"Prince of Dragons" Aemon

"What of it?" Viserys growled, gripping the arms of his chair. "Should I credit Daemon for Aemon's achievements now?"

Alicent's brow furrowed, her voice calm but firm. "Aemon is Aemon. Daemon is Daemon. Their merits cannot be conflated."

No one should be allowed to steal the boy's credit, not even his estranged father.

Viserys, slightly mollified by her earnestness, explained, "The ones who launched this war—Daemon and Corlys—did so out of defiance. They were dissatisfied with my rule."

Now, on the verge of defeat, they dared to seek his help?

He laughed bitterly. "What would they say of me? That I'm weak? That I'm their servant?"

Alicent laid the missive aside, attempting to reason with him. "Perhaps they'd say you were a benevolent king who cares for his brother."

Viserys sneered. "No. They'd call me soft-hearted."

Her tone turned sharper. "And what do you believe, my king?"

Viserys was taken aback. Frustration surged within him. "I believe I'm a cursed fool—never able to please anyone!"

He stood abruptly, pacing the room.

"I show them kindness," he muttered bitterly, "and they mock me. I extend my hand, and they bite it."

Alicent waited patiently for him to collect himself before posing her next question.

"What's better for the realm, Your Grace? Letting the Crabfeeder grow stronger or crushing him utterly?"

Her words brought to mind the letter's harrowing tale of a noble lady's abduction.

Viserys paused, wrestling with conflicting thoughts.

A Reluctant Resolution

The war in the Stepstones was both a boon and a curse. It drained Corlys Velaryon's resources and kept Daemon occupied, but it also risked emboldening pirates and upsetting trade.

If Daemon failed, Corlys might escape unscathed, but his brother would emerge broken, utterly dependent on the Iron Throne's mercy.

The plea for aid was a calculated move.

"It's clear Corlys wants me to save him while leaving Daemon with nothing to show for his trouble," Viserys muttered darkly.

Alicent broke the silence, redirecting the conversation. "And what of Aemon? What reward will you grant him?"

The king's tension eased at her gentle reminder. "What do you suggest?"

She smiled faintly. "You're the king. Whatever you give will carry weight. It only needs to be generous enough to silence critics."

Viserys snorted, pointing a finger at her. "You're his advocate, aren't you?"

Alicent's serene expression didn't waver. Everyone knew how close she was to the boy—her affection for him was an open secret.

"Well," he relented, stroking his beard. "He wants a title. He's still too young for lands, though."

"True," Alicent agreed mildly. "Such a title would be unprecedented for someone so young."

Viserys eyed her suspiciously, wondering if she and Aemon had conspired behind his back. Then, after a moment's thought, he made his decision.

"I'll name him Prince of Dragons," he declared. "The title will have no land attached, for now. When he inherits Runestone, it will bear the prince's prefix."

Alicent blinked, genuinely surprised by her husband's decisiveness.

He grinned roguishly. "Daemon has always been called 'the Rogue Prince,' but never held a formal title. This will be a fine way to put him in his place."

His amusement at the idea was palpable.

The idea of Daemon—a notorious schemer—being outdone by his own son brought him no small satisfaction.

Alicent inclined her head. "A wise decision, Your Grace."

The Next Morning

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was filled to capacity.

Knights and nobles stood shoulder to shoulder, their attention fixed on the Iron Throne. At its base, Ser Harrold Westerling raised his voice to address the crowd.

"By decree of His Grace, King Viserys I Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm…"

The hall fell silent.

"Prince Aemon Targaryen is hereby named Prince of Dragons, Heir of Runestone, and sworn protector of the Vale."

Seated on the Iron Throne, Viserys held the ancestral blade Blackfyre across his lap, his expression a mix of pride and calculation as he watched the small boy before him.

Dressed in black and adorned with a three-headed dragon brooch, Aemon turned to face the gathered lords and ladies.

Applause erupted, thunderous and unrelenting.

Aemon's cherubic face lit up with a dazzling smile as he bowed to the crowd.

His silver hair shimmered in the torchlight, and the dragon crest on his chest seemed almost alive, its wings poised to take flight.

Among the Crowd

Rhea Royce stepped forward, her stern demeanor giving way to a rare smile.

"It's time we returned to the Vale," she said to Viserys, bowing her head.

Beside her, Aemon nodded dutifully, adding, "I must learn more about the lands I'll one day rule."

His words were a deliberate signal: he had no intention of overstaying his welcome in King's Landing.

Viserys hesitated but ultimately relented. "Go, then," he said. "Learn well, nephew."

The ceremony concluded, leaving the gathered nobles abuzz with speculation about the boy's future.

Later That Day

In the Godswood, Aemon sat atop his magnificent white stag, affectionately named "White King."

"Getting on your back is a challenge enough," he muttered to the creature, stroking its silken mane. "What will it be like climbing a dragon?"

The thought of a dragon's immense size filled him with both excitement and trepidation.

As if summoned by his musings, Rhaenyra appeared, carrying a cloth-draped cage. Beside her walked Laena Velaryon, her poise as regal as her dragon's wingspan.

"Aemon," Rhaenyra called, her tone unreadable.

Aemon straightened, his curiosity piqued.

"What could these two be planning now?"