Game of Thrones: The Bronze and Fire Lord

Time flies—half a month later.

Vale, Runestone City.

In the morning, the sun had just risen, and its light poured through the curtains.

Prince's bedroom.

Aemon opened his eyes groggily and let out a huge yawn.

"Good morning, everyone."

The sleepy prince greeted casually.

The so-called bedroom was actually the same small room as before.

He had gone to bed late last night, still brooding over the "fish thief."

After three days sailing at sea, every large fish they caught had been stolen, becoming the "fish thief's" personal buffet.

Until they landed at Seagull Town, the matter had come to an end.

His Royal Highness was furious—he never managed to catch it.

But according to the rumors among the fishermen at Seagull Town, someone had seen a light gray-white dragon silhouette in the sea mist during the early morning.

It usually caught fish to eat.

But when it saw people, it would timidly hide, as if it were shy.

"Don't stay in the Vale, it's safer to go back to Dragonstone."

Aemon murmured, feeling oddly relieved about the little wild dragon with full stealth stats.

Then, he looked around at those he had greeted.

There were four dragon eggs on the bed, a dragonbone bow hanging above the headboard, and...

Six rusty bronze armors mounted on the wall.

The bronze armors were only breastplates, with runes etched into them, exuding a weathered air.

"Snowi, come out and get to work."

Aemon dressed and called out to the golden-nosed rat that had crawled under the bed.

"Squeak."

The golden-nosed rat was lively and energetic. It climbed onto the bed and stuffed the three dragon eggs into the space pouch inside its mouth for safekeeping.

"Good girl, Snowi."

Aemon nodded approvingly, praising her generously.

Having spatial storage was truly useful—she could carry a lot.

As for the name, it was just a codename. As long as they understood each other, that was enough.

The rat wouldn't blame him.

As he got up, Aemon habitually pulled up the [Magic Essence Panel]:

[Aemon Targaryen]

Talent: Dreamer (Gold)

Bloodline: Dragon King of Old Valyria (23%)

Skills: Riding (Proficient), Archery (Mastery), Sleight of Hand (Proficient)...

Magic Cards: Solid as a Rock +1 (Blue), King's Temperament (Purple)

Pets: Golden-nosed Rat (Blue), White Deer (Auspicious Beast)

Comments: "Healthy and growing human cub, weight gradually returning to normal."

Aemon skimmed the list and switched to the card panel.

Three cards—one white and two green—all low-value.

Ignore.

His eyes settled on the golden hourglass: [Essence Quantity: 149]

"Nice. Feels good to have money in the pocket."

Aemon grinned.

In the past half-month, his essence count had grown steadily.

Many of the items that generated essence had developed a pattern.

The four dragon eggs were the largest producers, generating 12 points of essence every three days. Including the days spent in King's Landing, they had already brought in 60 points total.

The white deer was second, producing 10 points every seven days.

Not a huge amount, but stable.

Other items, like the dragonbone bow and bronze armor, could only be harvested once every half month—barely giving 1 to 3 points each time.

Of the six bronze armors hanging in Aemon's room, four were taken from tombs, and two were heirlooms from William and Gunthor's families.

All in all, including the three new clumps of Ula grass he had found, his total stood at 149 essence.

Aemon: "I've been too afraid of going broke to spend any of it."

"Squeak."

The golden-nosed rat was too simple-minded to understand why her master was so happy. She just nuzzled against his palm in shared joy.

"Come on, let's go."

Aemon picked her up and gently placed her on his shoulder.

Then he pushed open the door and stepped outside.

In the hall.

Johanna, dressed in a maid's outfit, stood quietly and respectfully beside the breakfast table.

Aemon, with great appetite, devoured his breakfast.

"Prince, you should go out for some exercise."

Johanna reminded him softly.

Aemon froze mid-chew, blinking.

What's this?

Did his mother assign her to monitor his diet?

Johanna remained expressionless. She had already grown numb with surprise at the prince's shocking appetite.

She had never seen a child eat so much.

"I'm losing weight, seriously."

Aemon wiped his mouth and pinched his slightly round belly.

Since returning from King's Landing, he had been training hard under Ser Steve's guidance.

Riding, archery, swordplay...

His face might still be fair and cute, but his limbs were packed with strength. He could already draw a third of the dragonbone bow's length.

Not bad at all.

Johanna cleared the table and reminded again, "Madam says you must walk after every meal—every day."

The last two words were deliberately emphasized.

Aemon understood immediately.

Half a month ago—

He had landed at Seagull Town and ridden a white deer all the way back to Runestone City.

Such a flamboyant entrance, plus his title as prince and named heir, had made him the talk of the entire Vale.

The name "Prince Aemon" had spread everywhere.

But different people had different opinions.

Some of House Royce supported him; others remained indifferent diehards.

No matter—it would be proven in time.

He was the heir to Runestone City. No one could change that.

His mother wanted him to take walks daily, to let the people of House Royce become familiar with him and accept him.

After all, he rarely went out before, so few people knew him personally.

"All right, I'll go now."

Aemon said his thanks and headed out.

Although Johanna wore a maid's outfit, she was technically his mother's companion—equal in rank to an attendant or cupbearer.

Those were respectable positions, usually reserved for noble ladies.

Princess Rhaenyra had many such companions; their status was elevated simply by serving her.

They deserved respect.

As soon as Aemon stepped outside—

"Yo yo."

A large pair of antlers slipped between his legs, followed by a smooth slide along glossy white fur, depositing him gently on the deer's back.

Aemon sat atop the fitted saddle, patting the soft fur.

"You're in a rush today, huh? You nearly startled me."

"Yo yo."

The white deer was as gentle as ever. It stood tall and carried His Highness out of the courtyard.

Aemon: "You've earned a reward!"

The golden-nosed rat twitched its whiskers, pulled a handful of Ula grass from its pouch, and climbed onto the deer's head to feed it.

The two whites—one large, one small—had clearly grown close.

The white deer opened its mouth without hesitation and happily munched away.

Aemon swayed slightly and laughed, his spirits lifted. He looked around Runestone City with fresh eyes.

Among the castles in the Vale, Runestone was definitely one of the best.

It sprawled across a vast area, with tall, thick walls.

The tower where he lived resembled a great chimney—imposing and grand.

Each district was carefully divided, and everyone knew their role.

It was still early, and many people were already training in the castle yard. Craftsmen and servants bustled about, and a warmth filled the lively air.

"If I want to inherit this place, I've got a long way to go."

Aemon sighed to himself.

Besides, his mother was still alive. He couldn't inherit it yet.

Ding-dong! Ding-dong!

The white deer stepped gracefully to a modest blacksmith's shop.

"Prince, you're here."

Ser Steve stepped out and greeted him with a smile.

"Is my sword ready?"

Aemon asked.

The white deer was clever—it knelt naturally, letting him slide off with ease.

The people nearby all took notice.

Whether they were Royces or retainers, they couldn't hide their envy.

An auspicious white deer paired with a princely title?

A devastating combination.

Ser Steve waved his hand. "It's ready—come see."

An old blacksmith, hair and beard both snow-white, emerged from the shop.

He was one of the rescued slave craftsmen from the ship, and had brought along five young apprentices.

"Great Dragon King, this is your sword."

The old blacksmith knelt with reverence, holding up a two-foot short sword as if making an offering.

He spoke in formal Valyrian.

"Get up, don't kneel."

Aemon frowned and snapped back in High Valyrian: "There are no slaves under Targaryen rule!"

The old blacksmith trembled and stood quickly.

Valyrian had many dialects and registers.

As a scion of the Dragonlords, Aemon had learned the noble high tongue.

Common folk spoke in mixed or low Valyrian—and they instinctively revered anyone who spoke otherwise.

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