Ultimately, Aemon decided to wait for his opportunity, patiently.
Settling back on his small stool, he adjusted the fish basket and cast his line once more.
"Let me catch you, and you'll pay the price!" Aemon grumbled, his little jaw clenched in determination.
The newly minted prince was quickly getting used to his elevated status.
Afternoon—Clear skies, calm seas.
The ship sailed full speed ahead, passing the Gullet and entering the Narrow Sea.
Aemon, lulled by the rhythm of the waves, was on the verge of dozing off when the blast of a horn jarred him awake.
Woo-woo-woo!
The sound was urgent, and the ship's crew abandoned their tasks, rushing to the bow with panicked expressions.
Aemon rubbed his eyes, startled. "What's happening?"
Setting aside his fishing rod, he hurried below deck in search of his mother.
On the Narrow Sea, another ship came into view—a slender slave ship bearing the emblem of Lys, one of the infamous Free Cities.
Its deck swarmed with colorful-haired mercenaries, unmistakably Tyroshi, allies of Lys and Myr in the notorious Triarchy.
"Mother, what's going on?"
Aemon found his way to Lady Rhea Royce, surrounded by her Vale knights.
Rhea's expression was grim. "A slave ship from the Three Daughters. They're known to attack passing vessels."
Even as she spoke, possibility became certainty.
The ship's crew had spotted the Aemon Prince flying the banner of the three-headed dragon. Like rats catching the scent of cheese, they changed course to intercept.
Woo-woo-woo!
The lookout on the slaver's ship blew the attack signal, and laughter erupted from the deck.
"Prepare yourselves!" Lady Rhea commanded, her voice calm but firm.
The Vale knights readied their bows, their movements swift and disciplined. Skilled in horseback archery, they were no less adept at handling longbows on deck.
Aemon felt a knot tighten in his chest. Forcing down his nerves, he retrieved his small wooden bow from the cabin and took position.
The slaver's ship drew nearer, the men onboard taunting with jeers and leers. Their grotesque faces were visible even from a distance.
"Draw!" Rhea shouted, her bowstring taut with deadly intent.
Aemon's small hands trembled slightly as he drew his bow. His thoughts wandered briefly—If only I had a dragon.
A shadow fell over the ship.
The air grew heavy, thick with the acrid scent of sulfur.
Aemon looked up—and froze.
Vhagar.
The largest and oldest living dragon of House Targaryen filled the sky. Her moss-green scales absorbed the sunlight, her vast wings stretching wide like a living mountain.
Every breath of her massive chest, every beat of her colossal wings, radiated unchallenged power.
"Prince, is that—?"
The white knight, Ser Steffon, swallowed hard, unable to finish his question.
Aemon, awe-struck, whispered, "Vhagar."
One of the three legendary dragons who had forged the Targaryen dynasty.
A hundred and sixty years old, she was the largest creature alive, her body a testament to centuries of battle.
Now, she circled the sky, her shadow casting the waters below into eerie twilight.
"Stand down!" Lady Rhea called out, her sharp voice cutting through the tension.
The order was unnecessary. The slaver's ship had already become the target of something far greater.
From above, Laena Velaryon's voice rang out, commanding, "Dracarys, Vhagar!"
A column of orange and black fire erupted from Vhagar's jaws.
Boom!
The fire engulfed the slaver's ship, splintering the mast and igniting the deck in an instant. Wood cracked, and plumes of smoke spiraled into the sky.
Vhagar's ancient wings spread wide, the membrane riddled with holes from countless battles. She rose gracefully into the air, her shadow a harbinger of destruction.
Then her tail came crashing down, smashing into the burning vessel. The deck exploded into fragments, the ship nearly splitting in two.
"Unbelievable," Aemon murmured, his grip tightening on the railing as he watched the spectacle.
Despite her advanced age, Vhagar's might was unmatched. Her moss-green scales bore the wrinkles of time, and her amber eyes were a well of wisdom and violence.
This was no ordinary dragon—this was a force of nature.
"Dracarys!"
Another stream of fire roared forth, igniting the water around the wreckage. The sea hissed and boiled as survivors flailed helplessly.
With a final swing of her tail, Vhagar reduced the ship to little more than flotsam, then turned back toward Driftmark.
Aemon caught a glimpse of Laena on Vhagar's back, her black-and-red riding leathers standing out against the dragon's scales. Her silver hair was tied back, her posture commanding.
Before departing, she leaned down and waved at him.
As quickly as it began, it was over.
Vhagar soared upward, her immense wings scattering clouds as she disappeared into the horizon.
The onlookers, knights and crew alike, stood in stunned silence.
Compared to the golden dragon they had glimpsed days earlier, Vhagar was an apocalyptic force.
Aemon clenched his fists. "This is the power of dragons."
He was more determined than ever—he needed a dragon.
Lady Rhea Royce seized the opportunity to finish the job. "Archers! Kill the survivors!"
Aemon was startled but quickly composed himself. He lowered his small bow and approached.
"Mother," he said, setting his jaw.
Lady Rhea glanced down at him, her expression cold. She grabbed him by the collar, pulling him close. "You're going to inherit Runestone. It's time you learned to lead."
"You want me to give the order?"
"Yes," she said, her voice like ice. "Order them to kill. No mercy."
It was a brutal lesson, but one she deemed necessary.
Ser Steffon hesitated. "Lady Royce, the prince is just a boy—"
"Royce men are born with steel in their spines," she snapped. "At eight, they wield knives. At ten, they command armies."
She waited, her gaze fixed on her son.
Aemon hesitated, the weight of the decision pressing on him.
Finally, he raised his head and called out, "Vale knights!"
The archers stood at attention, awaiting his command.
Aemon's small hand dropped in a decisive motion. "Loose! Leave none alive!"
Arrows rained down on the sea, silencing the screams of the slavers.
Lady Rhea allowed herself a faint smile.
But Aemon wasn't finished.
He snatched a handful of arrows from her quiver and strode toward the edge of the ship.
His face was solemn, his steps deliberate.
He fired his first arrow—it missed, splashing into the sea.
He adjusted his aim and fired again. This time, the arrow struck true, piercing a slaver's eye.
One by one, his arrows found their marks, each shot more confident than the last.
By the time he ran out of arrows, four slavers had fallen to his bow.
The knights of the Vale were silent, their respect for the young prince cemented.
Even his youthful face, pale and serious, seemed to exude the aura of a true ruler.
"Not bad," Lady Rhea murmured, satisfied.
Aemon dropped the bow, wiping his hands on his tunic. "This bow isn't strong enough. I need something better."
The knights exchanged glances. Their prince wasn't just a boy anymore.