Game of Thrones: The King of Bronze and Fire

Silence fell between them the moment the words were spoken.

Rhaenyra's expression froze, and she quickly lowered her head, her cheeks burning with shame.

A wave of embarrassment swept over her, making her want to vanish on the spot.

Aemon stood rooted to the ground, dumbfounded. He hadn't expected her to be so direct, breaking the thin layer of politeness between them.

"I—I'm heading back."

Rhaenyra stammered awkwardly, turning on her heel and rushing off.

Right now, she wanted nothing more than for the floor to crack open and swallow her whole.

"Rhaenyra, wait!"

Aemon snapped out of his daze and hurried after her.

Some things needed to be said out loud to avoid misunderstandings.

But he forgot one crucial fact:

When a woman is storming off in anger, she moves as fast as a dragon in flight.

He couldn't catch up.

From the open-air corridor to the inner hallways of the Red Keep, and all the way to the entrance of the princess's chambers, she stayed several paces ahead.

"Princess!"

Ser Criston Cole, clad in silver armor and white robes, stood guard at her door. He bowed his head respectfully as she approached.

"Stop him," Rhaenyra commanded without even looking up.

Criston blinked in surprise before turning his gaze to the approaching Aemon.

Aemon raised his hands in a gesture of innocence.

Before anything could be said, a third figure stepped into the hallway.

"Well, well, lovers' quarrel?"

Leaning casually against a pillar was a handsome young man with golden hair and striking green eyes.

Bang!

Rhaenyra slammed her door shut, completing the action in one fluid motion.

Inside, she pressed herself against the door, her ear against the wood, listening intently to the sounds outside.

"I swear, Aemon…"

She gritted her teeth, her face still burning with embarrassment.

Meanwhile, in the hallway, the three men stood awkwardly apart.

Aemon studied the golden-haired youth, feeling a vague sense of familiarity.

"I'm Garwyn Hightower," the man introduced himself with a charming smile. "Son of the former Hand of the King and Queen Alicent's brother."

Aemon's eyes widened in recognition.

Ah, that's why he seemed familiar. Alicent's brother.

"I thought you'd returned to Oldtown with Lord Otto."

Ser Criston Cole's gaze hardened as he scrutinized Garwyn from head to toe.

Garwyn Hightower was infamous for his antics. He had made quite a name for himself at the 105 AC tourney, where Prince Daemon had unhorsed him with a single lance blow. Since then, he had kept a low profile.

Garwyn gave Criston a once-over, his lips curving into a mischievous smirk.

"Well, well… the legendary 'White Knight' of the princess. You certainly live up to your reputation, Ser Criston."

"Watch your words," Criston warned, his voice cold.

The tension between the two was palpable.

Aemon stood to the side, quietly observing. His brows furrowed slightly.

Garwyn's sharp tongue was infamous, but was he acting on his own, or was someone—like Alicent—pulling the strings from behind the scenes?

"I'm complimenting you," Garwyn continued, stepping closer to Criston.

Stopping just a meter away, he added with a mocking smile, "You've come a long way for someone from such… humble beginnings."

He gestured toward Criston's dark curls, a subtle reminder of the knight's lowborn origins in the Dornish Marches.

Criston clenched his jaw.

Garwyn's words hit a sore spot. Born to a minor steward's family, Criston had climbed the ranks to become a knight of the Kingsguard—an incredible achievement for someone of his station.

But Garwyn wasn't done.

"Tell me, Ser Criston, how do you pass those long, lonely nights standing guard? Do you remain true to your vows, or… rely on your hand for comfort?"

Garwyn's smile widened. He clearly enjoyed stirring trouble.

Criston's fists tightened, his knuckles turning white.

Aemon had heard enough.

In a swift motion, he stepped forward—and kicked Garwyn square in the stomach.

Thud!

Garwyn stumbled backward, falling hard to the floor.

"You've got quite a mouth," Aemon said coldly, his expression darkening.

Garwyn coughed violently, clutching his stomach.

But Aemon wasn't finished.

He grabbed Garwyn by the collar and yanked him up, slamming him against the stone wall.

Bang!

Garwyn's head hit the wall with a dull thud.

"You think it's funny to spread rumors about the royal family?" Aemon's voice was dangerously low, his grip tightening around Garwyn's neck.

"N-no… it's not…" Garwyn gasped, his face turning red as he struggled to breathe.

Aemon's knee shot up, slamming into Garwyn's abdomen.

"Then why are you here?" Aemon demanded. "Who sent you to spew this filth?"

Garwyn groaned in pain, his body slumping against the wall.

"Tell me!"

Aemon raised his arm, ready to deliver another blow.

"I'll talk! I'll talk!" Garwyn cried out, panic setting in. "I… I was jealous of Criston Cole's fame! That's all! I heard the rumors and wanted to provoke him."

"Is that the truth?"

"Yes! I swear!" Garwyn's voice trembled.

Aemon studied him for a moment before releasing his grip, letting Garwyn collapse to the floor.

"Get out of my sight," Aemon said, his voice filled with disdain.

Garwyn coughed and wiped his mouth, stumbling to his feet. As he passed Criston, he couldn't resist one last jab.

"Keep it up, White Knight. You've got a bright future ahead."

Criston's fists clenched tighter, his anger barely contained.

"You should've hit him back," Aemon muttered, giving Criston a pointed look before turning to knock on Rhaenyra's door.

He was certain she had heard the commotion.

Knock, knock.

No response.

Aemon sighed, rolling his eyes. "I'm heading back to the Vale soon. Can you spare some workers for my new lands?"

He knew all too well that Rhaenyra's position in the Red Keep was growing precarious.

If even someone like Garwyn dared to openly insult her, things were worse than he'd thought.

Finally, after a long pause, the door creaked open slightly.

A delicate, pale hand slipped out, holding a finely crafted necklace.

"Take this. There's a ship waiting at Mud Gate," Rhaenyra whispered from behind the door.

Aemon took the necklace, nodding. "Thanks."

Without another word, he turned and walked away.

As he left, the door opened a bit wider.

Rhaenyra peeked out, her violet eyes following Aemon's retreating figure.

She had witnessed the entire confrontation.

Her heart pounded as she watched him go.

Aemon was no longer the chubby little boy she remembered.

He was taller now, his face sharper, his shoulders broader.

When he had grabbed Garwyn and thrown him against the wall…

Rhaenyra's cheeks flushed bright red.

"Aemon… he's grown up."

Her gaze lingered on his silver-gold hair and strong, lean frame.

He wasn't just brave—he was becoming a man.

Unaware of Rhaenyra's lingering gaze, Aemon pocketed the necklace and left the castle.

There was no time to waste. He had to find the workers he needed for his new lands outside King's Landing.