The little silver-haired figure darted about like a sprightly squirrel, rummaging through the tomb with boundless energy.
In Runestone, bronze was sacred. The crypts beneath the ancient keep were filled with the remnants of a bygone age—bronze armour left behind by the ancestors of House Royce.
Most of it was battered and ancient, green with age and corrosion. Without proper care, the brittle metal would crumble at the slightest touch. Centuries of neglect had taken their toll.
Still, Aemon worked diligently, inspecting each rust-eaten relic by the flicker of his oil lamp. After some effort, he unearthed three semi-intact sets. One had only a breastplate left. The other two lacked arms and legs entirely.
"Broken magical relic detected. Magic Essence +5, +3, +5…"
Different chimes echoed in his mind as a glowing panel appeared before him, shimmering with golden light. A translucent hourglass spun slowly on its axis until it stopped.
[Essence Collected: 16]
"Huh…" Aemon exhaled, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Why are the essence values different?"
He crouched closer, examining the relics under the lamplight. The more complete armours bore elaborate rune engravings across the chest and wrists—interlocked circles forming arcane patterns. The set with the least essence was fragile and smothered in verdigris. Only the runic circle on its chest remained faintly visible.
After the magic drained from them, the runes looked lifeless, empty—mere shadows of what they once were. Even the coppery smell had intensified.
Aemon narrowed his eyes. "It's the runes. The essence must come from them..."
The thought sent a little thrill through his spine. Ancient magic. The power that once flowed through his ancestors—what if he could harness it?
"I'll ask Mother when she gets back," he muttered. "Maybe she knows something..."
But one thing was clear: he needed more magic.
Once he was sure there were no other salvageable armours in the tomb, Imon clapped the dust from his hands and turned to the glowing altar.
Time to redeem a magic card.
"Seven guide me," he whispered, and pressed a finger to the sole card he could afford: [Guide: One Use].
Unlike vibrant dragon eggs, bronze relics couldn't absorb or hold much magic essence. He'd drained what he could, and it would be a long while before they recharged—if ever.
Pop!
As his finger touched the card, a burst of golden light flared. The card shattered. From the glow, a slender golden finger pointed east—beyond the tomb.
A vivid image bloomed in his mind.
A hill, east of Runestone, near the jagged coastline. The vision zoomed in until all he could see were the lush blades of dark green grass, gently swaying. A fragrant aroma lingered in the air.
"I know where that is!"
Aemon's eyes lit up, and with a bounce in his step, he scrambled out of the tomb.
The Vale was a land of contrasts—towering peaks, fertile valleys, and nobles of every stripe. Among them, House Royce had once held unmatched prestige. Their fiefs stretched wide, with farmland and pastures tended for generations.
Yet for all their wealth, the eastern coast of Runestone was hemmed in by cliffs and rocky shores. No harbours, no ships. Even Gulltown, the nearest city, had outpaced them in trade.
But the [Guide] had revealed a special place—an untouched pasture along the coast where a rare herb grew. Its fragrance alone hinted at magic. A cure for nightmares, they said.
Clack.
A wooden panel shifted near the castle's edge. A small head topped with silver-blonde hair poked out, eyes alert.
Aemon scanned the area, then began climbing out carefully.
"Oi! What in the seven hells were you doing down there?!"
The voice came from above—deep, gruff, like thunder rolling through a canyon.
Aemon froze mid-climb, his eyes wide.
Thud!
The board was kicked open with a crash, and a massive hand grabbed the back of his collar, yanking him up into the sunlight.
It was blinding. He squinted as a looming shadow fell over him.
A towering man, broad as a barn door and well over seven feet tall, glared down at him. His scowling face was half hidden in shadow.
"Gunthor?"
Aemon blinked. It was him—Gunthor Royce.
The man was built like a fortress. In size alone, he could rival Gregor Clegane—the infamous Mountain.
Once Aemon recognised him, he squared his tiny shoulders and tilted his chin up haughtily.
"You're questioning me?"
He nodded slowly. That was his greeting.
The message was clear: If you don't like it, hit me. See what happens.
No one dared lay a hand on him—not in Runestone, not anywhere in Westeros. Aemon was eight years old, chubby and defiant, and carried the unmistakable air of someone untouchable.
Gunthor hesitated, then bowed stiffly. "Prince. How did you find the crypt?"
"Filthy," Aemon sniffed, dusting himself off. "I cleaned it up."
He waved dismissively. "No need to thank me."
He bore the name Targaryen, but was raised under House Royce. A noble by birth, yes—but a complicated one.
His mother, Lady Rhea, was the ruling Lady of Runestone. But she was often away—hunting, riding, too wild to care for a son. She rarely interfered, even in matters of inheritance.
That had emboldened the lesser branches of House Royce to murmur behind closed doors. They saw a gap in the line—a chance to seize power.
Aemon knew it. So he met their coldness with steel. He bowed to no one.
Gunthor's brow creased. His hulking frame radiated menace, even in silence.
Aemon didn't flinch.
"You've got more to say?" he asked, tilting his head, the sun glinting off his silver hair.
He took a bold step forward.
Go on. Hit me.
But Gunthor didn't move. He simply stared, then muttered, "You're something else."
He turned slightly. "Go on, then."
Aemon smirked. Victory.
He dashed off, but glanced back thoughtfully. Gunthor wasn't just any knight. After Lady Rhea's death, it would be him—Gunthor Royce, the so-called Bronze Giant—who inherited Runestone.
He'd even made it into the history books.
He also killed one of my brothers-in-law later…
Aemon ran faster, thoughts racing ahead of his feet.
Focus. Magic first. Then politics.
Behind him, Gunthor called out, "Lady Rhea's back from the hunt. Martha's looking for you. Clean yourself up before you greet your mother."
Aemon's heart skipped. "Mother's back?!"
His chubby cheeks puffed he took off at a full sprint, vanishing into the courtyard.