Game of Thrones: The King of Bronze and Fire

As the afternoon sunlight poured through the windows, Aemon stepped out of the queen's chambers, only to be summoned to the throne room by a White Cloak.

"Creak!"

Two knights of the Kingsguard pushed open the heavy doors, revealing the solemn and imposing hall within.

The black stone floor, polished by time, reflected the light streaming in from high windows. Carved dragon pillars soared to the vaulted ceiling, framing the iconic Iron Throne—a jagged silhouette of twisted blades rising high above.

Aemon entered, his gaze sweeping the familiar yet distant chamber.

The last time he had been here, he had been a babe in the arms of his great-grandfather, King Jaehaerys.

"Aemon, come here," Viserys called out, smiling as he stood at the base of the throne.

Two of his closest advisors had proposed fine suggestions for rewarding his nephew, but neither idea felt entirely fitting. He decided it was better to hear directly from the boy.

Aemon, putting away his usual mischievous grin, approached with measured steps.

"You should be sitting up there," he remarked, nodding toward the Iron Throne.

"Oh, should I?" Viserys chuckled, a hint of weariness in his voice. "Everyone desires it, but none realize how painful it is to sit upon."

Aemon nodded thoughtfully. "To wear the crown is to bear both power and responsibility."

Viserys paused, caught off guard by the boy's insight.

Such understanding was rare. Daemon and Rhaenyra certainly hadn't grasped it, and even many lords of the realm failed to appreciate its weight.

"You've thought about this, haven't you?" Viserys asked, studying his nephew.

Aemon hesitated for a moment before gently taking the king's gloved hand. "You've worked hard for it, haven't you? And suffered much."

Viserys flinched, instinctively pulling back his hand.

He knew what lay beneath the fine leather gloves.

Since ascending the throne, he had been repeatedly nicked by the blades that composed the Iron Throne. Open wounds turned to festering sores, and in recent years, his left hand had lost two fingers to infection.

Each painkillers' dull ache was a constant reminder of the throne's cost.

That Aemon—barely eight—had noticed this, unnerved him.

"What brought you here today, Uncle?" Aemon asked, feigning innocence as he changed the subject.

It was enough to reveal that he wasn't a fool, but not so much as to alarm.

Viserys shook off his discomfort, offering a warm smile. "That's a good question. I wanted to speak with you personally."

The king hesitated, recalling the uncanny resemblance between Aemon's demeanor and Daemon's.

"After all," he thought, "Daemon never deserved to have such a son."

Aloud, he said, "Tell me, what reward do you desire? You saved Rhaenyra—and Jason Lannister, for that matter."

Aemon puffed up his chest with mock pride. "It was my duty to save Rhaenyra!" he declared, his voice firm and his expression earnest.

Viserys chuckled, amused by the boy's dramatics. "Indeed, a great deed. Surely you deserve something for your bravery?"

"I need nothing," Aemon replied, standing tall. "Saving Rhaenyra was reward enough."

Viserys quirked an eyebrow. "Oh? Nothing at all?"

Aemon's expression didn't waver.

"Well then," Viserys said with a laugh, "surely there must be something I can grant you. Your king is not a miser."

Aemon pretended to consider, then brightened. "Well, if you insist…"

Viserys leaned forward expectantly.

The boy adopted a pitiful expression, his violet eyes wide and glistening. "My mother is the Lady of Runestone, but the castle bears the name Royce, not Targaryen. I have no lands of my own."

"You will inherit your mother's title," Viserys assured him firmly.

Runestone would pass to Aemon as his mother's only child. No one could change that.

"But they don't respect me," Aemon protested, his voice trembling. "My father doesn't care for me, and in the Vale, I am just a weak, helpless little prince."

His tearful eyes glistened, the perfect picture of a forlorn child.

Viserys, caught off guard, shifted uncomfortably.

Daemon had indeed failed as a father. And Rhea Royce, though dutiful, was hardly a warm parent.

"What is it you want, then?" Viserys asked, his tone gentler now.

"I don't need a lordship," Aemon replied, wiping away nonexistent tears. "But I do need a title—something that commands respect."

Viserys considered this carefully. A title could be dangerous, but a symbolic one might placate the boy without upsetting the realm.

"Anything else?" he asked.

Aemon blinked, surprised. "I can ask for more?"

Viserys chuckled. "If it's reasonable, yes."

"Well then…" Aemon thought for a moment before grinning. "I want permission to tame a dragon whenever I'm ready."

"That is your birthright," Viserys said dismissively.

"Still," Aemon persisted, "I'd like your blessing in advance."

The king nodded. "Very well, but you must grow a bit taller before you can climb onto a dragon's back."

Later That Evening

In the king's chambers, Viserys lounged in a red robe, nursing a goblet of wine by the fireplace.

Alicent sat nearby, listening as he recounted the events of the day.

"Impossible," Viserys muttered, shaking his head. "How did Daemon father such a boy? The gods are cruel."

"He is remarkable," Alicent agreed lightly, though her tone turned teasing. "Still, Rhaenyra has little interest in him—or in anyone else, it seems. Even Jason Lannister, lying bruised in bed, has not caught her eye."

"That's not the point!" Viserys snapped, his voice rising. "Rhaenyra is of age. She must marry a great lord—someone who will respect and love her."

"Perhaps," Alicent said, a faint smile on her lips. "But Rhaenyra needs to believe it's her choice."

Viserys scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Let her marry whomever she likes. Just so long as it's not Aemon."

Alicent's smile faltered. "She wouldn't."

Viserys huffed, refilling his cup. "If only children were as obedient as dreams."

The firelight flickered, casting long shadows across the chamber.

On the table, a letter fluttered in the breeze. Alicent picked it up, her expression hardening as she read.

"What's this?" she asked.

"A plea for aid from the Stepstones," Viserys answered, his tone indifferent. "Daemon is still fighting there, as you know."

"Shouldn't you send help?" Alicent pressed, frowning. "Your nephew just proved himself worthy—his father needs support, doesn't he?"

Viserys sighed. "Perhaps. But this war of Daemon's…"

He trailed off, staring into the flames.

Alicent's gaze lingered on the letter, her thoughts unreadable.