Game of Thrones: The King of Bronze and Fire

Westeros.

Since Aegon the Conqueror rode his dragons and, with his sister-wives Queen Visenya and Queen Rhaenys, defeated the Seven Kingdoms, this land has been unified.

The calendar started anew with Aegon's coronation, marking the first year as 1 AC.

Years before unification are labeled BC, and those after unification, AC.

109 AC.

The Vale, Runestone.

"The Royces are one of the oldest and most noble families in the Vale. Their sigil features a pile of runestones, bordered by two lines of runes on an orange field," the old maester lectured passionately, holding a book.

The room was well-furnished, with bearskins and swords hanging on the walls, exuding a quiet sense of opulence and valor.

In front of the maester sat two students side by side.

Aemon, using his book as a shield, let out a massive yawn behind it.

So sleepy. He could barely hold on.

Once again, he hadn't slept well last night, plagued by chaotic and nonsensical dreams.

The boy sitting to his left, William, cast a disapproving glance at him and straightened his back, listening attentively.

Aemon noticed but didn't care in the slightest.

Poor kid. Aemon was only eight years old, a full five years younger than William. Why bother competing with someone essentially tied to his fate?

There's a saying: "A child without a mother is like grass; a child without a father goes hungry."

But his situation was different.

He had a countess mother who was obsessed with hunting and a father who rarely came home.

Both were the type to wash their hands of him, leaving their only son Aemon behind and forgotten.

Poor child.

Not that Aemon minded—his soul, after all, belonged to a transmigrator.

In his previous life, he'd been an ordinary high schooler with a penchant for snacking and humming tunes. One day, while crossing the street with an ice pop in hand, fate struck—literally.

When he opened his eyes again, he had been reborn.

Now, his name was Aemon Targaryen, a true dragonblood descendant.

His father was Daemon Targaryen, a formidable and rebellious man who just so happened to have a king for an older brother. A powerful figure, no doubt.

His mother, Rhea Royce, hailed from the prestigious Royce family of the Vale and was the ruling Countess of Runestone.

Unfortunately, the couple's marriage was fraught with strife and practically falling apart.

Thanks to the intervention of Lord Yorbert Royce, the then-Regent of the Eyrie and Warden of the East during the Great Council of 101 AC, arrangements were made to keep the family line intact.

Yorbert, Rhea's uncle, passed Runestone to his niece and brokered the marriage. He also imposed a simple but effective condition: Daemon needed to consummate the union with Rhea.

Daemon, who scornfully referred to his wife as a "bronze bitch," claimed Vale goats were more attractive than her.

Nonetheless, with enough cajoling and pressure—plus the motivation of securing his claim to the Iron Throne—Daemon eventually relented.

Just once. And from that single encounter, Aemon was born.

"Honestly, Mother's gorgeous. Father just has terrible taste," Aemon mused, barely keeping his head off the table as his eyelids drooped.

Having been given a second chance at life, Aemon approached everything with a calm and steady heart.

If the heavens had deemed he'd be reborn as a child, so be it—he would do everything a child should.

He'd enjoy this golden, carefree childhood that so many adults could only dream of.

When he grew up, he'd make it his mission to prevent the tragedy of the Dance of the Dragons.

Suddenly, the old maester's voice cut through his thoughts.

"Aemon, tell me, what is the Royce family motto?"

"We Remember!" Aemon promptly replied.

"Correct. We Remember."

The maester nodded approvingly but looked at Aemon with an inscrutable expression that made the boy squirm.

Aemon stifled another yawn and muttered under his breath, "Why not ask about the Targaryen motto?"

"Because your mother doesn't like the Targaryens," the maester shot back without missing a beat.

Aemon furrowed his brows and pointed at himself. "But I am a Targaryen."

With his silvery-gold hair and violet eyes, he couldn't be more Targaryen if he tried.

The maester gave him a pitying look before slowly closing his book and shuffling out of the room.

"Huh?" Aemon tilted his head in confusion.

Then it dawned on him—his mother didn't particularly like him either. Why? Because he had a father who was impossible to love.

Class ended.

Aemon perked up, shook off William's attempts to follow him, and skipped down the corridors back to his room.

Runestone was vast, but there weren't many places fit for a child to wander.

As soon as he entered his quarters, the old septa tasked with his upbringing approached him. "Young prince, would you prefer lunch first, or recite the Seven-Pointed Star?"

Aemon's face fell slightly. "I'm exhausted. Let me nap for half an hour, and we'll see."

He really was tired—not just avoiding his lessons, not at all.

Once he managed to send the septa away, Aemon flopped onto his bed, looking utterly deflated—a stark contrast to his usual lively, mischievous self.

After lying there for a moment, an anxious thought gnawed at him. He glanced around to ensure no one was watching, then climbed down and pulled a small, round black brazier from the corner of the room.

With a click, he lifted its lid, and a surge of steam rose into the air.

His cheeks flushed red from the heat as he carefully reached into the glowing coals and pulled out a dark, egg-shaped object.

It was nearly a foot long—Aemon's dragon egg.

Targaryens are known to treasure dragon eggs, which are placed in the cradle of every newborn in the family.

If the egg hatched, the dragon would grow alongside the child, forging a lifelong bond.

For Aemon, unloved by both parents, even his dragon egg carried the weight of his hopes and dreams.

This particular black egg had been taken from the Dragonpit by his great-grandfather, King Jaehaerys I, and placed in Aemon's cradle himself.

Yet, even though eight years had passed, the egg stubbornly refused to hatch.

"Your dragon mom was so prolific. Why won't you do your part?" Aemon muttered as he examined the egg's obsidian surface, its shell patterned with diamond-shaped scales as hard as stone.

His thoughts darkened. The future of House Targaryen is far too grim.

While the Targaryen dynasty was at its peak, he knew what was coming: a civil war that would decimate the family and their dragons, reducing their proud lineage to a shadow of its former glory.

Aemon had to stop it. But first, he needed the strength to protect himself.

Without a dragon, a Targaryen is useless.

From the moment he was old enough to think, Aemon had pinned his hopes on this dragon egg. If it hatched, he could raise his own dragon from infancy, creating a bond stronger than any forged by conquest.

Even if the dragon wasn't as mighty as those left by the kings of old, it was still a step forward.

"Ahh!" Aemon sighed, lying back in frustration. He had no idea how to get his dragon to hatch.

As he prepared to put the egg back, a voice suddenly rang out:

"Magical item detected. Magic essence +3 acquired."

Aemon froze, then shot up straight, his heart racing.

What was that?