Game of Thrones: The King of Bronze and Fire

Vermithor stretched its massive bronze head out of its new lair, golden eyes gleaming with irritation. It let out a deep, guttural growl, clearly displeased.

It had just settled into its new home, only to be called upon again.

What did the rider want now?

"Lend a hand, Vermithor!"

Aemon's shameless grin widened as he waved at the bronze dragon.

"Roar!"

Vermithor grumbled loudly, flaring its wings and leaving the lair in one powerful leap.

The dragon's thunderous landing kicked up a cloud of sand, sending the nearby workers scrambling in fright.

Some toppled over in panic, while a few unfortunate ones fell into the nearby water.

"Anyone who can swim, help pull them out!"

Maester Muqin, ever calm and composed, directed the rescue efforts.

Without hesitation, Ser Steffon shed his white cloak and armor before diving in, hauling two spluttering youths to safety.

"Much appreciated, Ser," Aemon said, offering a clean cloth for the knight to dry himself.

The frightened workers weren't locals; they were orphans recruited from King's Landing to work the new lands. Aemon was keen on treating them well—he didn't want anyone fleeing out of fear.

With the commotion settled, Aemon turned his attention to a pile of limestone nearby.

The stones were pale white or gray, soft, and easy to crush—a common but invaluable resource.

"Prince," Johanna said, her eyes sparkling as she pieced together his intentions.

Maester Muqin, quick to assess the prince's boldness, ordered everyone to step back.

"Dracarys!"

Aemon gave the command, and Vermithor unleashed a blast of bronze-tinged flames.

The limestone pile hissed and crackled under the intense heat, melting into molten rock that glowed a fiery red.

"Stop!" Aemon quickly called out.

The flames ceased, leaving behind a bubbling pool of lava.

"Is this even usable anymore?" Aemon asked, frowning at the mess.

"It is!" Muqin answered confidently, gesturing for workers to cool it down. "Once solidified, this becomes volcanic ash, a superior substitute for clay."

"That's not what I'm after," Aemon muttered, exasperated. "I want lime, not volcanic ash."

The maester, unfazed, proposed, "We can try again, but this time we'll control the intensity."

"Fine. One more attempt."

Turning to Vermithor, Aemon patted the dragon's wing membrane and gave a simple command in High Valyrian: "Less heat this time."

"Roar!"

The bronze dragon huffed in annoyance but complied, emitting a weaker, more controlled flame.

Crackle, hiss…

The limestone glowed as it heated, softening but not melting.

"Stop!" Aemon ordered again, this time more carefully timing the process.

The flames ceased, and the stones cooled into a pale gray hue, ready for the next step.

"Bring water," Muqin instructed, sending a strong boy to fetch it.

As the lime cooled, its color lightened to a chalky white. Aemon, ever eager, grabbed a handful, added water, and began stirring it into a slurry.

"Prince, is that safe?" Muqin's jaw nearly hit the ground. Handling quicklime barehanded was unheard of—even for a Targaryen.

"Don't make a fuss, Maester," Johanna interjected with a knowing smile, while she directed more workers to prepare lime paste.

Under Aemon's direction, the quicklime was transformed into slaked lime—a fine, creamy substance ideal for construction.

"Try it," Aemon said, stepping back to let the workers test its effectiveness.

Two veteran masons cautiously stepped forward, using the lime paste to bond bricks together.

"Make sure the ratio is one part lime to three parts fine sand," Muqin advised, guiding the process with practiced expertise.

Aemon watched closely, nodding with approval. "You've got the knack for this, Maester. Impressive."

Muqin's competence reminded Aemon of the wealth of knowledge hidden within the Citadel, and he began to see the maester as an invaluable resource.

But even so, the limitations were clear.

"Slaked lime may be the best we have," Aemon thought with a tinge of regret.

Although he knew how to make cement, the process was far more complex and resource-intensive. Worse still, cement structures were prone to cracking over time, their durability lasting only decades compared to the centuries-long resilience of lime-based buildings.

For now, slaked lime was more than sufficient.

"Prince, it will take time for the lime to set properly," Muqin reminded him.

Aemon nodded. "Fine. Let's move on."

He turned to Vermithor, dismissing the dragon with a wave.

"Back to your lair, Vermithor."

"Roar!"

Vermithor huffed indignantly, its fiery breath stirring Aemon's silver hair before it took off into the sky.

Nearby, a silver dragon head peeked cautiously from a mountaintop lair, observing its bronze companion's departure before retreating back into the shadows.

As the lime hardened, Aemon strolled along the lakeside, taking stock of the progress.

Rows of makeshift huts now dotted the shoreline, housing settlers relocated from the northwest of Runestone.

The newcomers—farmers clad in coarse tunics—sat idly by their walls, their eyes vacant as they gazed into the distance.

"How many families are here? What's the total population?" Aemon asked in a low voice, not wanting to disturb them.

Johanna replied promptly, "509 households, with an average of three to ten members each, totaling 1,824 people."

The number was impressive, but it was clear the community was fragile. Many were old or young, leaving only half the population capable of productive labor.

"Not many, is it?" Aemon muttered, clicking his tongue.

Among the workers building the palace were 3,000 laborers temporarily borrowed from Runestone. Once their task was complete, they would have to return.

Subtracting his personal guard of knights and craftsmen, only the settlers before him were true residents of the Vale.

"More will come after the harvest," Johanna assured him.

"For now, leave them be."

Aemon turned away, his mind preoccupied with the challenges ahead.

The fledgling settlement was on the brink of its first survival test. With limited manpower and resources, how could they sustain themselves until the next planting season?

"How long will their provisions last?"

"They should have enough until next summer," Johanna replied. "But they'll need to supplement it by raising livestock."

Aemon sighed. He needed a way to make the land self-sustaining—and quickly.

While pondering solutions, a distant screech drew Aemon's attention.

He looked up to see a pale-gray dragonling clumsily flying toward him, a large fish dangling from its jaws.

"Gray Ghost," Aemon chuckled.

The dragon swallowed its catch in one gulp and swooped down, knocking him flat onto his back.

"Ugh, you've grown heavier," Aemon groaned, wrapping his arms around the affectionate dragon.

Gray Ghost's body had indeed grown—it now measured eight meters, up from six just a month ago.

"Must be the bloodfruit," Aemon mused. The rare fruit had clearly accelerated the dragon's growth, making it a more formidable companion.

As the dragon nuzzled him with its snout, Aemon couldn't help but smile.

"Alright, enough," he said, pushing the playful creature off.

In a moment of inspiration, he summoned his Card Deck.

Three cards appeared before him, shrouded in mist.

He flipped them over with a thought, revealing one white, one green, and one blue card.

The blue card caught his eye:

[Bronze Shield]: "Engraved with ancient runes of the First Men, imbued with unbreakable magic."

Cost: 250 Essence Points.

Aemon redeemed it immediately, his fascination with bronze artifacts as strong as ever.

"Too bad bloodfruit is so rare," Aemon muttered, stroking Gray Ghost's head.

He'd have to find a way to reward Vermithor for its hard work. After all, even dragons deserved a little appreciation.

Aemon's challenges were mounting, but the seeds of progress had been sown. His dream of transforming the Vale was slowly becoming a reality.