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"Should we write back to the princess?"

The Old Maester took out paper and pen and asked as usual.

"Of course."

Aemon answered crisply, then added, "You write it for me. Compliment her on my behalf."

He did not dare put pen to paper himself.

The moment he held a pen, he would inevitably be made to copy history books.

The Old Maester chuckled, shook his head, and began writing.

Smiling, Aemon leaned over the desk and suddenly asked, "Maester, how can I earn the recognition of the Royce clan?"

"That is a profound question."

The Old Maester paused and considered. "Your great-grandfather, King Jaehaerys, did very well in this regard. He chose to integrate."

Aemon frowned, carefully pondering the deeper meaning.

The Targaryen dynasty had been founded by Aegon the Conqueror, passed in succession to "weak Aenys I," and then usurped by "Maegor the Cruel" after his death.

The three monarchs had vastly different temperaments, and their policies and results during their reigns had differed greatly as well.

The Conqueror had been the founding king. On the surface, no one had dared oppose him.

But during the Dornish War, he had lost his most beloved sister and queen.

Until his death, the Seven Kingdoms had never been united.

There was not much to say about Aenys I. He had been a flower in the cradle, raised by his mighty father, and upon taking the throne, he faced all the hidden dangers left behind by the Conqueror.

His body could not endure the strain, and he died of illness.

Maegor I had been too brutal. He usurped the throne of his nephew, "Aegon the Uncrowned," committing the unforgivable crime of kinslaying.

Yet one point could not be denied.

His cruelty and iron-fisted methods had laid the foundation for the Targaryen dynasty's century-long rule, clearing away most of the obstacles for the next king.

And the fourth monarch had been his great-grandfather, Jaehaerys I.

Jaehaerys inherited the throne as a child. In his youth, he was supported and sidelined by his birth mother, the Dowager Queen, and his stepfather, Lord Baratheon. After reaching adulthood, he gradually reclaimed power.

He had been a king by nature.

During his reign, he signed the "Peace Accord" with the Faith of the Seven, toured the realm to win over the nobility, and built the "Kingsroad" to break through the barriers between the regions.

He was equally decisive in foreign wars, repelling Dornish invasions several times.

Had he not lost two outstanding heirs in succession during his later years, his life would have been perfect.

Aemon's little brows furrowed deeper and deeper. He reached into the drawer and took out a Seven Stars Sigil, his expression grave. "The Targaryens worship the Seven and integrate into the traditions of Westeros."

Only then could they be accepted.

The Old Maester nodded and advised, "I hear the King is a devout follower of the Seven. Even the Queen and princess often visit the Great Sept of Baelor."

Aemon looked up and saw the Old Maester wink at him.

"That is true enough."

Alicent was indeed a steadfast follower of the Seven, though the other two were not necessarily the same.

That indirectly showed that integration was one solution.

But—

"I refuse." Aemon's face was solemn.

The Old Maester was not surprised. From an observer's perspective, he said, "Integration means changing oneself. It is a painful process."

Even King Jaehaerys had needed decades of effort after making that choice.

Much less an eight-year-old child.

"I am not afraid of hardship, but I do not want to compromise."

Aemon shook his head, holding his own view as High Valyrian slipped from his lips. "I am who I am; this path will not work!"

"Mm, it seems you have another idea."

The Old Maester was easygoing and did not try to persuade him further.

Instead, he was gratified that the boy had his own convictions and knew how to think.

Aemon forced a smile, unable to voice his bitterness.

His great-grandfather had been lonely in his later years, filled with regrets at death's door.

That so-called integration had scraped away his very "bones and blood."

The old man and the child discussed matters while everyone else stared blankly.

They could not understand. They simply could not understand.

The Old Maester lacked the energy to spare, so he bent over his writing, focusing on how to reply without being discourteous.

Aemon drooped his head, his little hands constantly rummaging through the drawer.

He had to think of a solution that could satisfy both sides.

At the very least, he needed to clear up the misunderstanding. Even treating the symptoms rather than the root cause would do.

A quarter of an hour passed.

The Old Maester finished the reply and slowly sealed it, pressing wax onto the envelope.

Bang!

Aemon slapped the desk, his little face flushed with excitement. "Maester, will this work!?"

When he lifted his hand, a House Royce sigil lay beneath it.

The Old Maester looked surprised. Thinking of the difficulty of changing banners, he shook his head. "It could work, but you would not get past the King. It would bury your Ancient Valyrian bloodline."

The Targaryens were few in number.

The Prince had established himself in the Vale as a branch of the royal family.

How could he change his banner on his own authority?

Hearing this, Aemon took out a Three-Headed Red Dragon sigil and asked again, "Will this work?"

The Old Maester still shook his head and said quietly, "That could work too, but even with Lady Rhea as your mother, changing House Royce's banner would require generations of conciliation."

Daemon's marriage to Lady Rhea had been arranged while Queen Alysanne was still alive.

The original intention had been to rein in her unruly grandson and provide him with fertile ground to expand his lineage.

Unfortunately, the marriage had not been harmonious, and the previous generation had already left a rift behind.

For Prince Aemon to mend that rift was already no easy feat.

Aemon's expression turned serious. He stacked the two sigils together and asked with deliberate care, "Then will this and this work if they are combined?"

This time, he was not asking. He was certain.

He would abandon the crests of House Targaryen and House Royce, merging them into a personal sigil!

The method was simple, but its meaning ran deep.

The Old Maester was filled with solemn admiration. "It can work! But you must accomplish something, or you will not be able to convince others."

Merging the sigils was meant to combine the strengths of both houses.

If it could not create unity, it would become a laughingstock.

Aemon understood that clearly, but he had no better or safer shortcut.

He summoned William, who had been sitting upright, handed him the two sigils, and instructed, "Take these to Prince's Camp. The craftsmen will know how to make the banner."

Prince's Camp was the temporary area where the slaves and his fifty Vale Knights were stationed.

It belonged to him and lay outside Runestone's administration.

"Yes, Prince!"

William was invigorated and set off at once.

Aemon scratched his head and said troubledly, "Maester, I have many ideas, but I lack wise people to help me."

He was not exceptionally clever. He was exceptionally hardworking.

But that was all right.

Reading history made one wise. Many founding rulers had not been strategists who could plan a thousand miles ahead.

If he could not be a fine steed, he would be the one who recognized fine steeds.

Knowing people and using them well could also achieve great things.

The Old Maester hesitated, then said weakly, "I am already sixty years old."

Sixty was not an age for striving.

"That is not what I meant."

Dark lines crossed Aemon's face as he pleaded, "Do you know anyone at the Citadel? Help me find two reliable people."

"I do know someone, but are you sure you need them?"

The Old Maester asked cautiously.

"Yes, I do. I absolutely do!" Aemon answered with utmost certainty.

The Citadel was Westeros's only institution of learning. It assigned maesters to the castles of the great noble lords, embedding the Citadel's prestige deep into people's hearts.

Without question, the later extinction of dragons had involved the Citadel, which denied magic, pulling strings behind the scenes.

But as the saying went—

Power was often controlled by a small handful of people.

They could not all be condemned with one stroke.

Seeing that the Prince was not playing around, the Old Maester pondered for a moment before saying, "I have a distant nephew studying diligently at the Citadel. He already wears six Chain Links, and his abilities surpass mine."

"Can you bring him here?"

Aemon's eyes lit up. The Citadel really did produce talent!

"We can try."

The Old Maester chuckled and agreed. "But the Citadel is far from Runestone. Sending messages back and forth will take a long time, so you will need some patience."

"No problem. I'll go talk to my mother about it right now."

Aemon was brimming with fighting spirit.

All right, friends, dragon taming was in the not-too-distant future.

Very soon. No lie.