The arrival of the dragon sent the entire castle into chaos.
Servants fled in every direction, and soldiers poured out of their posts.
"Hold your ground! That's Prince Daemon!"
Ser Steffon shouted to restore order, his voice cutting through the growing panic.
Despite his command, the soldiers were visibly trembling, keeping their distance from the fearsome dragon.
"What a massive dragon… Truly worthy of the name Caraxes," Aemon muttered, his eyes locked on the "Blood Wyrm."
His breath quickened as he took in the beast's menacing form. Even its name seemed to resonate with his own fiery spirit.
"SSSKREEEE!"
Caraxes let out a deafening roar, its fierce cry sending another wave of hot wind through the courtyard.
In an instant, the chaos was replaced by an eerie silence.
"Quiet, Caraxes," a calm yet commanding voice came from the rider on the dragon's back.
Aemon looked up again. Against the blinding sunlight, he could barely make out the figure descending from the saddle.
The rider slid down smoothly, his movements exuding confidence and control.
The soldiers gripped their swords tightly, ready to defend against any sudden violence from the dragon.
Daemon, however, appeared unfazed, his eyes scanning the crowd until they fell on a flash of silver-gold hair. Without hesitation, he began walking toward his son.
"Your Grace!"
Ser Steffon moved to block Daemon's path, his hand hovering over the hilt of his sword.
Despite the bond of blood, Steffon couldn't afford to lower his guard. Daemon's reputation preceded him—a man who had once called his son a "worthless whelp" in a fit of disdain.
Years ago, when Rhea Royce had just given birth, Daemon had reportedly dismissed the child as a "bastard's spawn."
Word had reached King Jaehaerys, who had promptly summoned the infant Aemon to King's Landing to be raised under his watchful eye.
Now, eight years later, the question lingered—how would father and son interact after so much time apart?
Daemon halted a step away, his expression unreadable as he glanced at the knight blocking his way.
"I'm fine, Ser Steffon," Aemon said calmly, stepping forward.
He stood mere inches from his father, his young frame dwarfed by Daemon's imposing presence.
Daemon, lean and wiry, exuded an air of confidence. His short-cropped silver-gold hair framed a face of sharp angles and cold intensity.
Most striking of all was the withered wooden crown resting atop his head.
Aemon's eyes narrowed. A crown?
Was this a gesture of familial reconciliation? Or merely an opportunity for Daemon to flaunt his recent conquests?
For his part, Daemon scrutinized the boy before him.
Tall for his age, with the characteristic Targaryen beauty, Aemon stood firm despite the sweat beading on his brow from earlier training.
What impressed Daemon most, however, was the boy's composure.
A tense silence stretched between them before Aemon broke it.
"Father," he said, his voice steady but emotionless. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
The greeting was polite, devoid of warmth.
Daemon smirked. His eyes drifted toward a nearby banner displaying the newly-designed two-part crest. He replied in High Valyrian, "It seems you've found your place here."
He had heard the rumors from King's Landing—of white stags, princely titles, and a boy adored by his subjects.
Could this truly be my son?
"I see you're wearing a crown," Aemon remarked, his tone neutral but inquisitive.
Daemon's smirk deepened. "And you've been made a prince. Should I stand still while you rise?"
The words carried a teasing undertone, but Aemon wasn't amused. He glanced at his father's crown again, thinking: Does Uncle Viserys know about this?
Daemon ignored his son's unspoken question, his gaze sweeping over the gathered soldiers. "You're the lord here, aren't you? Aren't you going to invite me in?"
Without a word, Aemon turned and began leading the way.
He kept his expression calm, though he felt a wave of relief.
Facing his father had been nerve-wracking.
Their relationship was practically nonexistent—how could it not be, with fewer meetings than fingers on one hand?
Aemon had prepared himself for every possibility, from biting insults to outright hostility.
Yet Daemon seemed… tolerable, even civil.
For now.
In the great hall, the tension simmered.
"My dear husband," Rhea Royce began, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "What wind blows you back to the Vale?"
Seated at the head of the room, she fixed Daemon with a piercing gaze. "Have you finally remembered you have a family? Or is this some fleeting whim of yours?"
Daemon stood in the center, expression impassive.
Rhea, her chin held high, continued her verbal assault. "Though I must admit, the goats of the Vale may have missed you more than I have."
Her words were laced with venom, a bitter echo of Daemon's past insults.
Rhea Royce was not one to forgive easily.
Daemon's lips curled into a faint sneer, his eyes drifting elsewhere. He would have preferred to sleep beside a goat than endure his wife's company, and his silence made that sentiment clear.
Aemon watched the exchange, dumbstruck.
Is this my mother?
Rhea rarely spoke at length, yet now her sharp wit and scorn were fully unleashed.
Even as she noticed the wooden crown on Daemon's head, her disdain only deepened.
"So, you've won your little war," she said mockingly. "And instead of basking in your brother's approval, you've chosen to play house on the Stepstones?"
Daemon met her gaze but said nothing.
"Why are you here?" she demanded, her voice turning cold. "To flaunt your ridiculous crown? Or to steal your son away?"
Her accusation hung in the air, cutting through the tension like a blade.
Daemon finally spoke, addressing Aemon instead.
"You've been raised well," he said, his voice devoid of praise. "You look like a true Targaryen."
Rhea laughed bitterly. "A compliment from you? That's rarer than a dog changing its nature."
Daemon turned on his heel, heading for the door. "The boy is better off here," he said flatly. "The Vale suits him."
"Daemon, he is my son!" Rhea snapped. "He will never leave with you!"
Daemon ignored her, calling over his shoulder to Aemon. "Show me around. This goat-stinking castle is suffocating me."
Aemon hesitated but followed. There was no point staying to watch his parents argue further.
Once outside, Daemon muttered under his breath: "Bitch."
Aemon blinked. You're consistent, at least, Father.
In the fields outside Runestone, father and son walked in silence.
Caraxes lay nearby, its elongated neck raised high as it observed them.
The massive dragon's crimson body radiated power, its blood-red wings stretched out lazily over the grass.
"You like him?" Daemon asked suddenly.
Aemon hesitated. "He's large. Ferocious."
Daemon nodded approvingly. "Targaryen men should know dragons early."
He changed direction abruptly, heading toward Caraxes.
"SSSKREEEEE!"
Caraxes rumbled lowly, shifting its massive frame.
Daemon stopped by the dragon's head and extended his hand to Aemon. "Come. Give me your hand."
Aemon obeyed, placing his small, calloused hand in his father's.
Without hesitation, Daemon guided his son's hand to rest against the warm, scaled side of Caraxes' snout.