Westeros.
Ever since Aegon the Conqueror rode his dragon and defeated the Seven Kingdoms with his sister-wives, Queen Visenya and Queen Rhaenys, this continent has been unified.
From the moment Aegon ascended the throne, the years have been counted from the First Year of Aegon, or 1 AC.
That year marked the beginning of a new era.
Before unification is BC, and after is AC.
109 AC
The Vale, Runestone City
"The Royce family is one of the oldest and noblest houses in the Vale. Their sigil is a pile of stones between two lines of runes on an orange field."
In an attic of the castle, the old maester held a book and lectured freely.
The room was tastefully decorated, with bearskins and swords hung on the walls, giving off a sense of understated luxury and ruggedness.
In front of him, two students sat side by side.
Aemon hid behind an upright book and lowered his head to stifle a violent yawn.
He was so sleepy—it was unbearable.
He hadn't slept well the night before, and strange, jumbled dreams had haunted him whenever he closed his eyes.
Noticing this, the older boy sitting to his left, William, gave him a disdainful glance, straightened his back, and listened attentively.
Aemon noticed, but didn't care in the slightest.
Poor him—he was only eight years old, five years younger than the other boy.
He had no interest in a boy bound by rules.
They say a child without a mother is like grass, and one without a father goes hungry.
But his situation was different.
He had a mother who loved hunting and a father who barely came home once a year.
Both were hands-off parents who had all but forgotten their only son, Aemon.
It was tough for a kid.
But Aemon had grown used to it, and the soul of the transmigrator within him welcomed it.
A high school student with clear eyes, humming a song while licking a popsicle, had been hit by "good luck" while crossing the street.
One blink later, and he was reborn.
Now he was called Aemon Targaryen, a pure-blooded son of the true dragon.
His father was Daemon Targaryen—skilled, wild-tempered, and blessed with a powerful brother who was king.
Very impressive.
His mother was Rhea Royce, of the noble Royce family of the Vale and currently the Lady of Runestone.
Unfortunately, the couple's relationship was cold and near its breaking point.
Back during the Great Council of 101 AC, the then-Regent of the Eyrie and Warden of the East, Jobert Royce, stepped in and orchestrated a match for the younger generation.
He was Lady Rhea's uncle and passed Runestone to her.
Daemon and his brother Viserys had both married women from the Vale. If they wanted to compete with their rivals in terms of power, they needed Vale support.
Jobert's condition was simple: Daemon must bed his niece.
Daemon scorned his wife, calling her a "bronze bitch" and claiming that even the goats of the Vale were more attractive.
Thus, they never consummated the marriage.
But in the name of helping his brother vie for the Iron Throne—and under pressure and persuasion from Jobert—Daemon agreed.
Just once, and Aemon, who hadn't existed before, was conceived.
"My mother's obviously beautiful. You just have no taste."
Aemon's eyelids drooped, and his body slumped toward the table.
Having been reborn, his attitude was steady.
If the gods had made him a child, he would act like one.
He should enjoy the carefree childhood most adults only dream of.
When he grew up, it would be time to stop the tragedy of the Dance of the Dragons.
Knock, knock!
The old maester glanced at his inattentive student, closed his book, tapped the wall, and said, "Aemon, can you tell me what the Royce family's motto is?"
"We remember," Aemon replied instantly.
"Yes, we remember."
The old maester nodded with satisfaction, but his meaningful look made Aemon uncomfortable.
Aemon stifled another yawn and muttered, "Maester Hughes, why don't you ask about the Targaryen family's words?"
"Because your mother doesn't like Targaryens," the maester replied calmly.
Aemon frowned and pointed at himself. "But I am a Targaryen."
Look at the silky silver-blonde hair and violet eyes.
Didn't he look like a Targaryen?
The maester gave him a sympathetic glance, closed the book slowly, and ended the lesson.
"Huh?" Aemon tilted his head.
Then he realized—his mother didn't seem to like him very much either.
All because he had a father everyone hated.
Class ended.
Aemon perked up, shook off the older boy trailing behind him, and briskly made his way down the corridor toward his room.
There weren't many places in massive Runestone City where a child could freely wander.
As soon as he stepped inside, the old septa in charge of his instruction greeted him, "Prince, would you like to have lunch first, or recite the Seven-Pointed Star?"
Aemon's expression fell slightly. He waved his hand. "I'm tired. I'll take a nap. Let's talk in half an hour."
He really was sleepy—but of course, it wasn't that he didn't want to recite the Seven-Pointed Star...
After dismissing the septa, Aemon lay on his bed, his languid posture a stark contrast to his usual lively demeanor.
After a while, the anxiety he'd been suppressing bubbled up again. He glanced around to make sure no one was watching.
He rolled out of bed, walked to a corner, and pulled out a round black iron stove.
Click!
He opened the lid, and steam burst forth.
Aemon's face turned red from the heat as he pulled out a black egg from the stove full of glowing red charcoal.
The oval-shaped egg was nearly a foot long.
Unbothered by the heat, Aemon cradled the black egg in his small hands and muttered, "Why haven't you hatched yet?"
Targaryens, naturally, had dragon eggs.
His little hand stroked the surface. The eggshell was covered in diamond-shaped scales, hard as stone.
Every Targaryen newborn was given a dragon egg in their cradle.
If it hatched, the dragon would grow alongside the child.
As a child unloved by either parent, Aemon had never even tasted breast milk.
This dragon egg had once been taken from the dragonpit by his great-grandfather, Jaehaerys I, and placed in Aemon's cradle before his death in 104 AC.
"Your dragon-mother was so fertile, and you're a disappointment," Aemon muttered to the egg.
Rumor had it the egg came from Dreamfyre, a large, ancient, and famously fertile blue dragon.
No wonder Aemon was anxious—the future was turbulent.
Right now, the Targaryen dynasty was at its peak.
But soon, the family would be filled with dragonriders who would tear each other apart in a brutal civil war—the Dance of the Dragons.
After the war, dragons would become nearly extinct, and the bloodline would wither.
The glory once carried by their name would vanish, and the Seven Kingdoms would forget the fear they once inspired.
Aemon had come to this world with one goal: to stop that tragedy.
But to play his part, he first needed power.
He understood clearly: dragons were the quickest path to turning the tide.
A Targaryen without a dragon was no better than a salted fish.
Ever since he moved to Runestone at age three, he had secretly prayed for this dragon egg to hatch—to raise a dragon alongside him from infancy.
Even if it couldn't compare to the legendary dragons of old, it would still be a beacon of hope worth any price.
"Sigh…"
Little Aemon collapsed back onto the bed. How could he find a dragon?
The egg still hadn't hatched after eight years.
There were no dragons in Runestone. Did he need to sneak off to Dragonstone?
Just as he was about to set the hot egg down—
Ding!
"Magical item detected. +3 essence acquired."
Startled by the voice, Aemon sat bolt upright.