"Detected a powerful magical entity, gaining a fragment of searing fire magic."
The system's notification rang in Aemon's mind.
A faint warmth surged in his palm as a wisp of red glow seeped from the dragon's crimson scales, gently swirling before sinking into his chest.
A wave of warmth coursed through his body, leaving him with a subtle increase in strength.
Instinctively, he summoned the status panel:
[Aemon Targaryen]
Talent: Dreamer (Gold)Bloodline: Ancient Valyrian Dragonlord (28%)Skills: Horsemanship (Proficient), Archery (Master), Sleight of Hand (Skilled)...Magic Cards: Rock Solid +1 (Blue), Regal Aura (Purple)Pets: Goldnose Mouse (Blue), White Stag (Mythic Beast)Evaluation: "A healthy, growing human child with a physique far beyond his peers."
His bloodline purity had increased by another 5%.
Switching to the magic card panel, Aemon noted his resources:
[Magic Essence Quantity: 462]
Over the past two months, he had carefully accumulated a small fortune in magic essence.
He had spent some along the way, using 10 points for a [+1 Physique] boost and 80 points for an [Archery Expertise] card, which greatly accelerated his training progress.
The remaining 462 essence sat untouched, a testament to his growing power.
Each point had brought tangible results: three [+1 Physique] boosts strengthened his body, while [Archery Expertise] had given him the knowledge and instincts of a seasoned marksman.
"SSSSKREEEE!"
Caraxes shifted its massive head, its amber eyes briefly resting on Aemon.
To Aemon's surprise, the dragon didn't seem hostile; instead, it exuded a faint sense of curiosity.
"It doesn't seem to dislike me," Aemon observed with a smile.
"Of course not. You're my son," Daemon replied with pride.
Aemon blinked, but deep down, he felt a connection—perhaps it was the name "Aemon" itself.
Daemon, reading his son's thoughts, added with a faint smile, "Its last rider was also named Aemon."
Aemon nodded silently, deciding to set aside any thoughts of claiming the dragon for himself.
After a moment, Daemon glanced at the sky and said, "Kid, it's time I left you with a parting gift."
Aemon tilted his head. "You're leaving already?"
"Did you think I'd stay?" Daemon scoffed. "Should I sleep in the sheep pen or the stables tonight?"
That damned Bronze Bitch!
Aemon: ...
He chose silence, realizing this wasn't a topic worth engaging in.
Daemon's voice took on a lighter tone as he continued, "During my campaign on the Stepstones, after I split that crab-feeding fool in two, I found a treasure trove of gold and jewels hidden in a cave."
From his boot and waistband, Daemon produced two daggers, their blades shimmering with a familiar ripple.
Aemon's eyes lit up. "Are these—?"
"Valyrian steel daggers," Daemon confirmed, holding them up to catch the sunlight. "Plundered from a Volantene merchant's hoard."
The blades were unmistakable: sleek and deadly, each radiating the unique elegance of Valyrian craftsmanship.
"They're too short for me," Daemon continued with a shrug. "I was going to sell them in Pentos, but they're better off in your hands. Play with them if you like."
He handed the daggers to his son.
As Aemon accepted them with both hands, the system chimed in:
"Detected magical items, gained 5 magic essence... Detected magical items, gained 5 magic essence."
Aemon set aside the notification, his attention wholly absorbed by the daggers.
Both blades were short, roughly 23 centimeters in length, forged entirely from Valyrian steel, including the hilt and guard. The hilts were wrapped in special cords to ensure a firm grip.
Each blade bore the characteristic water-like ripples of Valyrian steel, their surfaces gleaming as though alive with subtle energy.
The designs were distinct.
One was straight and needle-like, sharp and precise, resembling a dragon's fang.
The other curved slightly at the tip, evoking the image of a dragon's claw.
"How do you like them?" Daemon asked, watching Aemon's reaction.
Aemon gripped the daggers tightly, answering in High Valyrian, "They're perfect."
Daemon smiled faintly, resting his hand on the hilt of his own sword—a longer, more imposing blade with a hilt shaped like dragon wings.
It was Dark Sister, one of House Targaryen's ancestral Valyrian steel swords.
"Now we both carry a piece of our ancestors," Daemon said.
Aemon shifted his gaze back to the daggers in his hands. "I'd like to name them."
"Suit yourself," Daemon said with a shrug, clearly uninterested.
After careful consideration, Aemon declared, "I'll call them Dragonfang and Dragonclaw. One is sharp as a fang, the other curved like a talon."
Daemon chuckled, turning toward Caraxes. "Not bad."
As he mounted the dragon's back, Aemon stepped back, watching him with mixed emotions.
"We'll see each other again soon," Daemon said, his tone carrying an undercurrent of meaning.
"SSSSKREEEEE!"
With a powerful beat of its wings, Caraxes rose into the air, ascending into the clouds and disappearing from sight.
Aemon stood rooted as the wind whipped around him, mulling over his father's parting words.
Where will we meet again?
Daemon seemed confident about his son's future in the Vale. It was unlikely he'd return here.
That leaves King's Landing... or Dragonstone.
Shaking his head, Aemon sheathed the daggers and turned back toward Runestone.
For the first time, he felt a strange warmth—an unspoken understanding between father and son.
Daemon hadn't pried into his life, nor had Aemon questioned Daemon's ambitions.
It was a rare harmony in their otherwise strained dynamic.
"Strange man," Aemon murmured to himself before heading inside.
That night, Aemon dreamed.
The sky was overcast, the air thick with the acrid stench of sulfur. A hot, dry wind howled through the desolate landscape.
Towering above it all was an active volcano, its peak shrouded in smoke and ash.
The slopes were dotted with withered vegetation, and the surrounding land lay barren and lifeless.
Aemon's chest tightened. The scene was disturbingly familiar.
"This is... Dragonmont?"
He recognized it immediately. The dormant volcano was the heart of Dragonstone.
Suddenly, the ground shook violently, and thick black smoke billowed from the volcano's mouth.
Panic gripped him as the earth groaned, and the volcano began to erupt.
But it wasn't lava that spewed forth.
Instead, a torrent of molten, golden-bronze liquid burst from the peak, cascading down the mountainside like a flood.
Aemon stood frozen, the metallic tide rushing toward him with terrifying speed.
The last thought that crossed his mind was pure despair: I'm done for.