Game of Thrones: The King of Bronze and Fire

Aemon opened the two letters.

Reading the first, his brows furrowed slightly. By the time he finished the second, his brows were practically knitted together.

"What happened?"

Johanna silently marveled at the expressiveness of the prince's eyebrows.

"See for yourself," Aemon said, handing her the letters, his mood complicated.

The first letter was from Laena Velaryon, congratulating him on establishing the Vale. She mentioned she would visit soon to offer her blessings.

But as the old saying goes, "A visit without reason is cause for suspicion." Aemon was certain she had ulterior motives.

The second letter, however, was from his mother, Lady Rhea.

It was brief—only two lines.

She informed him that a suitable young woman from the Vale had been selected and would visit him in a few days. She added that he should prepare himself and hinted that if he refused, Runestone would cut off its support for the Vale.

"Lady Rhea is cornering you," Johanna said, astonished. Her voice trailed off into a whisper.

Cornering was one way to put it. It was nothing short of a blatant push for marriage.

And she was even using the classic parental threat—cutting off financial support.

It was as though Rhea Royce saw the Vale's progress as a delicate mechanism that would collapse without her aid.

"My dear mother truly has no limits," Aemon said, shaking his head.

Johanna hesitated before speaking. "But your connection to Runestone…"

"No need to worry," Aemon said calmly. "Every child must one day step away from their parents' shadow. Only by breaking free can they soar."

His parents had been largely absent figures throughout his life.

"This is just one potential match. You don't have to respond this way," Johanna offered cautiously.

"The people of the Vale are like sheep," Aemon replied with a hint of disdain. "How can they ever stand alongside dragons?"

His voice turned resolute. "I had no say in who brought me into this world, nor in who I bring into it. But I can choose who will share that legacy with me."

Losing Runestone's financial support would be inconvenient—but so what?

He had dragons beneath him and the Vale at his feet.

Even if Runestone rescinded its funding or stripped him of his inheritance rights, it would amount to little more than a scratch.

"You are the rightful heir to Runestone," Johanna whispered, as if to herself.

"Not just Runestone," Aemon said with a faint smile. "I am also in the line of succession for the Iron Throne."

To him, the Vale was merely a stepping stone.

"If she wants to coerce me, let her try. I'm not a child anymore."

With that, Aemon turned and walked away, his tone serene but final.

By dusk, as the day wound down, Aemon left the mines of the Eyrie and approached the soot-covered Firehand tribe members emerging from the coal pits.

"Your Highness!"

Led by their elder, the Firehand clan knelt before him.

Two months of forced labor had significantly tamed their once-wild demeanor. They now appeared much more subdued.

Aemon looked down at them and asked, "Your envoys have disappeared without a trace. How do you explain this?"

"They refused to submit," the elder answered, bowing deeply. He seemed to know why.

His people had abandoned the envoys.

"Lead me to them and let them bow beneath the shadow of a dragon."

Aemon's tone was calm, but his decision was firm.

After careful consideration, he had decided to act against the surrounding mountain clans.

If Lady Rhea planned to cut off funding, so be it.

Runestone's aid primarily consisted of grain and gold, but Aemon's personal coffers were still deep—ten thousand golden dragons, with much of it unspent.

Of the three thousand laborers from Runestone, he wasn't paying any wages. His main expenses were the eighteen hundred people making lime and mining stone and coal in the Vale.

This averaged out to 960 golden dragons per month.

With construction on the Vale Keep expected to take a year, he had budgeted roughly 13,000 golden dragons for the project.

Money wasn't the issue.

The real challenge lay in his ambition. Aemon didn't just want to build one castle; he wanted to develop trade and connect the Eyrie and Runestone with a grand east-west road.

Such expansion required a larger population base—and that meant higher costs.

The most efficient way to bolster both manpower and savings was to subjugate the mountain clans.

If they could be defeated, they could be used as cheap labor.

No wages. Just food.

"Don't tell me you can't locate your own clanspeople," Aemon said evenly.

The elder hesitated before gritting his teeth. "We can lead you to them, Your Highness."

The Firehand clan worshipped fire and valued smithing above all.

To them, dragons were the ultimate embodiment of fire.

Their complete surrender to the Prince of the Vale wasn't just pragmatic—it was aspirational.

Perhaps, under his rule, they could become the mighty smithing clan they had always dreamed of being.

Aemon's lips curled into a faint smile. "Tomorrow morning, I'll be waiting by Long Lake."

War waits for no one.

The next day, at the crack of dawn, preparations were already underway.

One hundred fifty armored knights of the Vale waited by Long Lake.

The Firehand clan had sent ten representatives to serve as guides.

"Roar!"

Suddenly, a mighty roar echoed from the mountains as a bronze dragon soared into the sky.

Its wide, copper-colored wings cast a vast shadow over Long Lake.

"Roar!"

Following closely was a silver-gray dragon, slightly smaller in size, emitting sharp cries as it flew.

Gonsor Royce raised the sigil banner high, shouting, "Follow the prince! Conquer the mountain clans!"

Gripping his reins, he led the charge.

The Vale stretched 300 miles from north to south, with rugged peaks concealing countless hidden nooks.

The Firehand clan's stronghold was nestled in an unassuming valley south of the Greenstone range.

After marching 150 miles, crossing Greenstone, the force reached a secluded valley surrounded by verdant peaks.

"Hold," Gonsor ordered, surveying the area.

The valley appeared isolated, a wilderness untouched by civilization.

Gonsor chose not to act rashly and awaited the prince's orders.

Inside the valley, preparations for a ritual were underway.

Members of the Firehand clan, their skin marked with flame tattoos, had built a bonfire and adorned it with bronze tools and animal sacrifices.

The gathering included over a thousand men, women, and children.

They danced in a primal, wild style around the fire.

Nearby, several prisoners were tied to stakes.

"Release us! The dragon will come for you!"

"The dragonfire will consume you all!"

The envoys sent to parley with the prince were among the captives, their voices trembling with fear.

"Silence them," ordered Gaghoul, the Firehand chieftain.

Massive and imposing, with a horned helmet atop his head, Gaghoul watched as one of his men struck the prisoners unconscious with a hammer.

Gaghoul's face was half-scarred from burns—a badge of honor in their culture.

"There's no dragon," he sneered, holding a torch. "It's all lies."

At that moment, the sky darkened.

A shadow blotted out the sun, and a fierce wind carrying a metallic tang began to rise.

"Roar!"

Out of the clouds dove Vermithor, his vast wings enveloping the valley. With a thunderous bellow, the bronze dragon unleashed a torrent of molten fire.

Aemon watched coldly from the dragon's back.

"Burn them to ash, Vermithor."

"Roar!"

The dragon complied, bathing the valley in flames.

In moments, the stronghold was engulfed, reduced to little more than a fiery furnace.

By noon, the valley was a smoldering ruin.

Of the 2,300 Firehand members, only 1,500 survived.

The rest were dead.

Aemon ordered the survivors rounded up and marched back to the Vale.

Among the ashes, a small, striped black cat caught Aemon's eye.

"An... animal?" he murmured, realizing it was a shadowcat.

"Your Highness, we found a kitten," a knight said, holding up a tiny black kitten no bigger than a palm.

Its eyes were still closed.