Since the day Aegon the Conqueror rose with his dragons and brought fire and blood to Westeros—beside his sister-wives, Queens Visenya and Rhaenys—the Seven Kingdoms have stood united.
From that moment, the first year of Aegon's reign was marked as 1 AC. Before that? Simply BC.
Now, it is 109 AC.
The Vale, Runestone.
"The Royces are among the oldest and proudest houses in the Vale. Their sigil bears a heap of runes between two lines of ancient script, on a field of orange."
The droning voice of an old maester filled the castle's study. Grey-robed and balding, the man sat in a sun-dappled attic chamber, holding a weathered tome in one hand.
The room was tastefully furnished—bear pelts on the floor, polished blades mounted on the walls. A kind of rugged nobility hung in the air.
Two boys sat in front of him. One of them, young Aemon, used the book in his lap to hide the wide yawn stretching across his face.
Gods, he was tired. He could hardly keep his eyes open. Sleep had come fitfully the night before, broken by strange, jumbled dreams.
Beside him, William—older, taller, and ever so proper—sat bolt upright, his eyes fixed on the maester with an almost religious devotion. He caught Aemon's yawn and gave him a scornful glance.
Aemon ignored him entirely.
He was only eight, after all—five years younger than William. Of course he wasn't as learned. Why should he be?
A child without a mother, they say, is like grass without roots. And a child without a father goes hungry.
But Aemon's situation was… different.
He had a mother, Countess Laena Royce of Runestone, who adored the hunt far more than motherhood. And a father, Daemon Targaryen, who was rarely—if ever—seen in the Vale.
Both were, in essence, absentee parents. Their only son? Forgotten more often than not.
But Aemon had long since grown used to it. His soul—foreign to this world—didn't mind.
In his past life, he'd been just another high school student: bright-eyed, popsicle in hand, humming a tune while crossing the street. Then fate—blind and cruel—had intervened.
The next time he'd opened his eyes, he'd been reborn.
Now, he was Aemon Targaryen, a dragon-blooded prince of Westeros.
His father? None other than Daemon Targaryen—brilliant, defiant, and brother to the king.
His mother? Laena Royce of Runestone, the current ruling Countess.
But the two parents could hardly bear each other. Their marriage was political—loveless and never consummated.
Back in 101 AC, during the Great Council, Laena's uncle—Jobert Royce, then Regent of the Eyrie and Warden of the East—had brokered the match. A political gambit to keep the Vale aligned with the royal family.
All he asked was for Daemon to wed his niece.
Daemon, in turn, called her the "bronze bitch" and sneered that goats in the Vale were prettier. Still, under pressure—and no doubt in hopes of strengthening his claim—he agreed. Just once.
And from that single, reluctant union, Aemon was born.
"My mother's clearly not ugly," Aemon mused bitterly, nearly dozing off again. "But her taste in men? Woeful."
Despite his past life's memories, Aemon had grown used to his young body. Childhood wasn't so bad—not when you knew what came after.
He'd enjoy these years. Live simply. Be happy.
And when he grew older?
He would stop the tragedy that was the Dance of the Dragons.
Thud.
The old maester shut his book with a dry snap and rapped the wooden wall.
"Aemon," he said, one eyebrow raised. "Can you tell me House Royce's motto?"
Aemon jolted upright and grinned. "We remember it."
The maester gave a satisfied nod. "Aye. We remember it."
Then he stared at Aemon for a heartbeat longer than necessary—eyes unreadable, almost heavy.
Aemon shifted under his gaze, stifling another yawn.
"Maester Septon," he muttered. "Why don't you ask me the words of House Targaryen?"
"Because your mother doesn't like the Targaryens."
The reply came without hesitation.
Aemon frowned. "But I am a Targaryen."
He gestured at his unmistakable silver-blonde hair, at his violet eyes—living proof of his bloodline.
The old man merely gave him a sympathetic glance and gathered his scrolls.
"Huh." Aemon tilted his head.
Then the realisation hit.
Apparently, his mother didn't like him much either.
Well. That tracked.
After all, he was the son of a man she hated.
Class dismissed.
Aemon slipped away from William and bounded down the hall, the echo of his boots bouncing through the stone corridors of Runestone.
Despite the grandeur of the place, it held little charm for a child.
As he reached his room, the castle's stern septa met him at the threshold.
"Prince Aemon, shall we break bread—or begin the recitation of the Seven-Pointed Star?"
Aemon winced. "I'm tired. Let me nap first, and we'll speak in half an hour."
The septa bowed, and Aemon entered his chamber, the cheeky sparkle in his eyes gone as soon as the door shut.
Now, alone, he was quiet. Still.
He lay in bed a while, restless, staring at the ceiling.
Then, with a furtive glance, he crept from the covers and shuffled to the shadowed corner of the room.
There, half-hidden, was a black iron brazier.
Click.
He lifted the lid. Steam hissed out.
Flushed by the heat, Aemon reached in and pulled out a dark, oval-shaped egg nearly a foot long.
His dragon egg.
The shell was coal-black, covered in tiny diamond-shaped scales, cold and hard to the touch.
It had been placed in his cradle at birth, as was tradition for Targaryen children. If the egg hatched, the dragon would bond with him from infancy.
His own egg had once belonged to Dreamfyre—a great, light-blue she-dragon known for her fertility.
Yet, eight years had passed. And still… nothing.
"Come on," Aemon muttered, stroking the shell. "What's taking so long?"
He sat cross-legged on the floor, cradling the egg as if it might stir.
This egg had been a gift—carried from Dragonstone by none other than his great-grandfather, Jaehaerys the Wise. The old king had placed it in Aemon's cradle before he died in 104 AC.
"Your dam was so fertile," Aemon murmured, "and yet you've done absolutely nothing."
He sighed, letting the frustration seep out.
Of course he was anxious.
He knew what was coming—the Dance of the Dragons, the cruel and bloody civil war that would all but wipe out the dragons and scatter their noble blood.
He was here to stop it.
But first? He needed power. Protection. A way to make people listen.
A dragon was his best chance.
Without one, a Targaryen was less than a common knight—less than a fishmonger.
Since coming to Runestone at the age of three, Aemon had secretly prayed for the egg to hatch. Dreamed of raising a dragon from hatchling to winged terror.
It might not match the great beasts of old—but it would be his.
A bright flame in the darkness of what was to come.
He lay back again, defeated.
"…Where in the Seven Hells am I going to get a dragon?" he whispered to the rafters.
The egg remained cold in his hands.
Eight years. No signs of life.
There were no dragons in Runestone. And short of stealing away to Dragonstone...
Well.
That was a thought.
A dangerous, tempting thought.