Half a month later, at the Vale, Runestone.
The sun had barely risen, casting its rays onto the curtains.
Aemon groggily opened his eyes, letting out a loud yawn.
"Morning, everyone," he muttered sleepily, his voice thick with drowsiness.
His so-called quarters were still a modest little room—not much befitting a prince.
The night before, he'd stayed up late, still preoccupied with thoughts of the "fish thief."
For three days at sea, every fish he caught had been stolen, turned into an impromptu feast for the elusive thief.
Though he'd failed to catch the culprit, the prince had landed at Gulltown with the matter temporarily set aside.
Still, he was miffed.
Local fishermen claimed they'd seen a pale-gray dragon in the morning mist, skulking around to eat their catches and darting away at the slightest hint of human presence.
"It better not linger here—Runestone is no place for it. It'd be safer back on Dragonstone," Aemon mumbled to himself, oddly reassured by the creature's timid nature.
As he glanced around his quarters, he did his usual morning roll call of companions:
Four dragon eggs resting on the bed,
His dragonbone bow, hanging by the headboard,
And six ancient bronze armors mounted on the walls, worn and rusted but brimming with history.
"Whitey, time to work," he called out.
From under the bed, the tiny golden-nosed mouse scurried out.
"Chirp-chirp!"
The lively rodent climbed onto the bed, deftly storing three of the dragon eggs into its mysterious spatial pouch.
"Good job, Whitey," Aemon praised.
The mouse tilted its tiny head as if basking in the compliment, its fluffy tail twitching with delight.
Morning rituals complete, Aemon opened his Magic Essence Panel for a quick status check:
[Aemon Targaryen]
Traits: Dreamer (Gold)
Bloodline: Valyrian Dragonlord (23%)
Skills: Riding (Proficient), Archery (Expert), Pickpocketing (Proficient)…
Magic Cards:
Solid as Stone +1 (Blue)Royal Demeanor (Purple)
Companions:
Golden-Nosed Mouse (Blue)White Stag (Mystical Beast)
Evaluation:
"A healthy and thriving human child, with body weight gradually returning to normal."
Aemon scanned the data, satisfied with his steady progress.
As he switched to the Card Inventory, he saw one white card, two greens, and three items of negligible value.
Nothing special.
Finally, his gaze landed on the golden hourglass:
Magic Essence: 149
"Ah, it feels good to have some savings," Aemon thought happily.
Over the past two weeks, his magic essence reserves had grown steadily, thanks to various sources:
The dragon eggs were his primary source, producing 12 essence every three days. Combined with earlier accumulations, the eggs alone had provided 60 points.
The white stag came in second, contributing 10 points every seven days—modest but reliable.
Miscellaneous items like his dragonbone bow and bronze armors produced essence sporadically, averaging 1–3 points every two weeks.
Of the six bronze armors hanging in his quarters:
Four were retrieved from the Runestone crypts, and the other two were heirlooms of Gonsor and William Royce.
All together, including his discovery of three patches of Ulra Grass, Aemon had amassed a tidy sum of 149 essence points.
"I'm not spending a single one until I'm filthy rich," he declared proudly.
The golden-nosed mouse, oblivious to its master's schemes, chirped cheerfully and nuzzled his hand.
"Alright, let's head out."
Aemon lifted the mouse onto his shoulder and pushed open the door to greet the day.
Johanna Swann, now clad in a maid's dress, stood quietly by the dining table, her head lowered respectfully.
Aemon wolfed down his breakfast, leaving his plate clean.
"Your Highness, it's time for your morning rounds," Johanna reminded him softly.
Aemon blinked at her, mid-bite. Morning rounds?
Was his mother sending spies to keep tabs on him even during meals?
Johanna kept her silence, long since accustomed to the prince's bottomless appetite.
It was a marvel, really—she'd never seen a child eat like this.
"I've already slimmed down," Aemon said defensively, pinching his slightly rounded belly for emphasis.
His training sessions with Ser Steffon had been relentless: riding, archery, swordplay...
While his cheeks were still adorably chubby, his arms and legs had grown stronger. He could now draw his dragonbone bow to a third of its capacity—a feat not to be scoffed at.
"It's not wasted, you know," he muttered between bites.
Johanna gathered the empty dishes, her tone firm: "Lady Rhea insists—every day after breakfast."
Aemon sighed, finally understanding.
Half a month ago, Aemon had arrived at Runestone, riding a majestic white stag and brandishing his princely title as heir apparent.
His flamboyant entrance, coupled with the king's decree, made him a household name throughout the Vale.
Yet, within Runestone itself, reactions were mixed.
Some Royce clansmen pledged loyalty, while others—staunch traditionalists—remained aloof.
Lady Rhea had devised a strategy: daily appearances to build rapport and solidify his standing.
"Alright, alright," Aemon grumbled as he rose from the table, nodding a quick "thank you" to Johanna before stepping outside.
The white stag awaited him at the entrance, its silken coat gleaming in the morning light.
"Whoa!"
The prince jumped as the stag's antlers nudged him forward, but he quickly composed himself, laughing.
"You scared me there," he said, climbing into the saddle.
The stag lowered itself gracefully, allowing Aemon to settle in before rising with dignified poise.
"Good boy," Aemon praised, signaling for the mouse to reward the stag with a handful of Ulra Grass.
From the castle courtyard to the bustling workshops, Aemon rode the stag through Runestone's grounds, taking in its grand architecture.
High stone walls, soaring towers, and meticulously divided districts bespoke the ancient fortress's importance.
"Taking this over won't be easy," Aemon thought, stroking the stag's neck.
Though Lady Rhea was still very much alive and in charge, Aemon knew his journey was only beginning.
At the blacksmith's forge, Ser Steffon greeted him warmly.
"Your sword is ready, Your Highness."
Sliding off the stag, Aemon approached the forge, where an elderly blacksmith knelt reverently, holding up a gleaming short sword.
"Rise. No need to kneel," Aemon said sternly in High Valyrian. "Under Targaryen rule, there are no slaves."
The blacksmith trembled as he stood, overwhelmed by the young prince's fluency and authority.
High Valyrian, spoken in its most refined form, demanded respect—especially from common folk.