Game of Thrones: The King of Bronze and Fire

After giving a casual wave to his bodyguard squad, Aemon happily trotted off.

Lady Rhea glanced at him but said nothing as she led her son back into the cabin.

Outside, the sky grew steadily darker.

Aemon was brimming with anticipation, sure that his mother had some important advice to give him.

But all she said was, "Get a good night's sleep. Don't show up before the king's family with dark circles under your eyes."

"Oh."

Disappointed, Aemon stood still for a moment before heading to his room.

At the door, he paused to peer back into her cabin, as though confirming there was really nothing more.

Lady Rhea ignored his lingering gaze, busying herself with making her bed.

"Good night."

Aemon waved his little hand and closed the door with a quiet click.

Turning away, he sighed deeply.

He knew it—his mother wasn't exactly the reliable type.

Nor did she seem particularly full of maternal affection.

"Whatever. Kids aren't supposed to hold grudges against adults."

With his hands clasped behind his back, Aemon quickly talked himself out of his disappointment.

So what if he had to sleep alone and deal with nightmares? He was a boy with a special magic panel now!

Later that night, Aemon returned to his room.

"Come look! I used the leftover grass to make you a pillow," Septa Martha said with a satisfied sigh, rubbing her sore lower back.

"Really?!" Aemon exclaimed, running over to the bed.

The basket of Ura Grass was empty, replaced by a woven mat and a plump little pillow.

The mat was about a meter wide and 1.2 meters long, while the pillow was stuffed full of grass leaves, giving it a springy feel.

Kicking off his boots, Aemon flopped onto the mat, rolling around before hugging the pillow and sniffing it.

It gave off a fresh, grassy scent, with a hint of mint-like sweetness.

"Martha, you're amazing!"

Aemon grinned from ear to ear, rolling back and forth on the mat like a mouse that had found a stash of cheese.

Septa Martha, exhausted and a bit bleary-eyed, stood up and said, "I'm glad you like it. Now get some rest."

"Goodbye!"

Aemon didn't try to stop her, cheerfully waving as she left.

Clunk!

The cabin door closed, dimming the room.

"Hehe, here's hoping I have a great dream tonight," Aemon murmured, lying down on the mat with his head on the pillow.

He stretched out his arms and legs, sliding them back and forth across the mat as sleepiness overtook him.

Soon, his eyes closed, and his breathing grew soft and steady as he drifted off.

Two days passed in the blink of an eye.

The Prince Aemon sailed steadily on, rounding the Narrow Sea and entering the Blackwater Bay's mouth.

Splash, splash!

Waves roared and churned against the ship's hull, and the salty sea breeze whipped through the air.

Aemon, bundled up warmly, leaned against the railing, staring out at the sea.

Compared to two days ago, he seemed much more energetic. His cheeks were rosy, and he'd taken to shouting playfully at the waves, laughing at his own antics.

"I hear from Martha you haven't woken up from nightmares these past two nights," said Lady Rhea, her footsteps echoing softly as she approached, dressed in light leather armor. For once, her voice carried a note of concern.

Turning back, Aemon replied obediently, "That's right. I've been sleeping great."

He patted the basket slung on his back.

Lady Rhea raised an eyebrow but didn't press further.

Her son had developed an odd habit of carrying a basket as tall as himself wherever he went.

She had already had it inspected by Septa Martha, who reported that it contained only a rolled-up mat and pillow—nothing suspicious.

As Rhea's gaze lingered on the basket, Aemon turned his eyes to the sky, whistling nonchalantly as he shifted to block her view.

Those items were the key to his restful sleep, and he wasn't about to let anyone meddle with them.

Leaning against the railing, Lady Rhea gazed at the waters of Blackwater Bay.

"We're almost in King's Landing. Are you nervous?" she asked.

"Not at all," Aemon replied without hesitation.

King's Landing was his first home. It was where he'd been born and had lived peacefully until he was three.

Why would returning home make him nervous?

Lady Rhea lowered her head to look at her son, her expression unreadable. "In your heart, you think of yourself as a Targaryen, don't you?"

Aemon froze.

Looking down at his clothes—black with the Targaryen sigil of the three-headed red dragon on the collar—and then at his silver-gold hair and violet eyes, he thought, Isn't it obvious?

Lady Rhea's face softened with a peculiar mix of emotions, as if she had words caught in her throat.

Aemon dropped his head, realizing the problem.

Ever since Queen Alysanne had arranged the marriage between his father Daemon and Lady Rhea, questions about inheritance had loomed.

Daemon, being a Targaryen prince, insisted their children carry his surname.

But Rhea, as the Royce heiress, knew that her family's ancestral seat at Runestone would pass to her children, potentially erasing the Royce legacy.

Aemon, struggling to solve this knotty issue, asked tentatively, "The guards you assigned me—was that so you could leave me in King's Landing?"

By keeping him away from Runestone, Lady Rhea could name another Royce as her heir.

Rhea almost laughed at his speculation. "Don't compare me to the shameless Targaryens. Like it or not, you are my son."

"Really?" Aemon's eyes lit up as he latched onto her leg, asking, "So you're not trying to get rid of me?"

"I've never said anything like that."

Lady Rhea shook her head, wondering where he'd gotten such ideas.

Reassured, Aemon pressed, "Then how are you handling the inheritance issue? You hardly pay attention to me."

He preferred staying in Runestone over King's Landing—it was home, and he felt secure there.

"Handling it? I'm not."

Rhea crossed her arms and said bluntly, "When you were born, you were so fragile I thought you'd die. Why waste emotions on you?"

"What?!" Aemon's jaw dropped, nearly unable to hold his composure.

Her distant attitude was because she had jumped to conclusions too early?

"It's irrelevant now. No need to dwell on it."

Clearing her throat, Rhea continued, "What I want to say is that once we reach King's Landing, the king will likely try to keep you there. The choice is yours."

Aemon fell silent, pondering her words.

Given the current state of the royal family, with few male heirs, his recall seemed inevitable.

King Viserys and Daemon were the only two adult males in the Targaryen line. At eight, Aemon had outgrown the threat of childhood mortality.

"Should I stay or not?" Aemon asked, testing the waters.

"It's up to you," Rhea said, her gaze fixed on his pale, youthful face.

Without hesitation, Aemon declared, "I'm not staying. No way!"

He wasn't about to get caught in the web of King's Landing's politics. Better to grow strong in peace than to court trouble.

"Hmph," Rhea snorted. "Even if you stayed, there'd be no place for you—just like that fool who got himself exiled."

Though her words were harsh, the faint smile tugging at her lips betrayed her satisfaction.

"This is just a hunting trip, and we'll visit some old friends."

Aemon nodded eagerly, hugging her leg like a little chick pecking for reassurance.

Lady Rhea allowed herself a small, proud smirk.

Her son was clever—much sharper than that exiled fool, Daemon.