Game of Thrones: The Bronze and Fire Lord

Aemon sighed softly, feeling helpless as he looked at the old blacksmith's fearful demeanor.

Most of the slave craftsmen brought back were the same. Years of persecution and torment at the hands of slave owners had left them broken. They saw themselves as lesser and struggled to integrate into Runestone City.

Thankfully, they weren't difficult to support.

There were a little more than 120 of them, organized in groups of five per household. Based on the standard that one gold dragon could sustain a family in King's Landing for a month, feeding all of them cost only about 60 gold dragons a month—just 720 gold dragons a year.

And Aemon, the prince, had over ten thousand gold dragons on hand. It was more than enough to support them for over a decade.

"You may go. Live well, and come find me if you need anything," Aemon said, waving his hand, feeling the weight of responsibility.

"Thank you, Dragon Lord."

The old blacksmith bowed and backed away, still trembling.

Aemon remained still, drawing his new sword to examine it.

Swish!

The two-foot blade gleamed dark orange as he unsheathed it. The spine was thick, the color unmistakably bronze.

He looked over every detail.

The hilt was bound tightly, offering a firm grip that wouldn't slip even with sweaty palms. The pommel was shaped in a circular design with four squares enclosing it. Intricate runes were engraved across the blade's spine.

"Are these even functional?" Aemon frowned, tracing his fingers over the runes.

Bronze faith. Rune culture.

The Royce family's symbols were born from these two things.

Their bronze armors were inscribed with similar runes—said to grant protection to the wearer.

It was likely just superstition, yet those armors did contain trace amounts of magic. Perhaps the runes really did play a role.

Sir Steve, watching nearby, said, "Prince, magic often walks the line between true and false. What matters is that we can't replicate it."

"You're right, ser," Aemon said as he sheathed the blade. "I understand that human ability has its limits."

There was no way to reconstruct the full power of the ancient runes, especially not with his knowledge.

He could only hope that the essence panel would yield a card offering relevant magical insight someday.

"Let's go."

He strapped the bronze short sword to his waist and mounted the white deer.

A man of status should always carry a proper blade.

Even if bronze was softer than steel, the blacksmith's craftsmanship was exceptional. It suited his eight-year-old self perfectly.

Sir Steve looked at him and smiled knowingly. Watching the young prince grow, his own spirits lifted.

King's Landing had been a cesspit full of hidden knives.

Runestone City was divided in its opinions, but at least their charge—the prince—was honest and sincere.

It felt like a rare, well-earned holiday.

The white deer trotted leisurely, stopping now and then as Aemon greeted familiar faces during his morning circuit. He kept a calm smile, waving occasionally.

Yet many still turned away.

Most of them were Royce knights, unenthusiastic about the Targaryen heir. Their attitude filtered down, and many of the hired knights and squires followed suit in silence.

After a full round, Aemon returned to the castle.

Creak!

He pushed open the door to the lecture attic, where the old maester was already waiting.

Despite his other duties, the prince still had daily morning lessons to attend.

"Good morning, maester," Aemon greeted as he strode to the front of the room.

William sat in one of the benches with a book open, ready to begin.

Gunthor was perched on a windowsill, munching on an orange.

Sir Steve stood at the door as a silent guardian.

This was the prince's team—small, but loyal.

"Seagull Knight" Ryan Shett was no longer with them. He had returned home after their landing in Seagull Town. Their escort group was one man short.

The old maester pulled a letter from his sleeve and spoke slowly, "A reply from the princess."

"Oh, let me see."

Aemon opened the envelope.

Though he was back in Runestone City, his heart still lingered in King's Landing. He thought of her often.

Alicent wrote frequently, saying that Otto had resigned and she now enjoyed some peace in the Red Keep. She asked if he was well, reminded him to eat enough, and not to kick the blankets at night.

Like an older sister—or a mother.

He always wrote back quickly and often sent along some local goods from the Vale via cargo ships.

Rhaenyra wrote occasionally too.

She told him that Lord Lyonel had become the new Hand of the King and the council was selecting a new Master of Laws.

She also complained about her father, Viserys, who refused to cede power and constantly paraded young nobles to flaunt their talents.

She wanted to prove herself but lacked practical ideas.

To that, Aemon had offered a suggestion.

King's Landing, with its population of over 500,000, was filthy and plagued with poor sanitation. The Gold Cloaks handled security, so there was no room to act there—but sanitation? That was an opening.

In his few days there, Aemon had seen and smelled the rot for himself. Feces and urine filled the streets. The stench was unbearable.

So he told Rhaenyra: recruit hardworking orphans, give them tools and carts, and assign them to clean up one street at a time.

They didn't need to clean everything—just focus on gathering waste.

Haul it out of the city every evening, then compost it on a field.

Compost wasn't yet a common practice, but people understood the concept of manure-based fertilizers.

Once processed, that fertilizer could be used to till the fields.

Then, grant some land to homeless orphans. Let them farm it with royal support.

In just a few years, the city would smell cleaner, and the Crown could collect more taxes from the newly reclaimed lands.

And Rhaenyra would earn the favor of the people.

It was a perfect plan.

"A pilot sanitation program, organized waste collection, cesspool centralization... she's really doing it!" Aemon murmured as he read, impressed.

Rhaenyra had taken his advice to heart.

She'd already begun. Over a hundred orphans had been recruited. For now, they were assigned to one street near the Red Keep.

They cleaned the waste each morning and hauled it out of the city at dusk. Composting was easy—there was plenty of royal farmland.

But two challenges had come up: public resistance, and the difficulty of cleanup.

The commoners didn't like others handling their waste. Even though it was garbage, the idea of someone else taking it away offended them.

And cleaning was hard work. Years of accumulated filth had caked into the streets.

Fortunately, King Jaehaerys had built a drainage system during his reign, so it didn't flood with waste during rain.

Still, it wasn't easy.

Rhaenyra had responded with force.

She sent Gold Cloaks to beat the troublemakers and informed every household they had to dump their waste at designated collection points.

Anyone who refused would be fined.

After that, things went smoothly.

In just days, the street became noticeably cleaner.

Even if some grumbled that she was harsh, the praise from the lower classes was real.

After all, who didn't want to walk streets free of piss and shit?

Aemon was delighted. "She really pulled it off."

People in the Middle Ages weren't dumb—they just lacked vision.

"Ah... when will I have my own fief?"

He cupped his cheek with one hand, his expression melancholic.

His mother was still in good health and could live for decades more.

If he couldn't inherit Runestone City, then he'd have to build something of his own.

Only by becoming master of his own land could he realize his true ambitions.

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