"No!"
Geral exclaimed in panic, retreating in desperation.
In the blink of an eye, Ser Steffon and Gonsor drew their swords, pressing their cold steel against Geral's neck.
Aemon didn't hesitate. He thrust his bronze blade forward, piercing through the leather armor to press against Geral's soft belly.
Panic-stricken, Geral's face drained of color. He had underestimated the child's resolve.
Desperately, he looked to Lady Rhea for salvation.
But Rhea turned her head away, refusing to intervene.
In that moment, Geral's hope crumbled into despair.
"Ser Geral, did you not hear my words clearly?" Aemon asked, his tone calm but laced with menace. "Or do you still not understand the meaning of courtesy? Shall I educate you?"
The young prince twisted his blade slightly, tearing a hole in the leather armor.
Geral instinctively raised his hands, but the two swords pressing against his neck made escape impossible.
Cornered, trembling, Geral finally caved. With a heavy thud, he dropped to one knee and lowered his head.
"I apologize, Your Grace," he muttered, eyes shut tightly.
Aemon observed him coldly, the bronze blade resting ominously on his neck. His fingers tightened around the hilt.
"That's enough," Rhea finally interjected, cutting through the tense silence.
Her voice was firm, enough to stop Aemon from escalating further.
Another second, and it might have mirrored Daemon's infamous reckless cruelty.
Aemon held his position for a moment longer, the temptation to end it all still lingering in his mind.
But he exhaled, quelling his anger.
Rhea approached, holding the longsword she had been polishing earlier. Its craftsmanship was simple yet ancient.
"Cousin, my son has made his decision. Now, you must make yours," she said, her tone resolute.
Geral looked up, confusion etched across his face.
Rhea swung the longsword forward, lightly brushing aside the blades pinning Geral. She placed the flat of the blade on his shoulder and declared, "Aemon is my heir. Swear your loyalty to him."
She then handed the sword to her son, who took it with a slight hesitation, feeling its unexpected weight.
A soft chime echoed in Aemon's mind:
"You have discovered a magical artifact. Magic essence +10."
Aemon studied the blade. He quickly recognized it as Lamentation, the Valyrian steel sword of House Royce.
The blade was long and slender, its rippled surface shimmering with the unique pattern of Valyrian steel. Its hilt extended over a foot, and its crossguard bore engraved runes, exuding a sense of timeless strength and tradition.
Rhea glanced at him. "One day, it will be yours."
Geral remained silent. He understood that refusal was not an option.
Preparing himself mentally, he lowered his head and began his oath:
"I, Geral Royce, pledge my loyalty to Lady Rhea and her heir."
"I swear to serve faithfully, to defend them against all foes, and to remain true without deceit or betrayal."
He hesitated, then added with solemn reverence:
"By the Old Gods and the New, I swear this."
Rhea nodded in satisfaction, turning to her son.
Aemon hesitated briefly before a sudden clarity guided him. "I, Aemon Targaryen, Prince of the Realm, accept your fealty."
Following tradition, he offered the vow of protection in return, promising not to harm or dishonor Geral and to extend him trust, generosity, and respect.
Finally, he declared, "You will always have a place by my hearth."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Geral replied, his head bowed low, exposing his vulnerable neck.
With practiced formality, Aemon placed Lamentation lightly on Geral's head and shoulders, completing the oath of loyalty.
"Well done," Rhea remarked, her voice carrying a rare note of approval. She cast a glance at Gonsor, who remained stoic.
Gonsor sheathed his greatsword without a word, his indifference evident.
Aemon noticed but chose not to press the matter. Gonsor's loyalty was measured, not easily swayed. Earning it would take more time and effort.
Geral rose slowly and stepped aside. From this moment forward, he was Aemon Targaryen's sworn knight, bound by oath to remain steadfast and loyal.
Betrayal would strip him of honor, rank, and reputation, leaving him nothing but disgrace.
Rhea retrieved Lamentation, her interest in the conversation waning.
"Mother, we'll take our leave now," Aemon said, understanding her mood. He turned and left the hall, his entourage trailing behind.
Among them, William was practically bouncing with excitement, eagerly clutching the newly designed two-part banner.
"One banner, one knight sworn—amazing!" William enthused, sticking close to Aemon like an overzealous shadow.
Aemon pushed him away, muttering, "Don't make it a habit."
He paused briefly to address Geral, offering a few kind words to soften the blow.
In truth, Aemon hadn't wanted to accept Geral's fealty, but blood ties made outright rejection impossible.
As he walked away, a thought came to mind:
As the saying goes—accept them or destroy them. I chose the former. Time will prove the greater gain.
Now, he had another knight added to his growing retinue.
As they exited the hall, Geral called out. "Your Grace, I command five hundred archers under my banner. They too will follow you."
He gestured toward the rolled banner. The meaning was clear: fly this flag, and his men would rally behind it.
"I understand, Ser Geral," Aemon replied, extending a hand to help him up.
In Runestone, Geral was no small player.
The castle had vast lands, fertile fields, and resources sufficient to maintain an army of 3,000.
This included 800 cavalry under the direct command of the ruling lord, 1,000 archers split between two commanders, and 1,200 infantry trained monthly by Runestone's master-at-arms.
With his mother's support, Gonsor as master-at-arms, and now Geral's allegiance, Aemon controlled the bulk of Runestone's forces.
He was secure.
By mid-May, spring had fully embraced the Vale.
In the courtyard of Runestone, Aemon trained with fervor, holding a wooden sword with both hands.
"Focus on your breathing, Your Grace," Ser Steffon coached, his own wooden sword moving with speed and precision.
Aemon defended skillfully, parrying blow after blow. Occasionally struck, he quickly adjusted, his determination unwavering.
In two months, much had changed.
Aemon had grown taller, from just over a meter to nearly 1.2 meters.
His face had slimmed, shedding its youthful chubbiness but retaining its fair, delicate complexion. His silver-gold hair, now tied back, gave him a youthful elegance.
CLACK!
Ser Steffon disarmed him with a deft strike, sending Aemon's sword flying.
Breathing heavily, Aemon yielded.
"Your Grace, your progress is remarkable," Ser Steffon praised. "But consider using a two-handed grip. It may prevent disarming."
Aemon shook his head. "I'd rather fight left-handed than use both hands."
No matter how he tried, wielding a sword with both hands felt unnatural, as though the blade resisted him.
As he considered his limitations, a sharp, piercing roar echoed across the sky.
"SSSSKREEEEEE!"
Aemon looked up, his face turning pale.
Above, a massive crimson dragon appeared, its mighty wings stirring the air into violent gusts.
Its serpentine neck, sharp horns, and membranous wings radiated raw power.
"That's Caraxes!" Aemon gasped, instantly recognizing the beast.
The courtyard erupted into chaos. Knights scrambled for cover, shouting in panic as the dragon's shadow enveloped them.
"Calm yourselves!" Steffon bellowed, donning his helmet and standing guard by Aemon. "That's Caraxes, the dragon of Prince Daemon!"
But his voice was drowned out by another deafening roar.
Caraxes circled the castle three times before descending.
The ground trembled as the Blood Wyrm landed on the castle walls, its long neck arched downward.
Sitting astride the beast was a figure with silver hair, sharp features, and an aura of defiance.
It was Daemon Targaryen.
The Rogue Prince, the wielder of Dark Sister, and now, perhaps, the self-proclaimed King of the Narrow Sea.