"Shall I write a reply to the Princess?"
The old maester lifted his ink-stained fingers, already drawing parchment toward himself.
Aemon didn't even glance up. "Of course. Praise her for me."
He paused, then added with a boyish grin, "You write it. If I write it, I'll just end up copying half a history book."
The old man chuckled, shaking his head as he dipped his quill. "A proper prince, avoiding the traps of his own intelligence."
Aemon leaned on the edge of the desk, his expression suddenly turning serious. "Scholar... what do you think I should do to win over the Royce retainers?"
Now that was a harder question.
The maester paused mid-stroke, thoughtful. "That is… a profound question. But if you want precedent, your great-grandfather King Jaehaerys I did it best—he chose to integrate."
Aemon tilted his head slightly, curious. "Integrate?"
The maester nodded. "Yes. To weave yourself into the fabric of the land, rather than sit atop it like a conqueror's crown."
The Targaryen legacy was a paradox. Aegon the Conqueror had taken Westeros by fire and blood, but never truly ruled the hearts of all its people.
Aenys I had inherited his throne, but not his authority. Weak and unprepared, he'd been smothered by hidden threats until he died of stress.
Maegor I had responded to those threats with unrelenting cruelty, seizing the throne through kinslaying, earning the moniker The Cruel. He cleared the board for his successor—but at great cost.
Then came Jaehaerys I. Aemon's great-grandfather. A king of peace, not conquest.
He'd made peace with the Faith, rode through the realm on royal progresses, and laid roads that still connected the Seven Kingdoms. He'd ruled wisely for decades. But near the end of his life, he was filled with quiet sorrow.
He had gained everything—but lost parts of himself along the way.
Aemon frowned, considering the weight of that legacy. He opened his drawer and took out a small carved disc bearing the seven-pointed star—the symbol of the Faith of the Seven.
"The Targaryens adapted," he murmured. "They aligned with the Seven Gods. Married into noble houses. Built roads and peace."
"That's how they survived," the maester replied gently. "Even now, King Viserys is a devout follower of the Seven. Queen Alicent too. The Princess and her court often attend services."
Aemon raised his eyes and caught the old man giving him a sly wink.
Yes. Alicent was devout. But Rhaenyra?
Not so much.
Still, the lesson was clear: integration worked.
But—
"I refuse," Aemon said, calmly but firmly.
The maester was not surprised. "Integration is painful. To blend in, you must first soften your edges. That's difficult—especially for a dragon."
"I'm not afraid of pain," Aemon replied in High Valyrian. "But I won't compromise who I am."
The maester's brows rose slightly. A boy of eight, rejecting centuries of royal strategy—not with rebellion, but reason.
He didn't argue further. He simply nodded.
Others in the room—William, Gonsal, Ser Steffon—glanced at each other, uncertain of the meaning behind the prince's intense discussion.
The maester resumed his writing slowly, considering each phrase for Rhaenyra's reply.
Aemon, meanwhile, dug through a drawer.
He needed a middle path. Something bold—but not reckless.
After fifteen minutes, the reply letter was sealed.
Bang!
Aemon slammed the desk, eyes shining.
"Scholar, will this work?"
His hand pulled back, revealing two crests side-by-side.
One bore the black and red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
The other, the bronze-and-black runes of House Royce.
The maester looked down, momentarily startled. "You want to change your banner?"
"Not change—combine," Aemon corrected. "Not abandon either side. Merge them."
It was a small idea on paper. But a thunderclap in practice.
The maester's expression shifted from surprise to awe. "That… that could work. But it will raise eyebrows in court. The king won't easily approve."
Aemon nodded. "I know. I'm not replacing House Targaryen or Royce. I'm building something new."
The maester hesitated again. "But you lack the precedent—or achievements—to convince both factions. It will be seen as vanity."
"That's why I have to start now," Aemon said. "If I wait until I'm already someone important, people will say I'm trying to rewrite history. If I do it while I'm still a boy, they'll say I dreamed it since the beginning."
He grabbed both sigils and stacked them.
"The dragon and the rune," he said. "Fire and bronze. Valyria and the Vale."
The maester slowly smiled. "You have your great-grandfather's vision. Let's hope you also inherit his patience."
Aemon called William over. "Take these to the craftsmen at my camp. They'll know how to make the banner."
The "Prince's Camp" was a modest outpost just beyond Runestone's outer walls—where the rescued artisans and his fifty knights lived and trained. Aemon's own little domain, just outside the castle's direct governance.
William nodded. "Yes, Your Highness!"
He looked proud—truly proud—to carry a symbol that might shape history.
Aemon collapsed back into his chair, rubbing his temples. "Scholar… I have ideas. I just lack the people to execute them."
The maester studied him quietly. "You don't have to be the cleverest man in the room, Your Highness. You only need to find the cleverest ones and know how to listen."
"I've read that," Aemon said with a grin. "It's true. I may not be a purebred warhorse, but I can damn well breed one."
The maester hesitated, then added, "I'm already sixty, Prince. I don't have many years left."
"That's not what I meant," Aemon said quickly. "I need more of you. People like you. Scholars. Advisors. Engineers."
The Citadel was the heart of knowledge in Westeros. While some whispered that the maesters had manipulated the extinction of dragons, Aemon knew better than to reject the institution outright.
"Do you have anyone there you trust?" he asked.
The maester tilted his head. "I have a nephew studying at the Citadel. Six links forged already. He's… brighter than I ever was."
"Can you write to him?" Aemon asked eagerly.
"I can try," the old man said. "But Oldtown is far. It will take months to hear back."
"I'll wait," Aemon said, already thinking ahead. "If I want to build a stronghold, a loyal banner, a future… I'll need minds as much as swords."
His banner would fly with two crests.
And his court would be filled not just with knights—but thinkers.
Bronze and fire. S
teel and ink.
One day, that flag would fly above a castle he built with his own hands.
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