A small silver-haired figure darted about like a nimble little hamster foraging for food.
Runestone City revered bronze relics, and the tombs were filled with ancient bronze armor left behind by their ancestors.
Most of them were worn and damaged, relics with a history stretching back thousands of years.
If one didn't handle them with extreme care, the armor—already corroded by green copper rust—would crumble to pieces at the slightest pressure.
Such was the result of long-term neglect and lack of maintenance.
After a while, Aemon, now covered in dust and grime, managed to gather three sets of bronze armor that were relatively intact.
One of them was missing everything but the breastplate, while the other two had lost arms and legs.
"Broken magical item detected. Magic Essence +5, +3, +5..."
A string of prompts chimed in his mind, and a glowing "Magic Essence Panel" appeared before his eyes.
A golden funnel rotated up and down, casting a radiant light.
After a moment, the funnel stopped spinning, and the numbers on the panel changed: [Essence Count: 16]
"What determines the number of essence extracted?"
Breathing heavily from all the activity, Aemon crouched down and illuminated the bronze armor sets with an oil lamp.
The first set, relatively more complete, had multiple runes etched into the bronze surface. They were arranged in circular patterns on the chest and wrists.
In contrast, the set that yielded the least amount of essence was frail and heavily rusted. Only a single ring of runes remained visible on the chest.
After extracting the magical essence, the runes seemed lifeless, utterly devoid of spirituality.
Even the copper scent had become more pungent.
Aemon's silver eyes flickered with thought. He suspected that the magical essence was drawn from these ancient runes.
Only some long-forgotten power once mastered by their ancestors could still contain traces of magic.
"I'll wait for Mother to come back and ask her about it," he muttered. Perhaps he could extract some useful knowledge.
He needed more magical power.
Once he was sure there were no other bronze relics hidden in the tomb, Aemon clapped the dust off his small hands and prepared to use his essence to exchange for a magic card.
"Gods, please bless me!"
He whispered a quick prayer, then reached out and pressed his finger onto the white card displayed on the glowing panel.
It was the only one he could afford.
Bronze armor was different from the vibrant and fertile dragon eggs—it wasn't suitable for storing magic power long-term, and its absorption efficiency was disappointing.
Now that the extraction was complete, who knew how long it would take for those armors to become usable again?
Pop—!
As his fingertip touched the panel, a brilliant light flared to life.
The card labeled [Guide Once] instantly shattered, and a golden phantom hand emerged, pointing east—toward the area outside the tomb.
Aemon's eyes widened in surprise as a vivid image flooded his mind.
To the east of Runestone City, near the coastal cliffs, lay a small hill.
The image zoomed in, eventually focusing on a patch of soft, slender dark green grass.
The blades swayed gently in the breeze, releasing a faint, soothing fragrance.
"I think I know where that is."
The vision disappeared, and Aemon cheerfully ran out of the tomb, relying on his memory to guide the way.
He skipped along, his steps light and carefree.
The Vale was a land of stark contrasts, where environmental extremes mirrored the wealth gap among the nobility.
The Royce family had once held great prominence, their territories vast and prosperous.
Their lands were ideal for both farming and herding—there was nothing lacking.
If not for the rugged eastern coastline of Runestone City—lined with jagged cliffs and rocky beaches—they might have even built a harbor there.
Even the neighboring Seagard Town, the only other settlement in the area that could be called a city, paled in comparison.
The location revealed by [Guide Once] was a lush pastureland along the east coast.
The dense, dark green grass that grew there was known as a precious remedy for insomnia and dream disorders.
…
Clack!
A wooden board was pushed open from below, and a small head with silver-golden hair poked out.
Aemon looked around cautiously before slowly climbing up.
"What were you doing down there!?"
Just as he was halfway out, a gruff, deep voice boomed above him like rolling thunder.
Aemon jumped in fright, his silver eyes snapping open wide.
Thud!
The board was kicked open by a large boot, and the startled Aemon was yanked out by the scruff of his neck.
The sunlight outside was harsh and dazzling.
They were still in the backyard of Runestone City.
Standing before him was a towering figure who cast a long shadow, shielding Aemon from the blinding light.
The man's face was rough and expressionless.
"Gunthor?"
In front of him stood a massive man, easily over seven feet tall—more than two meters in height.
He looked like The Mountain from later stories, a true giant among men.
Once Aemon saw his face clearly, he straightened his small neck and lifted his chin with pride. "Are you questioning me?"
That nod—yes, it was a greeting.
This was the proper attitude.
If you don't like me, go ahead and hit me.
In Runestone City—and even all of Westeros—there were few who dared to lay a hand on him.
Such was the mindset of eight-year-old Aemon, stubborn and full of pride.
Gunthor Royce, the towering knight, seemed to falter under that arrogant stare. He bowed slightly and said in a perfunctory tone, "Prince, how did you find the tomb?"
"No problem. It just needs cleaning," Aemon replied nonchalantly as he brushed the dirt from his clothes. "It was filthy inside, so I cleaned it myself."
He waved his hand casually, as if granting permission to retreat.
His noble identity was complex.
He lived in Runestone City, yet bore the Targaryen name.
If nothing unexpected happened, he would one day inherit the Royce family's ancestral estate.
Things had been fine at first, but his mother, Lady Rhea, spent her days hunting and showed little concern for her eldest son.
She was the head of the house.
Yet she had never once spoken clearly about the matter of inheritance. Her silence was ambiguous.
As a result, whispers had begun to spread among the Royce family's side branches.
Small ambitions were starting to stir.
To prevent future trouble, Aemon was unyielding when it came to dealing with "them." He never backed down, no matter the occasion.
Gunthor's brow furrowed, and an oppressive aura radiated from him.
He didn't say a word, but his towering presence alone was enough to feel suffocating.
"Anything else you want to say?" Aemon asked calmly, chin raised.
Just in case the man forgot his status, he stepped forward provocatively.
As if to say: Go on. Hit me.
Gunthor's expression darkened, but he remained silent.
Though Aemon only reached the man's thighs in height, the child's presence was undeniable.
Gunthor belonged to a branch family of the Royces—a knightly house of some standing.
His blood wasn't as pure as Lady Rhea's, and he had no right to inherit Runestone.
Currently, he served as the castle's training master.
With his terrifying size, he had always been a fearsome figure.
Yet here he was, completely at a loss.
"You're fine. Just go."
Aemon maintained his dignified aura and turned to leave.
The towering knight before him was no ordinary figure. He would later be known in the pages of Fire & Blood.
After Lady Rhea's death, Gunthor supported a cousin's claim to Runestone.
But following the end of the Dance of the Dragons, he himself became Lord of Runestone—earning the title "Bronze Giant."
Reportedly, he even killed one of Aemon's brothers-in-law.
Aemon quickened his pace as he walked away, thoughts drifting to his absent father, who had yet to win his second wife's heart.
And his sister? That was... complicated.
He had only taken a few steps when Gunthor's rumbling voice sounded again: "Lady Rhea is returning from the hunt. Lady Martha wants you to wash and prepare to greet her."
"Mother's back!?" Aemon's cheeks trembled with excitement, and his pace quickened into a sprint.
Ignoring the mountain of a man behind him, he vanished into the backyard of the castle.