About fifteen minutes later…
In a quiet corner of the great hall, away from the revelry and toasts, two silver-haired boys—one big, one small—sat facing each other, thick as thieves.
Aemon grinned wickedly, plucked a blueberry from the silver dish between them, and popped it into baby Aegon's mouth. Half the fruit vanished behind his chubby lips, while the other half smeared down his cheek in a trail of slobbery blue.
By the time the plate was empty, Aegon's little belly was bulging, and his face and mouth were thoroughly stained, like someone had tried to paint a portrait of a blueberry and missed.
"Prince Aemon," the plump maidservant fretted, dabbing nervously at her apron, "the Queen will have your head if she sees him like this."
"It's fine," Aemon said airily, utterly unbothered. "If Alis—Queen Alicent—asks, I'll take the blame."
He looked far too pleased with himself.
Little Aegon whimpered, shaking his head with a messy mouth: "Brutha, I don'… wan' eat!"
Aemon blinked. "Did you just speak?"
It wasn't the babyish babble he was used to—it was High Valyrian. Still clumsy, but unmistakable.
"Well I'll be…" he murmured. "Is it 'cause I keep talking to you in Valyrian? Are you learning just to keep up?"
"Y-yeah," Aegon mumbled, nodding as fast as his neck could manage, all protest abandoned.
Aemon set the last few berries aside and beamed in triumph.
That's how it's done. Barely able to speak, and the little gremlin's already picked up his mother tongue. Take that, Common Tongue.
It reminded him of stories Daemon once told—of how Aemon's great-grandfather had been taught Valyrian by his mother and aunt. The language's clipped, rhythmic syllables were a lot like Chinese—concise, poetic, powerful. He'd always found it easier to learn than the vulgar tongues of Westeros.
"Right then," Aemon said, striking a triumphant pose, hands on hips. "Alis should be thanking me. Just taught her precious son how to speak."
He hadn't even finished gloating when—
"Aemon, what are you—?" Alicent's voice sliced through the air like a dagger.
She rushed forward, scooped up Aegon, and gasped at the sight of him. "What in the Seven Hells have you done to him?"
The sight of her blueberry-covered son left her torn between fury and laughter.
"I was just… experimenting," Aemon offered sheepishly.
Alicent fished out a handkerchief and tried to wipe the blue off Aegon's face, but it only made the mess worse, spreading it like ink on parchment.
Aegon clambered into her arms with a pitiful cry: "Mooom~~!"
"You're speaking now?" Alicent blinked in surprise.
Aegon made no reply. Just tucked his stained face into her shoulder.
"Well, I suppose it's a start," she sighed, chuckling despite herself. "Maybe he should spend more time with the other children."
She gave Aemon a teasing look. "Thank you, Aemon."
Aemon quickly dropped his hands from his hips and smiled with all the charm of a cat caught red-handed by a canary cage. "You're welcome."
Alicent, exasperated and smiling all at once, walked off with her son in her arms. Just before she left, she cast Aemon a lingering glance over her shoulder. Her expression was unreadable—part fondness, part caution—before she turned and quickened her pace down the corridor.
Aemon watched her go, waving lazily.
Behind him, light footsteps.
He turned and found Rhaenyra standing there, face drawn and distant.
He hadn't seen her all night.
She forced a smile. "Teasing Aegon now, are we?"
"Are you upset?" he asked gently, tilting his head, his gaze open and earnest.
She froze, lips parting. "No."
"Mmm," he hummed, not buying it for a second.
She looked away, fiddling with the clasp of her gown. "They didn't have my favourite cake," she muttered.
Aemon nodded slowly. Right. Cake.
But he didn't push. She was trying to save face—and he knew why.
Today was Aegon's naming day celebration. Half the lords in the realm had lined up to praise the baby prince. Rhaenyra, the heir to the Iron Throne, had been left adrift, smiled at politely but overlooked by many.
Of course she was bitter.
"Hey, remember what you promised me yesterday?" he said, shifting the mood. "Since the party's a bust, want to head to the Dragonpit together?"
Rhaenyra hesitated, glanced around, and gave a small shrug. "Sure. Might as well."
"Excellent!" Aemon cheered.
No one noticed the pair slipping away from the banquet. They crossed the outer yard and passed through the castle gates, which creaked open to reveal the streets of King's Landing beyond.
"Wait," Rhaenyra said suddenly. "I didn't summon Ser Cole. How are we getting there?"
"No need," Aemon said proudly, thumping his chest. "I came prepared."
As if on cue, a white-painted carriage rolled up to the gates. At the reins was Ser Steve, ever dependable.
"Ta-da," Aemon grinned.
Rhaenyra raised her brows, impressed. "Not bad."
Ser Steve leaned down and carefully lifted the young prince into the carriage. Aemon beamed the whole time.
They weren't alone—three guards, summoned hastily from the banquet, followed on horseback. Just enough of a retinue to satisfy protocol.
Halfway through the journey, the carriage bumped gently over the cobbles. Aemon and Rhaenyra sat opposite each other, silent, while a squire named William—close to Rhaenyra's age—sat near the luggage, keeping watch over Aemon's leather satchel.
Click.
Aemon opened the portable furnace, revealing a black dragon egg resting inside, still warm and pulsing with potential.
A puff of white smoke curled out.
"You have discovered a magic-infused object. +3 Magic Essence."
He sighed. The dragon egg still hadn't hatched.
Even if it did, a hatchling would be of little use in the looming chaos of the Dance of Dragons. Not yet.
There's only one path forward, Aemon thought grimly.
He said nothing, and Rhaenyra, still brooding, didn't ask.
The carriage grew quieter, the air between them heavier.
William cleared his throat nervously and, after a sideways glance at the princess, murmured, "I—I'm going to… learn how to drive the cart."
Without waiting for permission, he clambered out and slammed the door behind him.
Aemon groaned inwardly. Hopeless. Boars don't dine on truffles, after all.
"I'm sorry," Rhaenyra said after a long moment. "I was lost in thought again."
"No need to apologise," Aemon replied, closing the lid on the furnace and carefully securing the satchel.
Finding sources of magic essence wasn't easy.
So far, only two items provided a stable yield: Valyrian steel and dragon eggs.
The Red Keep housed Blackfyre, the ancestral sword of House Targaryen—he still needed to test if it produced essence over time.
In Runestone, where he would one day go, Lamentation awaited—his mother Laena's house blade. It was said to be potent, and possibly more generous with its essence.
Dragon eggs, on the other hand, were low-yield, but plentiful. If nothing went awry, the Dragonpit might be hiding a treasure trove.
Aemon sighed.
If only I had a spell to detect magical items, he thought. Would make this so much easier.
Right… I haven't checked my cards today.
Summoning the ornate system panel in his mind, he prepared to browse.
Squeak—
The carriage rolled to a stop.
"We're here, Prince. Princess," came Ser Steve's voice. "The Dragonpit awaits."
Rhaenyra tucked a strand of silver hair behind her ear and forced a smile.
"Let's see if we can find something worth the trip."