Game of Thrones: The King of Bronze and Fire

A small, silver-haired figure darted around like a lively hamster foraging for food.

Runestone prided itself on its bronze artifacts, and the family crypt held countless suits of bronze armor left by generations of ancestors.

Most were battered and corroded, with some dating back over a thousand years.

Without careful handling, the heavily rusted pieces would crumble into dust—evidence of long neglect.

After some time, Aemon managed to locate three relatively intact suits of bronze armor:

One was only a breastplate.The other two were missing arms and legs.

"Damaged magical item detected. Magic Essence +5, +3, +5…"

A series of notification tones chimed as Aemon worked.

The Magic Essence Panel reappeared before him, its golden hourglass rotating and glowing softly.

When it finally stopped, the panel updated: [Essence Count: 16].

"Why does the essence amount vary?"

Panting from exertion, Aemon squatted down and used the oil lamp to examine the suits of armor.

The first, relatively complete, had intricate runes engraved on the breastplate and wrists, forming circular patterns.

The second and third suits, less complete, were covered in verdigris. Only a faint ring of runes remained on the breastplate of the least intact one.

After extracting their magic, the runes seemed even duller, as if drained of vitality.

Even the metallic tang in the air grew stronger.

Aemon's eyes lit up as he deduced the source of the magic: the ancient runes.

Only the First Men's long-lost, mysterious power could imbue the armor with magic.

"When Mother gets back, I'll ask her about it." Perhaps he could glean some useful information.

But first, he needed more magic.

Having confirmed that there were no more bronze armors in the crypt, Aemon clapped his dusty little hands and turned back to the Magic Essence Panel to exchange his first magic card.

"May the gods bless me!"

He whispered his prayer and tapped on the white card labeled [Guidance Once], the only one he could afford.

Unlike the vibrant dragon egg, the lifeless bronze armor had limited magic storage and absorption capabilities.

Who knew when he'd be able to use it again?

Pop!

The moment his finger touched the card, it burst into brilliant light.

The card disintegrated, and a golden phantom of a pointing finger emerged, directing him eastward, out of the crypt.

Aemon's jaw dropped as an image materialized in his mind:

To the east of Runestone lay rolling hills along the eastern coastline. The vision zoomed in, settling on a patch of soft, slender, dark-green grass swaying gently in the breeze and exuding a faint, refreshing aroma.

"I know where that is!"

As the vision faded, Aemon leapt to his feet and bounded out of the crypt, his steps light and cheerful.

The Vale was a land of contrasts, where the wealth and status of its noble families varied greatly.

The Royces, once rulers of the Bronze Kingdom, commanded vast lands rich in resources. Their fiefdoms excelled in farming and pasturing, leaving little to be desired.

However, the eastern coastline of Runestone was dotted with cliffs and reefs, making it unsuitable for port construction. Even their neighbor, Gulltown, the Vale's only proper city, had more accessible shores.

The location revealed by [Guidance Once] was a lush pasture on the eastern coast, where the precious herb grew—an herb known to alleviate insomnia and restless dreams.

Creak!

The wooden hatch swung open, and a small, silver-gold head poked out, scanning the area cautiously.

Just as Aemon began to climb out, a deep, thunderous voice rumbled above him.

"What were you doing in there!?"

Startled, Aemon's wide violet eyes darted upward.

Who's that!?

Thud!

The hatch was kicked open by a massive boot, and before Aemon could react, a large hand grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, hoisting him onto solid ground.

The sunlight was blinding, and Aemon squinted as he tried to make out his surroundings.

He was still in Runestone's rear courtyard, but now a towering figure loomed over him, blocking the sunlight with a shadow that seemed to swallow him whole.

"Gonsor?"

Standing before him was a massive man, over seven feet tall—well above two meters.

In fact, his size rivaled that of Gregor Clegane, the Mountain himself.

Once Aemon recognized the man, he straightened his small neck, puffed out his chest, and nodded haughtily. "Are you questioning me?"

That nod was the extent of his greeting. His attitude was clear:

Go ahead and hit me if you dare. On this continent, no one would touch a Targaryen heir without facing the consequences.

Eight-year-old Aemon the Undaunted had his strategy down pat.

And it worked.

Gonsor Royce, a giant of a man from a lesser branch of House Royce, reluctantly offered a perfunctory bow.

"Prince, may I ask your thoughts on the crypt?"

"Nothing much. It needs cleaning."

Dusting off his soiled clothes, Aemon replied with exaggerated righteousness, "It's so filthy I had to take matters into my own hands."

With a dismissive wave of his hand, he added, "No need to thank me."

Aemon's position was uniquely complicated.

Though he lived at Runestone, his Targaryen surname set him apart. Someday, he would likely inherit the family's ancestral seat, yet his mother, Lady Rhea, was indifferent toward his upbringing, preferring her hunting excursions to overseeing her heir.

This ambivalence left the Royce cadet branches eyeing Aemon with suspicion and, perhaps, ambition.

To maintain order and discourage scheming, Aemon adopted a steadfastly aggressive stance, refusing to back down in any confrontation.

Gonsor, with his rugged face and imposing build, glared at the small boy. His silent presence alone was enough to make most people shrink away.

But Aemon refused to be intimidated.

"Is there something else?" he asked, stepping closer with his chin held high.

The bold gesture seemed to challenge, "Go on, hit me!"

Gonsor's frown deepened.

As a knight from a cadet branch, Gonsor's bloodline was less pure than Lady Rhea's, leaving him unfit to inherit Runestone. For now, he served as the castle's master-at-arms, relying on his immense stature to command respect.

But against this small, silver-haired boy, his usual tactics seemed utterly ineffective.

Finally, Gonsor sighed. "If you're done, you may leave."

Satisfied with his victory, Aemon spun on his heel and marched off, his little legs moving quickly.

He knew better than to push his luck. This man wasn't just any Royce—he was Gonsor the Bronze Giant, a figure mentioned in the histories of Fire & Blood.

Years later, after Lady Rhea's death, Gonsor would become the Count of Runestone during the aftermath of the Dance of the Dragons, earning his fearsome moniker.

For now, though, Aemon had other priorities.

Just as he was about to disappear into the castle's halls, Gonsor called out in his low, rumbling voice: "Lady Rhea is returning from her hunt. Sister Martha has been searching for you to wash up and prepare for her arrival."

"Mother's coming back!?"

Aemon's chubby face twitched, and his pace quickened.

Without a second glance at the towering man behind him, he bolted toward the castle, vanishing like a shadow in the midday sun.