After looting the ancestral sword Blackfyre, Aemon dutifully returned it to its rack.
Artifacts imbued with magic were rare, but not mysterious. Age, intrinsic power, or some strange mutation—those were the conditions. And Valyrian steel, forged in the heart of dragonfire and ancient spells, was magic incarnate. A relic of a bygone empire.
The Royce family possessed such a relic too—a Valyrian steel sword named Lamentation. But his mother, Lady Rhea, guarded it fiercely, keeping it displayed high on the wall of her chambers where Aemon had never been allowed to touch it.
"Alright, let's see what else we've got lying around."
Aemon continued rifling through the storage chests, his sights set on a more elusive prize: the Valyrian steel crown worn by Aegon the Conqueror during his coronation. Its band was forged black and inlaid with fire-bright rubies.
Unfortunately, it had long since been retired and replaced by the gold crown worn by Aemon's great-grandfather—more a trophy now than a crown, locked away somewhere deep in the Red Keep's collection.
"Nothing. Still nothing."
Sweat trickled down his forehead as the last of the daylight faded. He finally gave up the search for the crown. It was probably secured elsewhere.
Aemon sighed, wiped his brow, and muttered to himself, "On to the next place, keep moving."
Just as he turned to leave, his eyes fell upon the stone figurines arranged on a round table in the corner of the room. He stopped cold.
Leaving without a reason would seem far too suspicious. If anyone had seen him enter, they'd wonder why he came out empty-handed.
His gaze wandered over the various sculptures—dragons, sphinxes, and faceless Valyrian warriors. He picked up a dragon-shaped carving, heavy and carved from obsidian.
His uncle Viserys had a peculiar fondness for stone sculptures, always talking about how they captured the majesty of Valyria. In Aemon's previous life, he would've called it a figurine obsession.
"Just one," Aemon said, apologising silently to his uncle. He slipped the sculpture into his satchel. "A small price for plausible deniability."
With that, he slipped out of the chamber and quickly disappeared into the winding corridors of the Red Keep. There was no time to waste—he had other places to explore.
The Red Keep — Crypt Vaults
Yes, Aemon was quite literally grave-robbing.
Click!
The thick white candles mounted on the walls flickered to life, casting a warm glow across the vast, shadowed space.
Despite being called a crypt, the chamber more closely resembled a hidden vault—off-limits to nearly everyone.
At the centre stood an altar, no taller than Aemon's chest. And resting upon it, the massive, night-black skull of a dragon—a relic of fearsome majesty.
Charred candle stumps circled the altar. Their dim light danced across the skull's jagged features, lending the bone a grim reverence.
Aemon stared in awe, breath shallow, chest rising and falling with mounting excitement.
"The remains of Balerion… the Black Dread."
The most feared of all dragons. Balerion, the living nightmare who melted Harrenhal and carried Aegon the Conqueror across the seas. A true monster, capable of swallowing mammoths whole and spewing fire that turned stone into slag.
No other Targaryen dragon had ever matched his power.
"Balerion, great god of death… bless me."
With reverence, Aemon climbed onto the altar and reached for the skull.
The moment his fingers brushed the bone, a sharp pulse ran through his body.
You have discovered the remains of a creature imbued with powerful magic. You gain a fragment of fire magic.
Aemon gasped.
A warm, red glow shimmered in the air like embers, circling briefly before sinking into his chest. He shuddered violently as heat spread through him, tingling in every limb.
It was like a thousand tiny hands massaging his muscles—intense, pleasurable, and overwhelming. Within seconds, sweat soaked through his tunic.
And then, just like that, it stopped.
He blinked, dazed. "That… that's it?"
He looked at his palms, which were dirty from the altar stone. The skull itself hadn't changed—still massive, obsidian-black, and unmoving.
"No… that was too much to be nothing."
He clenched his fists. They did feel stronger.
Aemon pulled up his panel:
[Aemon Targaryen]
Talent: Dreamer (Gold)
Bloodline: Ancient Valyrian Dragonlord (13%)
Skills:
Ancient Valyrian (Proficient)
History (Familiar)
Magic Card: None
Status: Physical fitness improved; resistant to cold; increased heat tolerance
"There's a new bloodline section," Aemon noted. "Must be the fire magic—it unlocked it."
He hadn't seen that before.
The system had mentioned special magic within Balerion's skull. Likely a trace of the dragon's legendary flame.
"Even in death, he blesses his kin."
Bloodline was no small matter—it governed a person's potential to bond with dragons, resist fire, endure extremes. Now that he could track his percentage, he had a way to measure whether it increased.
He might even be able to enhance it with the right magic.
"No time to dawdle."
Aemon took one last look at the dragon skull.
"Thank you, Balerion."
He turned and fled up the steps.
That one blessing had been worth everything.
Not only had he unlocked the bloodline tracker and improved his physical condition—but the essence counter on his system panel had shot up.
Essence: 141
One fire magic had granted him a full hundred points.
This was how the journey truly began. A long, dangerous road—but now, with momentum.
Red Keep — Dusk
The sky burned with the last light of day as Aemon emerged into the forecourt. He rubbed at the sweat still clinging to his brow and began calculating how best to spend the newly acquired essence.
Thud!
He walked straight into a solid wall of muscle and steel.
"Whoa! Are you alright?"
The knight before him knelt down, concern on his face. Silver armour, white cloak. A white knight.
"I'm fine," Aemon muttered, pressing a palm to his forehead. "Sorry, I've got to go."
Next time, he told himself, he'd stop checking menus while walking.
But the knight stepped into his path again, frowning. "Hold on. What's your name? Where are your parents?"
Silver hair, violet eyes, noble dress—even dusty and disheveled, Aemon screamed Valyrian aristocracy.
But the knight didn't recognise him.
He likely wasn't from King's Landing, which meant—
Aemon looked up at the man's striking black hair and martial build. He'd only been appointed recently.
That could only mean one person.
Ser Criston Cole.
Aemon didn't like him. At all.
With narrowed eyes, he crossed his arms and answered coldly, "Your duty, Ser, is to protect the royal family. Not interrogate them."
The words landed like a slap.
Aemon turned on his heel and left the Kingsguard standing there, speechless.