He waved off the escort with a flick of his hand and departed in a hurry.
Lady Rhea Royce watched him go, her face unreadable. Then, without a word, she took her son's hand and guided him back into the cabin.
As luck would have it, the sky was darkening.
Aemon followed her eagerly, half-expecting some motherly wisdom, a parting gift, or perhaps a secret plan she'd kept hidden until now.
But all she did was tuck him in and tell him plainly, "Get some good rest. You'll be meeting the royal family tomorrow, and you don't want to greet them with dark circles under your eyes."
"Oh…" Aemon blinked, a little stunned. The disappointment stung, though he tried to hide it as he turned to return to his room.
At the threshold, he paused, resting one hand on the wooden doorframe and stealing one last glance at her.
Was that really it?
Lady Rhea didn't even look up. She busied herself making her own bed, entirely unbothered.
"Bye-bye," Aemon murmured, waving half-heartedly before closing the door behind him with a soft click.
He turned and exhaled through his nose, annoyed.
He already knew his mother wasn't exactly the doting type. He hadn't grown up smothered in affection, that was for certain.
"Forget it. Children shouldn't hold grudges against adults," he muttered, stuffing his hands behind his back like a tiny old man trying to maintain his dignity.
Sleeping alone gave him nightmares sometimes, but now—now he had the panel. He'd manage.
Later that evening, he returned to his quarters.
"Come on then, have a look. I stuffed the leftover urala grass into a pillow for you," said Old Martha with a tired sigh as she stood, stretching her back with a loud crack.
"Really?!" Aemon's eyes lit up as he darted to the bed.
The basket was now empty of grass, replaced by a woven straw mat and a little round pillow. The mat was just his size—about a metre square—and the pillow plump with fresh, fragrant leaves.
Kicking off his boots, Aemon flopped onto the mat and hugged the pillow to his chest, taking a deep breath.
It smelled of fresh fields and minty sweetness.
"Martha, I love it!"
He rolled about in glee, looking very much like a mouse that had just raided a pantry and gotten away with it.
Old Martha, already half-asleep on her feet, gave a tired chuckle and turned to go. "As long as you like it. Now, get some rest."
"Bye~~"
His farewell was high-pitched and sugary, utterly childlike.
The door shut behind her with a thud, and the room was suddenly dim.
"Alright then... let's see if we can dream something good tonight."
Aemon lay down, arms and legs spread across the straw mat, his head resting on the urala pillow. The scent and softness calmed him almost instantly. His breathing slowed, his body stilled—and he slipped into sleep.
Two days later, Prince Aemon stood atop the deck of the Silver Heron as it glided past the straits and into the mouth of Blackwater Bay.
The waves churned beneath them, spraying mist into the air. The wind smelled of salt and brine.
Wrapped snugly in his cloak, Aemon leaned over the railing, his silver-blond hair fluttering in the sea breeze, violet eyes scanning the horizon.
Compared to when they first set sail, he looked healthier—his cheeks rosier, his eyes brighter.
He whooped into the wind now and then, giggling at the echo.
Behind him, bootsteps sounded on the deck.
"You've been sleeping well these last two nights, according to Martha?" came Lady Rhea's voice. She wore her travelling leathers, dark and serviceable.
Aemon turned and nodded obediently. "Yes, Mother. Slept like a log."
He patted the small pack slung on his back for emphasis.
Lady Rhea raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She'd had the pack inspected days ago—nothing inside but a rolled straw mat and a grass-stuffed pillow. Neither particularly light nor heavy.
Still, her son carried it around like it was a knight's sword.
Sensing her gaze, Aemon quickly turned and whistled at the sky, pretending not to notice. If he had to sleep well, then he needed his tools. That pack now carried all his worldly possessions.
The days of puffy dark circles were over, and he had no intention of going back.
Lady Rhea leaned on the railing beside him, watching the waves. "We'll be arriving at King's Landing soon. Are you nervous?"
"Not really," Aemon said, shaking his head.
He'd been born there. Spent the first three years of his life within the capital's stone walls. It wasn't exactly foreign territory.
Lady Rhea studied him. "You know, in your heart, you should see yourself as a Targaryen."
Aemon paused, then glanced down at his outfit—black wool tunic, silver boots, and a crimson three-headed dragon embroidered on his collar.
Hair like moonlight. Eyes like amethysts.
Targaryen through and through.
But he could hear the edge in her voice. There was more behind her words than identity.
He lowered his eyes.
He knew what she meant.
The old Queen Alysanne had arranged the marriage between her grandson Daemon and Lady Rhea Royce in hopes of bridging houses. But they were equals by blood, and that led to trouble.
Daemon's children would naturally be Targaryens.
But Rhea, as a woman, would pass on her husband's name—and in time, perhaps her lands too.
Aemon squinted at the deck and asked carefully, "So… you sent the escort to bring me to King's Landing because you want me to stay there?"
Away from Runestone, the Royce seat. Away from inheritance disputes.
If he stayed, she could name another cousin as heir without drama.
A parting gift, wrapped in royal parchment.
Lady Rhea scoffed, more amused than angry. "Don't lump me in with those shameless dragons. Like it or not, you're my son."
"Really?" Aemon lit up and hugged her leg tight, his face pressed to the stiff leather. "You're not just saying that to make me feel better?"
"I never say things just to make people feel better."
Who had been feeding this child such paranoid tales?
Relieved beyond words, Aemon grinned. "Then how are you handling the inheritance? Want me to help pick a successor?"
If she wasn't cutting him off, that meant he could still call Runestone home—even if only part-time.
King's Landing had its splendour, but Runestone… that was his.
"No plan," Rhea said, arms folded across her chest. "You were a scrawny, fragile thing when you were born. I thought you wouldn't last the year. No point investing emotions in a doomed cause."
Aemon blinked.
Ouch.
So that's why she'd always been so distant.
"Well, that's over now," she added briskly. "What matters is this—the king will try to keep you in the capital. It's your decision."
Aemon's eyes sparkled. He rubbed his chin like a tiny scholar.
At the moment, the royal family's male line was thin—just Viserys and Daemon. He was the only son of Daemon, and he'd already lived to the ripe old age of eight.
Recalling him made sense.
Still, he feigned uncertainty. "Should I stay or not?"
"Entirely your choice," Lady Rhea replied calmly, though her gaze was fixed on her son like a hawk eyeing a plump mouse.
Aemon caught it, and with a cheeky grin, declared, "Nope! You couldn't pay me to stay."
His logic was simple—big bellies make big plans. And small fish don't swim in shark-infested waters.
King's Landing was a pit of ambition and blood. He'd rather keep his head down and grow fat in the Vale.
"Hmph." Rhea snorted. "There's no place for you there anyway. Just ask the last bastard who tried."
The corners of her mouth, however, betrayed the faintest smirk.
"We're just here to hunt. Visit some kin. That's all."
Aemon nodded eagerly, still clinging to her leg.
He didn't need a name to guess who she meant—the "bastard" must be Daemon himself.
Once a royal heir, now banished to the Stepstones to fight crabs and rot in exile.
Lady Rhea cast another look at her son. His cleverness amused her. Maybe even impressed her.
He was hers, after all.
And if she had her way, he would remain so. King's Landing could have its Game of Thrones.
She had a different game in mind.