The old blacksmith stepped away nervously, his shoulders hunched with the weight of years under chains.
Aemon watched him go and sighed. There was no anger—only quiet understanding. Most of the artisan slaves brought back from the Triarchy ship bore the same look: guarded eyes, nervous steps, a heart trained to expect pain.
They'd lived too long under the yoke of masters who viewed them as less than human. Even in the safety of Runestone, they flinched at kindness.
But at least they were simple to care for.
One hundred and twenty in total. Divided into households of five. By the standards of King's Landing, where one gold dragon could sustain a family comfortably for a month, it would cost sixty gold dragons monthly to support all of them.
Seven hundred and twenty gold dragons a year.
A drop in the ocean compared to Aemon's fortune.
He had ten thousand gold dragons saved—plenty to fund them for over a decade, and that was before considering the income from his mother's estate or his own side dealings.
"You can go now," Aemon told the man gently. "Live well. If you need anything, come find me."
The old blacksmith bowed deeply. "Thank you, Dragon King."
He retreated, still trembling slightly.
Aemon exhaled. Responsibility sat heavily on young shoulders, but it was a burden he welcomed.
He turned his attention to the new sword resting beside him.
The bronze blade caught the early morning light, casting a dull orange gleam. Aemon lifted it carefully and examined its construction—two feet long, a thick spine, and subtle rune markings etched along both edges of the blade.
The grip was tight but not rough, designed to prevent sweat from loosening one's hold. The cross-guard was forged from blocky interwoven bronze, carved with runic symbols in the old style of House Royce.
"A rune sword," Aemon murmured. "Not bad craftsmanship, but… will it actually do anything?"
He traced one of the runes with his thumb, thoughtful. The armor hanging in his chamber bore similar marks. It was said those glyphs granted protection—though how much was legend and how much truth, he couldn't say.
"Not all rune magic works anymore," Ser Steffon said from behind him, watching with interest. "The faith was never passed down in full. Some magic can't be replicated."
"You're right, Ser," Aemon replied, sheathing the sword. "Human power has its limits. We can't rebuild what we don't understand."
Still, there was hope. The [Essence Panel] might one day provide him with the missing knowledge—a card that would unlock old wisdom or forgotten magic.
Until then, he'd use what he had.
He fastened the sword at his side and swung onto the back of the White Stag.
As he rode out, a breeze tousled his silver hair. The stag carried him through Runestone's outer courtyard, its antlers gleaming in the sun.
Ser Steffon followed at a distance, his expression softer than usual. Life in King's Landing had left him guarded, but here in the Vale, things felt... clearer.
---
The White Stag trotted gracefully through the morning streets.
Runestone stirred to life around them—smiths fired up their forges, maids swept porches, and stable hands watered restless horses. People glanced up as Aemon passed, some nodding respectfully, others pretending not to see.
Aemon returned their gazes evenly. He wasn't offended.
Most of the neutral or cold stares came from cadet branches of House Royce—men who viewed him as a Targaryen outsider, not one of their own. Their knights and squires held their tongues, unwilling to choose sides so soon.
But time would shift hearts.
He was here. He was the heir. And every day he walked through these gates, the truth became harder to ignore.
After a full circuit of the outer district, he returned to the keep and dismounted.
---
Lecture Loft – Midmorning
The old oak door creaked open.
Inside, a familiar scene greeted him.
The aged maester stood at the podium, scrolls in hand. William sat near the front with a book in his lap, waiting politely. Gonsal, as usual, had taken the windowsill—half-listening as he bit into an orange, juice dribbling down his chin.
Ser Steffon stood by the door, arms folded, alert but relaxed.
This odd mix of retainers, bodyguards, and retainers-in-training made up Aemon's daily classroom.
"Good morning, Maester," Aemon said, sliding into his seat.
The maester nodded. "A letter arrived for you, Your Highness. From the capital."
Aemon's eyes lit up. "Let's see."
Two people in King's Landing still wrote to him regularly—Alicent and Rhaenyra.
Alicent's letters were always warm, filled with mundane but endearing details. She'd update him on palace affairs, complain about her father Otto's dismissal, and fuss over his well-being. She always reminded him to eat properly and not kick off the blankets at night.
More like a doting sister—or a young mother—than a queen.
Rhaenyra wrote less often, but her letters were more substantial.
She reported that Lord Lyonel Strong had replaced Otto as Hand of the King and that the Small Council was still squabbling over who should be the next Master of Laws.
She also wrote about her frustrations. Her father, Viserys, continued to treat her like a child, entertaining nobles and pretending she'd marry one of their sons. She wanted to contribute to the realm, to do something—but lacked a clear purpose.
Aemon had given her an idea.
When he'd visited King's Landing, he'd been shocked by its filth. Even the noble districts stank of urine and waste, and the streets were often clogged with piles of dung.
His advice had been simple: employ orphans to clean the streets. Use carts to collect waste, compost it outside the city, and offer reclaimed farmland to those same orphans.
It was a small thing, but it could shift perception—and reality.
Apparently, Rhaenyra had acted on it.
She'd written excitedly that she'd begun recruiting orphans. Just over a hundred so far—not enough to clean the whole city, but enough to start with the streets near the Red Keep.
They faced early resistance.
Some citizens refused to let their waste be taken, treating it as if even dung had sentimental value. Others simply refused to follow orders.
But Rhaenyra was clever.
She enlisted the City Watch, had troublemakers punished, and implemented new rules—residents had to deposit waste at collection points, or face fines.
After a few days, the area around the Keep had transformed. The stink was gone. The people grumbled less. Some even thanked her.
Reading the letter, Aemon couldn't help but smile.
"So," he murmured, "you've become a proper sanitation minister."
He looked up from the scroll. "Not bad for someone who used to chase cats through the gardens."
Gonsal raised an eyebrow. "You talking about your pen pal again?"
Aemon waved the letter in the air. "Rhaenyra cleaned up the Red Keep's neighborhood. Public sanitation. Composting. Urban planning."
William tilted his head. "Composting?"
Aemon smirked. "Trust me, it's better than letting sewage flow down the gutters."
He sat back and sighed.
"When will I have my own fief?"
Runestone was his birthright, yes—but Lady Rhea was still strong, still healthy. It might be decades before she passed the reins.
And Aemon had dreams bigger than waiting.
He wanted to shape something of his own. A city. A stronghold. A home for dragons.
He needed independence.
Real independence.
But until that day came, he would study, train, walk the streets, and build the foundation.
Becaus
e one day soon, that dragon's coin would flip again.
And when it landed, it would be his turn to rise.
------------------------
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