Game of Thrones: The Bronze and Fire Lord

"Will you write back to the princess?"

The old maester took out a pen and paper and asked as usual.

"Of course."

Aemon spoke straightforwardly, then added, "You write for me and praise her on my behalf."

He didn't dare write it himself.

Holding a pen here meant copying history books.

The old maester was amused, shook his head, and began writing.

Aemon smiled, leaned on the table, and suddenly asked, "Maester, how do you think I can win the recognition of the Royce people?"

"That is a profound question."

The old maester paused and pondered. "Your great-grandfather, His Majesty the King of the Century, did it well. He chose to integrate."

Aemon frowned, thinking deeply about the meaning.

The Targaryen dynasty was founded by Aegon the Conqueror, and the throne passed to "Weak Aenys I." After his death, it was usurped by "Cruel Maegor."

These three monarchs had vastly different personalities, and their methods and results during their reigns also differed.

The Conqueror was the founding monarch. No one dared oppose him openly.

But in the Dorne War, he lost his beloved sister and queen.

Until his death, the Seven Kingdoms remained ununified.

Aenys I was a delicate flower raised in a cradle by his father, yet he inherited all the hidden dangers left by the Conqueror.

His body couldn't handle the stress, and he died of illness.

Maegor I was brutal. He usurped the throne from his nephew, "Aegon the Uncrowned," and committed the unpardonable crime of kin-slaying.

But one fact remains undeniable:

His cruelty and iron-fisted methods laid the Targaryen dynasty's foundation for the next hundred years and cleared obstacles for the next king.

The fourth king was his great-grandfather, Jaehaerys I.

Jaehaerys inherited the throne young. As a teenager, he was marginalized by his mother, the Queen Dowager, and his stepfather, Lord Baratheon. Upon adulthood, he gradually regained power.

He was a natural king.

During his reign, he signed a "peace agreement" with the Faith of the Seven, toured the realm to win over nobility, and built the "King's Road" to break through borders.

He was decisive in foreign wars and repelled Dorne's invasions.

Had he not lost two outstanding heirs in his later years, his reign would've been perfect.

Aemon's brows furrowed further. He took out a seven-pointed star badge from the drawer, his face solemn: "Targaryens worshipped the Seven to integrate into Westeros."

Only then were they accepted.

The old maester nodded. "I hear the king is a devout believer of the Seven. Even the queen and princess often attend the cathedral in King's Landing."

Aemon glanced up and saw the old maester wink.

"That's right."

Alicent was indeed a devout believer of the Seven, though the other two weren't as devoted.

It showed that integration was one solution.

But—

"I refuse," Aemon said seriously.

The old maester wasn't surprised. As an observer, he said, "Integration means changing oneself. That is a painful process."

It had taken decades for the old king to reach his decision.

What about an eight-year-old child?

"I'm not afraid of hardship, but I won't compromise."

Aemon shook his head, firm in his beliefs. He blurted out in High Valyrian, "I am who I am. This method won't work!"

"It seems you have your own ideas."

The old maester was easygoing. He didn't try to persuade him. In fact, he was pleased that the boy had such conviction and independent thought at his age.

Aemon forced a smile, unable to voice the pain he felt.

His great-grandfather was lonely in his later years and full of regret on his deathbed.

Integration had scraped him to the bone.

The old and the young discussed, while others in the room were utterly lost.

They didn't understand at all.

The old maester returned to writing, trying to compose a polite and thoughtful reply.

Aemon lowered his head, rifling through the drawer.

He had to think of a win-win solution.

At least eliminate misunderstanding. Treat the symptoms, even if not the root cause.

A quarter-hour passed.

The old maester sealed the letter.

Bang!

Aemon slapped the table, face flushed with excitement. "Maester, will this work?!"

His hand pulled away, revealing the Royce family's coat of arms.

The old maester was surprised. He thought about how difficult it was to change a banner and shook his head. "It would work, but the king wouldn't allow it. That would erase your Valyrian heritage."

The Targaryens were rare.

His Highness was based in the Vale, a royal branch.

Changing banners wasn't something one did lightly.

Aemon pulled out the red three-headed dragon coat of arms. "What about this?"

The old maester still shook his head. "It would work, but even with Lady Rhea as your mother, changing the Royce family banner would take generations to win hearts."

Daemon and Rhea's marriage had been arranged by Queen Alysanne.

The idea was to tame the unruly grandson and let him take root in fertile soil.

But the marriage was disharmonious and left scars.

It wouldn't be easy for Aemon to repair it.

Aemon looked serious. He overlaid both emblems and asked, "Then what if I combine the two into one?"

This time, it wasn't a question—it was a declaration.

He would discard the individual banners of Targaryen and Royce and merge them into his personal sigil!

The method was simple. The meaning profound.

The old maester's eyes widened. "It can be done! But you'll need merit to convince the people."

The purpose of merging banners was to unite the strength of both houses.

Without cohesion, it would become a joke.

Aemon understood well. But there was no better, safer shortcut.

He called William, who sat upright nearby, and handed him both emblems. "Take these to the Prince's Camp. The craftsmen there know how to make flags."

The Prince's Camp was a temporary encampment for the freed slaves and the fifty Vale knights under his command—Aemon's direct subordinates, just outside Runestone.

"Yes, Prince!"

William was spirited and left immediately.

Aemon scratched his head, troubled. "Maester, I have many ideas—but I lack wise men to help me."

He wasn't particularly smart or hard-working.

But that didn't matter.

Reading history made one wise. Many founding monarchs weren't strategic geniuses.

If he couldn't be a thoroughbred himself, he could at least find one.

Knowing people and using them well could achieve greatness too.

The old maester hesitated. "I'm sixty years old."

Sixty wasn't the age to strive and build.

"That's not what I mean."

Aemon looked at him earnestly. "Do you know anyone in the Citadel? Help me find two reliable ones."

"Yes, there are some. Are you certain you need them?"

The old maester looked at him cautiously.

"Yes, I do!"

The Citadel was the only institution of higher learning in Westeros. Its scholars were embedded in noble households across the realm. Their prestige was deeply rooted.

Of course, the later extinction of dragons had much to do with the Citadel's anti-magic leanings.

But even so:

Power was often held by a few.

You couldn't just eliminate them all.

Seeing that Aemon was serious, the old maester pondered for a moment. "I have a distant nephew in the Citadel. He's worn six chains already and is more talented than I am."

"Can you summon him?"

Aemon's eyes lit up. The Citadel produced talents!

"I can try."

The old maester smiled. "But the Citadel is far from Runestone. It will take time. You'll need patience."

"No problem. I'll speak with Mother about this."

Aemon's eyes burned with motivation.

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