had strengthened. He could already draw the dragonbone bow a third of the way, which was a feat on its own.
"Madam said you must walk. Every day," Johanna reminded him sternly, emphasizing the final words.
Aemon sighed.
He understood.
Runestone was a proud place. The Royce name held ancient weight in the Vale. Though Rhea had declared him heir, not every branch of the family supported a silver-haired outsider taking their ancestral seat.
His daily walks weren't for health.
They were for optics.
The people needed to see him.
Let them judge with their own eyes.
"Fine. I'm going," he said, pushing his plate away.
He gave Johanna a nod of thanks, treating her with the respect due a noblewoman. Though dressed as a maid, she was technically his mother's companion—more like an attendant-lady than a servant.
---
Courtyard – Morning
"Yoo-hoo!"
A blur of white passed beneath him, and Aemon landed smoothly on the back of the White Stag. The beast had arrived without warning, letting him slide from the air like he weighed nothing.
He landed on the saddle with practiced ease and chuckled, patting the beast's neck. "Easy now. You're always in a rush."
The White Stag snorted softly.
Above him, the Gold-Nose Rat clambered to the stag's antlers, offering it a tuft of Ula grass.
The stag ate it happily.
Together, they trotted through the castle gates.
Runestone in the morning was a sight to behold.
Tall walls of ancient stone loomed overhead. Towering spires marked the keep's great halls, while forge smoke drifted lazily into the sky.
Craftsmen moved briskly. Guards patrolled in formation. Kitchen boys shouted as they delivered flour and dried herbs to the storehouses.
The Royce legacy lived in every stone.
Aemon took it in with a slow breath.
"To inherit this," he murmured, "won't be easy."
Lady Rhea was still alive, and hale. But one day, this would be his.
He had to prove worthy.
The stag carried him to a small forge near the barracks.
Ser Steffon greeted him with a smile. "Prince! You're right on time."
"Is it finished?" Aemon asked eagerly, sliding off the saddle.
The White Stag settled down behind him, regal as ever.
Everyone turned to stare.
Knights. Squires. Apprentices.
A dragon prince. An auspicious stag. And a sword awaited.
An old blacksmith stepped forward, his face weathered by years of labor. He wore simple robes and bowed on one knee, holding a short sword with both hands.
"In the name of the Dragon King, I present this blade," he said in Valyrian.
Aemon frowned. "Stand. We kneel to no one under Targaryen rule."
The old man froze, then quickly rose.
There was awe in his eyes.
Even among the Valyrian dialects, Aemon's was upper-class—clear and crisp, the language of dragonlords.
The smith handed over the sword.
It was a two-foot blade, polished to a mirror finish, the hilt wrapped in black leather. No gemstones. No ornament. Just balance and bite.
A weapon meant for battle, not ceremony.
Aemon tested the weight and nodded.
"It's perfect."
He turned to Steffon. "And now the training begins in earnest."
The Kingsguard knight smiled. "I look forward to it."
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