Aemon's lips curled into a faint smile as he walked back into the crowd, calm and measured. The heat of combat still lingered in his chest, but he masked it well. Control. That was the key.
One rule rang loud in his heart:
Be sharp when it counts—never lose face.
Glory came to those with courage. In this world, bravery wasn't just rewarded—it defined everything.
"Mother," Aemon said quietly, "there might be slaves aboard that wreck."
Lady Rhea remained still, eyes fixed on her son like she was seeing him for the first time. There was a new weight behind her stare—part awe, part disbelief.
"Prince, you're a warrior reborn," Ser Steffon said in amazement. The knight of the Kingsguard was breathless with praise, clearly shaken by the boy's recent display.
Daemon's blood pulsed in Aemon's veins. That much was clear.
Or, as the old Targaryen saying went—each time a dragon is born, the gods flip a coin. Madness or greatness.
"Shhh." Aemon pressed a finger to his lips, quieting Steffon. "Praise the dragons, Ser."
He was no longer a mere boy. Aemon now had the beginnings of a retinue, the shadow of command. What use were hollow compliments when real power lay within reach?
He needed a dragon, a castle, and warriors who answered only to him.
Words were air. Action was legacy.
Steffon nodded solemnly and resumed his silent guard beside the young prince.
---
Lady Rhea broke from her daze and turned to the sea.
"Salvage what you can from that wreck!" she ordered.
Boats were lowered. Sailors tied ropes, pulled oars, and worked in tandem under the growing evening sun.
Half an hour passed.
From the sea, they hauled over a hundred survivors—strong men in coarse linen, their necks tattooed with intricate marks of ownership. Fear was written into their posture. Most huddled silently at the bow, eyes darting like frightened animals.
They were slaves. And not just any—artisans.
Aemon inspected them carefully, cataloging the tattoos. Blacksmiths. Carpenters. Masons. Painters. Valuable.
Among the rescued stood a girl, barefoot and disheveled, but her straight black hair and proud features marked her noble birth. She didn't belong among the others.
Aemon's eyes paused briefly. Lovely—but not his type.
Silver hair. That was the standard.
Targaryen men were loyal to dragons, and dragons were silver.
"Prince," Ser Steffon called. "Come look."
He'd cracked open a cargo box, revealing a bow. Long, gleaming, and curved like a hunter's smile.
Aemon stepped forward and froze.
The bow was black. Not just black—deep, lacquered, with an obsidian gleam. Not wood. Bone.
His fingers trembled as he picked it up. It was nearly as tall as he was, heavy and warm—not cold like steel.
The bowstring was taut, strung with the sinew of some long-dead beast.
"Dragonbone," Aemon whispered.
A moment later, the System pinged:
> Item detected with residual magical properties.
Magic Essence +1 obtained.
Aemon blinked. Dragonbone—it retained essence even in death. And here it was, shaped by a master's hand.
"It's not a longbow," Steffon added, "but a Qohor-style recurve. Easier to draw from horseback—or a dragon's back."
Aemon grinned. "Thank you, Ser."
Compared to this beauty, his little wooden bow was an insult. Dragonbone bows were rare even in Essos, where dragons once roamed more freely. In Westeros, they were treasure.
This one had been headed to Pentos for auction. Now, it belonged to a prince.
Another piece for his future.
---
Lady Rhea studied the slaves silently. Then she frowned and pointed to the group. "We'll drop them in Gulltown and let them fend for themselves."
They spoke only High Valyrian—foreign, nameless, poor.
Aemon stepped forward. "Let me keep them."
She raised a brow. "Runestone doesn't need this many artisans."
"They'll serve me," Aemon said. "Not the castle. I'll cover their food and housing. Every coin."
She held his gaze for a long moment. He didn't flinch.
Finally, she nodded. "Very well. They're yours."
Aemon's grin widened.
A hundred artisans. More than King's Landing could offer on short notice.
Enough to build something meaningful.
A future.
---
Lady Rhea turned next to the Vale knights gathered nearby.
"Aemon," she said softly, "you've earned something else."
He looked up.
"These fifty knights—your command."
His eyes widened. "Mine?"
She nodded. "Their swords, their shields. They answer to you now."
It was more than symbolic.
Fifty Vale knights was a force—one that could guard a keep, hold a pass, or defend a town.
And now they bent the knee to a boy barely eight.
But he had earned it.
The knights didn't protest. They had seen him shoot pirates dead with a borrowed bow. Seen the fire in his eyes. The calm in his voice.
Aemon Royce Targaryen. Dragon Prince. Heir to Runestone.
Their loyalty was already forming.
Lady Rhea motioned to Ser Gunthor, her lieutenant. "Take him below. Let him learn command."
Gunthor nodded. The Vale knights silently followed, eyes respectful.
This wasn't politics.
It was recognition.
---
Later, the deck grew quiet.
Lady Rhea summoned the dark-haired girl in noble rags. Her tone softened. "What's your name?"
The girl hesitated, then bowed. "Johanna. Johanna Swann. My uncle is the Earl of Stonehelm."
"Swann?" Rhea's brows lifted.
The girl nodded, eyes shimmering. "My uncle refused to pay my ransom. I… I was being sent to Lys."
To the pillow houses, most likely.
Rhea's lips thinned. "Your uncle is a man of resolve, I see."
The sarcasm was sharp.
Then she sighed. "Do you want me to send you home?"
Johanna's shoulders tensed. She shook her head, ashamed.
She had no desire to return to a cold-blooded house that left her to slavery.
"Then stay with us. Be my companion."
The girl's eyes filled with tears. "Thank you, my lady."
She sank to her knees.
Aemon watched from a distance, squinting.
Johanna Swann.
He remembered the name. A future courtesan in Lys—beautiful, influential, feared. Known as the "Black Swan."
She would become a broker of secrets. A queenmaker, some said.
But not anymore.
She had been rescued early—by her own kin.
Aemon smiled to himself. Another unexpected gain.
Best to treat her well.
She'd be useful later.
---
The sun sank low, bleeding crimson across the sky.
Aemon stood at the stern, soaking in the peace—until his eyes fell on his fish basket.
Empty. Again.
Scorch marks marred the deck. A single fish lay beside the basket—half-chewed and coated in glistening dragon saliva.
Aemon stared, stunned.
"Regurgitated…?"
He crouched and picked it up, examining the mess.
"You again?" he growled. "You gluttonous thief…"
He marched back to his stool, cast his line, and began again.
If you like fish so much, I'll give you fish.
I'll stuff you full, you damned invisible dragon.
"Come closer next time," he muttered. "Let's see who catches who."
The hook vanished into the sea.
The hunt continued.
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