Game of Thrones: The King of Bronze and Fire

Aemon tilted his head slightly, puzzled. "You'll have to give me a reason."

Though it was still a conversation between mother and son, the air grew heavier.

Marriage was no trivial matter, and both of them knew it.

Lady Rhea Royce's voice was calm but firm. "I don't like Targaryens. Nor do I like girls with Targaryen blood."

Aemon's confusion deepened, his gaze fixed on his mother.

She continued, "The one from Driftmark—Laena Velaryon—she has Targaryen blood as well."

Two sentences.

Not only did she dismiss Rhaenyra, but she also brought up Laena.

Aemon frowned. "Laena never offended you, did she?"

"Do you like her?"

Lady Rhea's words were direct, cutting to the heart of the matter.

After a moment's pause, Aemon shook his head. "Not really."

Laena was certainly admirable—beautiful, poised, and intelligent, with a gentle grace unique to women.

But there was a rift between them.

Lord Corlys Velaryon, her father, had kept her isolated for years, treating her like a prize pig.

Aemon found that repulsive.

It was clear the Sea Snake hoped Aemon would deal with the Braavosi suitor himself, thereby freeing his daughter from the unwanted match without tarnishing her reputation.

Moreover, Laena was too clever for her own good.

At just twelve years old, she had already set her sights on claiming Vhagar, the oldest and largest dragon in Westeros.

And she succeeded.

Even Ser Balerion the Brave hadn't tamed Vhagar until he was sixteen and knighted.

Whenever Aemon was around Laena, he felt stripped bare, as if all his secrets were laid out before her.

It was impossible to build trust under such circumstances.

Their initial friendship gradually cooled, with both of them keeping a respectful distance.

They would occasionally exchange letters or meet while flying over the Gullet.

But it never developed into something more.

"Then that settles it."

Lady Rhea's tone was calm, as if she had predicted his answer. "Since you don't care for either of them, why not marry a girl from the Vale?"

Aemon sensed something amiss. "Mother, why are you so insistent on me marrying someone from the Vale?"

When he couldn't figure out a problem, he focused on its consequences.

Tracing the effects back to their cause usually revealed the truth.

Lady Rhea explained, "If you want to establish yourself in the Vale, you need to do this."

"You're worried that if I marry a dragonrider, I'll abandon the Royces?"

Aemon closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, sighing softly.

People and dragons influenced each other.

He felt the irritation creeping in—his dragon's temper was starting to show.

His right to inherit Runestone came not only from his mother but also from his great-uncle Yorbert Royce's careful planning.

Lady Rhea's marriage to Prince Daemon had produced a son with Targaryen blood.

And the precedent was already there:

Lord Corlys Velaryon had elevated his family's power by marrying his children into the Targaryen line.

Though that gambit failed in the original timeline, the Royces now had Aemon—a dragonrider.

This put the house in a much stronger position within the Vale.

However, too much of a good thing could backfire.

If Aemon married another Targaryen or a Velaryon, their children's ties to House Royce would weaken.

At that point, the Royces might risk losing their lands and influence entirely.

It was a double-edged sword—a bold political strategy with both risks and rewards.

But Lady Rhea shook her head. "That's not all."

She continued, "If you were content to simply inherit Runestone, I wouldn't push you."

"But you're planning to settle in the River Valley. Marrying a girl from the Vale is essential."

Aemon opened his eyes, suspicion in his gaze. "You think someone will try to sabotage me?"

Lady Rhea took a sip of wine, speaking slowly. "The River Valley was once a forward outpost of House Royce. But after the Andal invasion, we lost control of it."

"For thousands of years since, the land has changed hands between Runestone, Ironoaks, and Redfort."

"More recently, with the mountain clans growing bolder, it became a no-man's-land."

Aemon suddenly understood.

The River Valley wasn't unclaimed—it was a buffer zone.

By taking it, he was stepping on the toes of several Vale lords.

And his identity made things worse.

A Targaryen prince, riding a dragon, settling in the Vale?

It sounded far too much like Aegon the Conqueror's landing at Westeros.

Lady Rhea saw it clearly. "If you want to build a future in the Vale, you must play by its rules."

She knew her son well. Beneath his easygoing demeanor, Aemon was very much like his father.

He admired dragons, was quick-witted, but lacked patience.

Such men always attracted followers, but they also provoked envy and resistance wherever they went.

Without compromise, they would find themselves isolated.

"The rules of the Vale?"

Aemon pondered the phrase carefully.

His mother was suggesting marriage as a political tool to gain recognition from the Vale's nobility.

In plain terms: a peace offering.

The lines of power were becoming clearer.

Lady Rhea waited silently, sipping her wine, giving her son time to make his decision.

After a moment, Aemon's expression hardened with resolve.

"Mother."

His tone was steady, every word deliberate. "I have a dragon. Why should I follow the Vale's rules?"

He thought back to his great-grandfather's strategies.

Compromise only led to painful consequences.

Playing by the rules of the Vale's nobility was a losing game.

Lady Rhea remained quiet, unsure of his meaning.

Aemon's gaze turned fierce. "Why don't we break those rules—and make new ones for the Vale?"

His voice carried an authority that hadn't been there before.

There was cold steel in his words—calculated and ruthless.

It was the tone of a true leader.

Lady Rhea's eyes widened in shock. "Are you planning to challenge the Arryns of the Eyrie?"

Aemon nodded without hesitation.

"Yes. Using Runestone as a base, we'll seize power in the Vale. Don't tell me Great-Uncle Yorbert never considered it."

Lady Rhea was stunned.

Because Yorbert Royce had, indeed, hinted at something similar.

She had always dismissed it as a nostalgic dream of restoring the "Bronze Kings" of old.

But now her son was speaking those same words, with conviction.

Aemon remained calm, explaining, "That idea was dismissed by both Yorbert and Great-Grandfather in its early stages."

"But it's a logical move."

He recalled his great-grandfather's endless stories.

The alliance between the Targaryens and Royces wasn't a coincidence.

And the loss of Ser Balerion the Brave had left a void in both houses.

Aemon traced his family's strategies through generations.

"Mother," he said quietly, his voice steady as stone.

"A single punch, thrown with force, is better than a hundred scattered ones."

In Westeros, power belonged to those with the strongest fist.

The lords of the Vale were nothing but sheep.

And he…

With unwavering calm, Aemon declared,

"I am the dragon born of bronze and fire. I eat sheep."