Game of Thrones: The King of Bronze and Fire

Time passed slowly.

The Vale, still in its infancy, gradually began to take shape.

As the prince, Aemon naturally led by example.

Each day, he took turns commanding his three dragons to burn a batch of lime. The tenants, now filled with hope, worked with renewed vigor.

Over 1,600 people were divided into three groups for different tasks. Thanks to the use of mule carts and draught horses, significant labor was saved in transporting stone and coal from Greenstone and the mountains of the Eyrie.

In the blink of an eye, mid-June arrived.

On this day, the 3,000 laborers from Runestone and all the local tenants gathered at the open area at the foot of the mountains.

After a month and a half of work, the foundation expanded from its original 500-meter-square base to a rectangular area 800 meters wide and 1,200 meters long.

The extra area was used to store building materials.

The foundation was reinforced with a mixture of lime, fine sand, and clay, and deepened to a solid six meters. It couldn't go deeper because of the bedrock.

"Ladies and gentlemen, today marks the formal start of construction for the Prince's palace! Let us celebrate our hard-earned progress together!"

Aemon, with a radiant smile, stood in front of an altar.

Nearly 6,000 pairs of eyes were focused on the prince and the shrouded object on the altar.

Some stared in awe, their bodies trembling slightly.

The altar was draped in a red cloth, covering something massive.

"The construction of this palace represents the continuation of House Targaryen's legacy. In this place, we will honor one of the founding champions of our dynasty," Aemon declared, his gaze sweeping across the crowd.

With a dramatic flourish, he removed the red cloth.

At that moment, the object beneath was revealed—a massive dragon skull, gleaming black with a metallic sheen, standing tall under the sunlight.

The enormous skull was the size of a small house.

Two backward-curving horns adorned its head, with hollow, elongated eye sockets and a jaw lined with fearsome teeth.

Though long since lifeless, its grandeur spoke of the majesty it once embodied.

This was none other than the skull of Meraxes, one of the three dragons who had helped forge the Targaryen dynasty.

"Seven hells!"

"A dragon's...!"

The people of the Vale, though accustomed to dragons, had never seen a dragon's skull before.

The sight of Meraxes' massive skull left them trembling.

Among those present, Lady Rhea stood at the front of the crowd, watching her son unveil the dragon skull. Her expression darkened.

"Meraxes' skull? The King must be feeling generous to allow this display."

Not quite.

Aemon had secretly transported it. By the time King Viserys learned of the theft, the skull was already loaded onto a ship.

"Silence!"

With a loud command from Ser Steve, the crowd's murmurs ceased immediately.

The tenants fell into an uneasy hush, their eyes filled with a mix of awe and fear as they gazed at the massive skull.

To the people of Westeros, dragons were akin to gods—sacred and untouchable.

Seeing a dragon's skull up close was like witnessing divine judgment.

Aemon, prepared for this reaction, began to speak again:

"This dragon was named Meraxes, after the Valyrian god of wisdom. Alongside Aegon the Conqueror, it helped establish the Targaryen dynasty!"

The prince's voice rang with authority as he raised his arms.

"From this day forward, the Vale shall honor Meraxes, and we shall be blessed by the soul of the dragon!"

To make the moment even more solemn, Aemon signaled to Ser Steve with a subtle glance.

The White Knight knelt before the altar, sword in hand.

Thud! Thud!

Gonsor, William, and Ser Laen, who had traveled from Seagull Tower, followed suit, leading the prince's retainers and the 150 Vale knights to kneel.

Aemon turned toward the altar, dropping to one knee and raising his bronze sword in reverence.

If they were to act, they had to act thoroughly.

The Vale was a new domain for House Targaryen. Economic incentives could only carry loyalty so far. To secure their faith, Aemon needed a unifying belief.

In this realm, people worshiped the Seven or the Old Gods, making it difficult to create a singular allegiance.

If existing beliefs could not serve his purposes, Aemon would establish his own.

No name. No clergy.

Only a single revered relic: the skull of the founding dragon.

"Wisdom of the dragon."

"Blessings of the dragon's spirit…"

Murmurs spread through the crowd.

Under the shadow of the dragon's skull, the people began to kneel in reverence.

To the common folk, the Targaryens were already as close to divinity as humans could be.

If the prince—a dragonrider—declared the dragon a deity, it must be true.

Rhea Royce folded her arms, unimpressed.

She knew the Targaryens too well.

She had bedded one, borne a son to one.

They were far from divine.

Aemon, stealing a glance at his mother, saw her standing with her typical aloofness.

He returned his focus to the ceremony as two figures approached the altar.

Johanna, clad in a black lace dress, carried six ancient bronze suits of armor, placing them on display to the left.

Maester Mukun stood to the right, holding a bronze shovel.

With a sharp crack, he struck a large clay pot.

Flames burst forth, spilling glowing lime stones the size of fists.

The display symbolized the bronze and fire of Valyria.

Aemon saw his moment.

He thrust his bronze sword into the ground and shouted:

"Begin construction!"

Behind him, he placed a red card against the foundation.

[Sky-Piercing Palaces]: Card effect activated. Please name your palace.

With a soft hum, the red card dissolved into glowing embers, scattering across the vast foundation.

A mysterious warmth spread outward, faint red waves rippling through the air.

Though subtle, it invigorated everyone present, lifting their fatigue and filling them with hope.

"Meraxes!"

"The spirit of the dragon…"

The people believed this phenomenon to be the divine blessing of the dragon's spirit.

Above the mountain, Vermithor launched into the skies with a mighty roar.

"Roar!"

From her lair, Silverwing joined him in flight.

"Roar!"

By the lakeside, the small dragon Grey Ghost flapped its wings, leaping into the air with enthusiasm.

The people watched the dragons soar, awestruck by their fiery displays.

Aemon pondered the palace's name.

"As the seat of a prince, it must be resounding."

He thought of his joy upon first discovering the Vale.

"Let it be called the Vale Keep," he declared solemnly.

Like Runestone for House Royce or the Eyrie for House Arryn, his palace would stand as a testament to the land it ruled.

Satisfied with his decision, Aemon stepped down from the altar.

He turned to see the 3,000 workers swiftly laying the foundation. Skilled craftsmen and laborers operated with precision, building the framework with remarkable efficiency.

The card's projected construction time was one year, but at this pace, the Vale Keep might rise even sooner.

At that moment, Johanna approached with letters in hand.

"Prince Aemon, these arrived by raven."

"From whom?"

"One is from Lady Rhea, the other from Lady Laena Velaryon."

"My mother already left?"

"Lady Rhea instructed that, since you seem unwilling to speak directly, you should read her letters instead."

"I'll bet it's trouble."

Resigned, Aemon sighed and took the letters.

Even amidst the construction of his legacy, some things never changed.