Chapter 1: Aemon of Runestone CityWesteros

Westeros, a continent of great power and legend.

Since Aegon the Conqueror tamed dragons and, alongside his sister-wives, Queen Visenya and Queen Rhaenys, subjugated the Seven Kingdoms, the continent had been united. With his ascension to the Iron Throne, history marked the beginning of a new era: 1 AC (Aegon's Conquest). Everything before was now referred to as BC (Before Conquest), and everything after, AC (After Conquest).

109 AC — The Vale, Runestone City

"The Royce family is one of the oldest and most noble houses in the Vale. Their sigil is a pile of runestones between two rune-carved lines on an orange field," an elderly maester read aloud from a worn book.

The chamber was well-furnished. Bearskins and swords adorned the walls, exuding a low-key yet undeniable air of nobility and strength. Two boys sat at a long table, listening to the maester's lecture.

Aemon, the younger of the two, stifled a yawn behind the book he held up.

He was utterly exhausted.

The previous night had been restless, filled with strange, fragmented dreams that left him feeling drained.

His companion, William, a boy five years older than him, sat upright, eyes fixed on the maester. When he noticed Aemon struggling to stay awake, he shot him a look of disdain before turning his attention back to the lesson.

Aemon barely registered the glance.

At only eight years old, he was far younger than William and had neither the patience nor the interest to sit through tedious lessons.

They say that a child without a mother is like a weed, and a child without a father will always go hungry.

But Aemon's situation was different.

His mother was Lady Laena Royce, Countess of Runestone, a woman who loved hunting more than mothering. His father, Daemon Targaryen, was rarely home, always off chasing glory and adventure.

Both had abandoned their only son to be raised by others.

Aemon had long grown used to it.

However, beneath his youthful appearance, his soul was far older.

In his past life, he had been a high school student, carefree and content, before fate intervened.

One moment, he was crossing the street, eating a popsicle, humming a song.

The next, he was here—reincarnated as Aemon Targaryen, a prince of the most powerful dynasty in Westeros.

His father, Daemon Targaryen, was a renowned warrior, rebellious yet fiercely talented. His uncle, Viserys I Targaryen, sat on the Iron Throne.

By all accounts, Aemon was born into greatness.

But his family was fractured.

His mother, Laena, came from the esteemed Royce family of the Vale, a noble house of ancient Andals. She held the title of Countess of Runestone, a position secured for her by her uncle, Jobert Royce, the former Regent of the Vale and Warden of the East.

The match between Daemon and Laena had not been one of love.

It had been a political arrangement—one meant to secure the support of the Vale in future conflicts.

Daemon, however, despised the marriage. He mockingly referred to his wife as his "bronze woman," claiming even the goats of the Vale were more attractive.

They had only shared a bed once.

And from that single night, Aemon was born.

"Mother is beautiful," Aemon muttered under his breath. "Father just has terrible taste."

His mind wandered, and his small body slumped forward against the table.

Despite being reborn, he had taken things in stride.

If fate had made him a child again, he would simply enjoy childhood while it lasted.

But he had one goal—to prevent the tragedy of the Dance of the Dragons from ever happening.

Boom!

The old maester slammed his book shut, startling Aemon.

"Aemon," the maester said sternly, "tell me—what is the motto of House Royce?"

Aemon blinked, mind racing. Then, almost instinctively, he answered:

"We Remember."

The old maester nodded in approval. "Yes, 'We Remember.'"

He fixed Aemon with a knowing look, one that made the young prince uneasy.

After a brief silence, Aemon asked, "Maester Seuss, why don't you ask me about the words of House Targaryen?"

"Because your mother does not like Targaryens," Seuss replied smoothly.

Aemon frowned. "But I am a Targaryen."

His silver-blond hair and violet eyes left no doubt about his Valyrian heritage.

The old maester merely gave him a sympathetic glance before closing his book and leaving the room.

Aemon tilted his head in confusion.

Then, realization struck.

His mother didn't just dislike House Targaryen—she disliked him as well.

Not because of anything he had done, but because of who his father was.

After Class

Once dismissed, Aemon eagerly left the hall, shaking off William as he rushed down the stone corridors.

Runestone was a fortress, a great stronghold of the Vale, but for a child, it was nothing more than a gilded cage.

The moment he entered his chambers, an elderly septa approached.

"Prince, would you like to have lunch first, or recite the Seven Sacred Scriptures?"

Aemon groaned internally.

"I'm tired," he said quickly. "Let's talk about it in half an hour. I need a nap."

The septa hesitated but eventually nodded, allowing him some respite.

Once she was gone, Aemon climbed into bed, but sleep did not come.

Instead, he grew restless.

After a moment, he got up, walked to the corner of the room, and pulled out a round black steel stove.

Click!

He lifted the lid, and warm steam rose into the air.

Aemon's face flushed from the heat as he reached inside and pulled out a large, dark egg.

It was nearly a foot long, covered in diamond-shaped scales, as hard as stone.

A dragon egg.

All Targaryen children were given dragon eggs in the cradle. If they hatched, the young dragon would bond with them for life.

Aemon had never received the warmth of a mother's embrace.

But he had this.

The egg had once belonged to his great-grandfather, Jaehaerys I, the "Old King." He had placed it in Aemon's cradle before passing away in 104 AC.

Aemon turned the egg in his hands, frowning.

"Why haven't you hatched yet?"

Targaryen dragons were legendary. But Aemon had waited eight years, and nothing had happened.

He sighed. A Targaryen without a dragon is nothing but an ordinary man.

Without a dragon, he had no way to change the course of history.

The Dance of the Dragons was approaching. A devastating civil war that would nearly wipe out both dragons and Targaryens alike.

Aemon wanted to stop it.

But to do that, he needed power.

Dragons were power.

Just as he was about to place the egg back into the stove, a strange voice echoed in his mind.

"Magic detected. Acquiring essence… +3 magic points."

Aemon froze.

His heart began to race.

"What…?"

He sat up, eyes wide in shock.

Something had just changed.

And for the first time, Aemon felt that his destiny was no longer bound by the pages of history.