The next day, the sun was shining brightly.
The east coast outside the City was covered in lush green grass.
"Mee~~"
A group of goats wagged their plump butts and buried their heads in the grass, chewing eagerly.
From above, they looked like dirty puffs of cotton candy scattered across the land.
"Don't lick me! Go cause trouble somewhere else."
Aemon, now changed into new clothes, kept a stern face as he waved away a few overly curious goats.
His two short legs stood firm in a horse stance, while both hands gripped a bundle of dark green grass and yanked with all his might.
To sleep better and grow taller, he had gotten up early that morning.
"I don't get it. Why are we pulling grass?"
William's head popped out from behind a different group of goats. He grumbled as he swatted away one that was getting in the way, lifting a clump of Ula grass, roots and all.
Aemon clenched his teeth, gathering strength, and muttered, "You just don't understand!"
Pop!
The Ula grass came loose, sending Aemon tumbling backward. He rolled twice, then sprang back up, red-faced and panting hard.
"Whew, finally got it."
He brushed the soil from the roots, straightened the leaves, and carefully tucked them into the backpack at his side.
Aemon was well-prepared to harvest Ula grass and gather Magic Essence.
He placed his small hands on the backpack—nearly as tall as he was.
Inside, a layer of Ula grass rested atop a few randomly placed black dragon eggs.
After catching his breath, Aemon took out the water pouch from his waist pack and drank deeply.
The backpack was made of green cloth, and on its flap, an emblem of a white tower crowned with flames was embroidered—delicate and snug against his frame.
"I'm alive. Back to work."
In a good mood, Aemon patted the pouch before putting it away.
It was a farewell gift from a dear friend, and he rarely used it unless absolutely necessary.
William trudged up, drained and dazed. "You're a prince, you know. You don't need to do this grimy, backbreaking work."
There were servants for that kind of thing.
Aemon's eyes sparkled. He pointed to the scattered guards nearby. "They're working too. If I pitch in, things go faster."
Ula grass was a treasure trove waiting to be turned into gold—no way a few guards would be enough.
He couldn't just sit around!
Convinced of his righteousness, Aemon brimmed with motivation.
By the end of the morning, he had made a solid haul.
He'd gathered five clumps of Ula grass and gained +5 Magic Essence.
Opening the [Magic Essence Panel], he found new items on the exchange page.
[+5 Essence]: Grants 5 points of Magic Essence.
– A gray card, replacing yesterday's slot. Price: 10 Magic Essence points.
[Constitution +1]: Safely and effectively strengthens the body.
– A white card. Price: 10 Magic Essence points.
[Speedy Straw Shoes]: Boosts speed beyond that of a horse.
– A dazzling green card. Price: 50 Magic Essence points.
Aemon examined each one, scoffing at the first gray card.
Total rip-off. Why pay double to get half the value back?
Someone should be locked in a dark cell for that kind of swindle.
But there was something new.
The panel's cards weren't fixed; they changed randomly at dawn each day.
Some were better, some worse, and the prices varied wildly.
Ignoring William's griping, Aemon tapped on the second white card with his tiny finger.
Pop!
The card dissolved into glittering foam, turning into bright white light that seeped into his body.
He closed his eyes, anticipation fluttering in his chest.
A lightness filled his limbs. The numb fatigue faded, replaced by growing strength.
He gave a little jump—his one-foot-tall legs clearing one and a half feet.
Overjoyed, Aemon thought, My body really is stronger. Totally worth it.
Originally, he just wanted to see if the Constitution +1 card would help with weeding.
He hadn't expected such a noticeable improvement.
If I get one of these cards every day, won't I be a superhuman before long?
In the world of ice and fire, personal prowess was a major part of one's worth.
Warriors of real strength were few and far between.
If given ten years to grow and train...
"I don't eat beef!" Aemon suddenly blurted out.
"What? You wanted beef for lunch or something?" William looked like he'd bite his tongue.
On Westeros, where productivity was low, cattle were precious.
Unless a cow died by accident or old age, even nobles rarely ate beef.
Realizing how he sounded, Aemon raised his chin proudly. "If I said I don't eat it, then I don't. Are your ears broken?"
He wasn't stupid—William clearly wanted to eat beef and was hoping to rope him in as an excuse.
Hah! No chance.
After a short break, it was back to work.
Aemon was full of energy and determined to save up for a card that would grant an indestructible body.
William had no choice but to follow, bending low and scouring the sea of grass for rare dark green leaves.
He searched and searched until he was dizzy from squinting, but didn't find a single clump.
Hands on his hips, he grumbled, "Why isn't he working?"
He pointed toward a nearby slope.
Aemon followed his finger and saw a towering man with wild black hair—over two meters tall.
Gunthor sat at ease, clad in bronze armor, resting on the ground with a golden greatsword at his side, gazing out over the grassland.
He seemed to notice the little dragon's stare.
Without a word, Gunthor reached behind his back and pulled out the massive two-handed sword.
For a man his size, even that seemed like a toy.
As Aemon watched, Gunthor casually reached into his pocket and took out a lemon. He bit into it without blinking. The sour hit twisted his already rugged face into something even fiercer.
He stretched his neck, swallowed the pulp, dipped the remaining half of the lemon into a small open pouch, and began to wipe the greatsword with practiced ease.
Aemon's sharp eyes noticed: the lemon had been dipped in white salt.
A method for maintaining swords—more expensive than oil.
Salt was costly.
"Is he strong?" Aemon asked, stunned.
If someone could run with a horse on their shoulders, they had to be terrifying in battle.
He could punch a man into the ground.
"Of course. That's Gunthor—he's the captain of Runestone's guards."
William muttered with a pout, then added, "He should be working too. Bet he could yank up five bundles at once."
"Then go ask him," Aemon replied casually, exposing the hidden plot.
"…Never mind."
William gave a bitter smile. No way he'd dare.
If Gunthor got mad, he'd get spun around like a windmill from the guy's sword.
The boys returned to weeding.
They hadn't gone far when the mountain came to them.
Having finished wiping his sword, Gunthor stood and walked down the slope in their direction, sidestepping goats as he went.
William nearly fainted from fear, drenched in cold sweat.
"What's wrong with you?"
Aemon stepped forward, planting his hands on his hips to block the boy behind him.
Yes, his cousin—but younger than him.
Even if it was Gunthor, he wasn't going to back down.
"I'm here to supervise."
To their surprise, Gunthor wasn't here to start anything.
He looked down at the little dragon cub—not even knee-high—and said in a deep voice, "Lady Rhea asked me to remind you: don't spend all your time rolling in the grass. Brush up on your royal etiquette."
"The next royal hunt will be held in the king's forest."