Aemon smiled faintly as he strolled back to the gathered group.
As always: stay sharp when it counts. Never lose your composure.
The brave reap the rewards, and courage requires no explanation.
"Mother, there might be slaves on that ship," Aemon reminded Lady Rhea.
Rhea Royce, still recovering from the shock of her son's earlier display, stared at him as though seeing him for the first time.
"Your Highness, you're like a warrior reborn," Ser Steffon gushed, at a loss for more fitting praise.
Perhaps it was true, as the whispers went:
For every Targaryen born, the gods flip a coin to decide whether they'll be mad or great.
"Shh," Aemon hushed him, pressing a finger to his lips with feigned modesty. "Praise the dragons, Ser."
He wasn't just a child anymore.
Prince Aemon needed a dragon, a fief, and a well-fortified settlement to cultivate a prosperous domain.
Flattery was cheap; practical results were far better.
Ser Steffon calmed himself, nodding with vigor as he resumed his protective watch over the young prince.
Lady Rhea soon snapped out of her thoughts, issuing orders for the crew to scour the wreckage for survivors.
Thirty Minutes Later
The crew hauled aboard a group of rough-looking, tattooed men dressed in coarse fabrics.
Huddled together at the bow, these men bore the marks of craftsmen, their tattoos denoting their respective trades. There were about a hundred in total—builders, blacksmiths, stonemasons, and carpenters.
Among them stood a disheveled young woman in a tattered gown, her noble demeanor hinting at aristocratic origins.
Aemon surveyed the group, noting the rarity of skilled craftsmen.
As for the raven-haired beauty with striking features...
No, thanks.
The men of House Targaryen only had eyes for silver-haired dragonriders.
"Your Highness, look at this!"
Ser Steffon pried open a sturdy crate, revealing a sleek, black bow resting inside.
Unlike longbows, it was a finely crafted recurve bow, jet-black with sharply pointed tips. Its string was fashioned from the sinew of some powerful beast.
"A dragonbone bow!"
Aemon's eyes lit up as he took the bow, which matched his height.
It felt solid in his hands—not icy or forbidding, but warm and weighty.
A soft chime rang out in his mind:
"Discovered an item infused with faint magic. Magic Essence +1."
The unexpected gain left Aemon momentarily stunned. On reflection, though, it made sense: dragonbone often retained traces of magic, making it incredibly valuable as a material.
It was a rare treasure, as prestigious as Valyrian steel.
"This batch of slaves was bound for Pentos," Steffon explained excitedly. "That bow must have been part of the cargo—an extraordinary find."
"Thank you, Ser," Aemon replied with a bright smile, clutching the dragonbone bow like a prized trophy.
As the name suggested, the bow was crafted from dragonbone, a rare and prized material in Essos. It was lighter and stronger than steel, with a distinctive black sheen.
Dragonbone artifacts from the Free City of Qohor were particularly sought after for their masterful craftsmanship.
Next to this weapon, Aemon's small wooden bow was laughable.
"Come here, Aemon," Lady Rhea called.
Standing beside the rescued craftsmen, she ordered, "Tell them they'll be dropped off at Gulltown to make their own way."
The slaves spoke Valyrian, making Aemon the natural choice to act as translator.
After a moment's hesitation, he proposed, "Mother, why not keep them? They could be useful."
Rhea arched a brow. "Runestone doesn't need so many craftsmen."
Aemon looked up at her earnestly. "Leave them to me. I'll find ways to put them to good use."
The Vale lagged behind other regions in development, and skilled labor was crucial for progress.
Rhea stared into her son's determined eyes, weighing his words before relenting. "Fine. They're yours—but their upkeep will come out of your coffers."
"Deal!" Aemon beamed.
Rhea signaled for the crew to escort the craftsmen below deck.
Then she summoned the fifty Vale knights aboard.
Aemon felt a flicker of nervous anticipation, unsure of her intentions.
Rhea ruffled his hair gently—a rare display of affection—before declaring, "Given your actions today, these fifty knights are yours to command. They'll serve you with unwavering loyalty."
"Really?" Aemon's jaw dropped.
Fifty knights of the Vale were no trifling gift; they represented a significant force.
"Our family's word is iron," Rhea affirmed.
This was more than generosity—it was a calculated move to bolster her son's standing among the fractious lords of Runestone.
For Aemon, it was an unexpected windfall.
Between the dragonbone bow, the rescued craftsmen, and the knights, he had all the ingredients for establishing a solid foundation.
"Go on now," Rhea said, nodding to Gonsor Royce, who would oversee Aemon's introduction to his new troops.
The Vale knights observed their young prince with subtle admiration.
For them, the memory of Aemon calmly shooting down Triarchy pirates was still vivid.
At just eight years old, he carried himself with the poise of a warrior reborn.
Meanwhile, Rhea turned her attention to the lone noblewoman among the rescued slaves.
"What's your name?" she asked.
The young woman, trembling with relief, replied, "Johanna Swann. My uncle is Lord Swann of Stonehelm."
"And why didn't your uncle ransom you?" Rhea asked, her tone sharp.
Johanna looked down, biting her lip. "My uncle refused to pay... the price was too high."
The implication was clear—she had been abandoned to her fate.
"Your uncle must be quite the paragon of virtue," Rhea said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Would you like me to send you back?"
Johanna lowered her head further, her silence betraying her resentment.
"Stay at Runestone, then," Rhea offered. "You'll be my lady's companion."
Johanna fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face. "Thank you, my lady. I'll serve you faithfully."
Aemon, watching from a distance, couldn't help but smirk.
The Black Swan, he thought, recalling Johanna's future reputation as a famed courtesan and power broker in Lys.
Though her path was destined to change, for now, she had been spared a cruel fate.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the sea in a golden glow, Aemon returned to his fishing.
Suddenly, he let out a sharp cry.
His fish basket had been toppled yet again, the catch reduced to a single, half-chewed fish covered in slimy saliva.
The evidence was clear: the "fish thief" had struck again.
"You dare challenge me?" Aemon muttered, fire in his eyes.
He planted himself firmly on his stool and cast his line with renewed vigor.
"If you love fish so much, fine—I'll keep fishing. Let's see how far you'll go."
And so, the battle between prince and "fish thief" began anew.