Game of Thrones: The King of Bronze and Fire

Nightfall.

In the Red Keep's royal chambers, the heavy doors creaked open.

Aemon emerged, holding a small dragon-shaped stone carving.

Earlier that evening, his uncle Viserys had summoned him for a private conversation.

Aemon stared at the carving with a conflicted expression. "This is tricky."

After some small talk, his uncle had quickly revealed his true concerns.

Daemon's self-proclamation as King of the Narrow Sea had tarnished the royal family's reputation.

Yet Daemon, ever unpredictable, had flown his dragon back to King's Landing, not to reconcile, but to indulge himself in Silk Street's infamous pleasures.

He had neither visited the Red Keep nor sought an audience with his elder brother.

"How am I supposed to mend this relationship?" Aemon sighed heavily, feeling the weight of the task.

Faced with the increasing pressure from Corlys Velaryon, Viserys sought allies. Daemon was the obvious choice.

But when Daemon had struggled in the Stepstones, Viserys's attempt to aid him with reinforcements had backfired.

Daemon had taken it as an insult, assaulted the messenger, and slain the Crabfeeder single-handedly—all without acknowledging Viserys's gesture.

"Both of them are just hopeless," Aemon muttered as he returned to his room.

He knew he needed to intervene, but not in a way that would make him a pawn in someone else's game.

There was also the lingering suspicion that Corlys's recent moves were tacitly approved by Daemon. After all, it wasn't until the crown faced trouble that anyone seemed to remember Daemon's worth.

Back in his chambers, Aemon washed up and lay down on his ultragrass pillow, his mind swimming with worries until he finally drifted off.

In his dream, the skies were dim and overcast, with fierce winds tearing through the air.

Aemon found himself atop a barren, heat-radiating hill, surrounded by withered greenery.

A light drizzle began to fall.

Confused, Aemon glanced around. The raindrops were cool and refreshing on his skin.

CRACK!

A flash of lightning illuminated the bleak landscape, momentarily slicing through the darkness.

Aemon stood frozen, only to feel the drizzle intensify into a torrential downpour.

Drenched and shivering, he sought refuge.

Spotting a smoking cave midway up the hill, he hurried inside.

The cave floor was strewn with jagged stones, and deeper within, strange noises echoed—the rhythmic sounds of chisels and hammers striking metal.

"What is this place?" Aemon muttered, his eyes filled with bewilderment as he ventured further.

Ten meters. Twenty meters...

At the heart of the cave, a fiery glow illuminated the walls.

Before him was a natural furnace embedded in the mountainside, its surface covered in bronze-scaled patterns, molten copper bubbling and glowing within.

ROAR!

Suddenly, the cavern walls began to crack, and the molten copper surged forward in a fiery torrent.

Aemon stood paralyzed before instinct kicked in, and he turned to flee.

But his legs felt like they were weighed down, barely able to move.

When he glanced back, a tidal wave of molten copper bore down on him, crashing like a furious ocean.

In those final moments, Aemon's survival instincts flared. He thrust out a desperate hand, grasping for anything to save him.

The copper flood spiraled into a vortex, dragging him into its depths with an irresistible pull.

Outside, the rain continued to pour.

In the real world, Aemon thrashed in his sleep, his brow drenched with sweat, as his head tossed back and forth on the pillow.

Knock, knock!

A loud rapping at the door jolted him awake.

"Who's there?!"

Aemon bolted upright, his heart racing, the suffocating terror of the dream still gripping him.

"It's me, Rhaenyra."

The door creaked open, and a silver-haired head peeked in, accompanied by a soft, cautious voice.

"Rhaenyra?" Aemon gulped in air, his breathing ragged as he tried to shake off the lingering dread.

"Were you having a nightmare?"

Rhaenyra stepped into the room, her expression concerned as she noticed his disheveled, sweat-soaked appearance.

Aemon nodded, wiping the sweat from his face, only now realizing his clothes were drenched.

He chalked it up to being eight years old—children sweat a lot during the night, especially after bad dreams.

Snapping himself out of it, he eyed Rhaenyra warily. "What are you doing here this late at night?"

Rhaenyra hesitated, her hands clasped behind her back, fidgeting nervously.

"It's... I have something I want to do. And I need your help."

Her tone immediately raised Aemon's suspicions.

Rhaenyra wore a simple beige gown, a casual outfit for someone wandering the halls at night. But her nervous energy betrayed her.

"What kind of thing?" Aemon asked, pulling his blanket closer in mock suspicion.

"Not what you're thinking!" Rhaenyra blurted out, her cheeks flushing as she waved off his implication.

"I need to see Daemon," she finally admitted. "You're his son, so we should go together."

"What do you need to see him for? And at this hour?" Aemon pressed.

"Father misses him," she replied earnestly, though the flicker of something deeper in her eyes suggested ulterior motives.

Aemon gave her a skeptical look, but Rhaenyra ignored him, producing two cloaks from behind her.

"I've already found out where Daemon is—Silk Street," she said, handing him one of the cloaks. "We'll sneak out together."

Before he could protest, she pulled the door shut, loosened the ties of her gown, and began changing.

"Wait—!"

Aemon's face turned scarlet as he spun around, giving her privacy.

"Really? You just strip right here?"

Fortunately, he turned quickly enough to miss any revealing details.

A few minutes later, both of them were dressed in plain, modest clothing.

Rhaenyra, now disguised, grinned eagerly. "Let's go!"

The two sneaked out into the hallway, only to run into a third accomplice.

"Princess," Ser Criston Cole greeted her with a respectful nod, dressed plainly like a farmer.

Aemon shot him a disapproving look but said nothing.

Rhaenyra had clearly prepared for this escapade, but they still needed Criston to escort them past the guards.

With Criston's credentials as a member of the Kingsguard, they managed to leave the Red Keep without incident.

Late that night, on Silk Street, the trio parked their cart and blended into the bustling crowd.

The lively street was packed with merchants, performers, and revelers.

"Look! There's a magician over there!"

Rhaenyra tugged on Aemon's sleeve like an excited child, her eyes shining with curiosity.

"Keep your voice down," Aemon grumbled, adjusting the cap that concealed his distinctive silver-gold hair.

Nearby, Rhaenyra's attention was caught by something else.

"There! That's the brothel Daemon's in!" she exclaimed, darting forward like an eager filly.

Aemon froze, his brain short-circuiting.

She didn't just say what he thought she said, did she?

As he chased after her, a sudden noise from a nearby alley caught his attention.

Turning his head, he saw a man and woman, completely unclothed, locked in a passionate embrace.

"They're doing this right in the street?"

Aemon grimaced, thoroughly baffled by King's Landing's unbridled liberties.