Sarcasm vs. a Honeyed Tongue

The dragon's arrival immediately alarmed the entire castle.

Servants scattered into hiding while soldiers poured out in droves.

"Hold! That's Prince Daemon!"

Seeing chaos about to erupt, Ser Steve shouted repeatedly.

Faced with the dragon, the soldiers were terrified. They surrounded it from afar but did not dare approach.

"What a huge dragon. As expected of Caraxes."

Aemon had eyes only for the "Blood Wyrm," his breathing quickening.

Even its name suited it perfectly.

"Screech!"

Caraxes was wild-tempered. It roared at the soldiers gathered around it, stirring up a second blast of scorching wind.

In an instant, the entire scene fell silent.

"Quiet, Caraxes."

The man on the dragon's back looked down and gently patted its back.

When Aemon looked at him again, he happened to be facing the glaring sun and could not see him clearly.

Meanwhile, the man on the dragon's back slowly climbed down.

The soldiers drew their swords one after another, afraid the dragon might suddenly go berserk.

Daemon paid them no heed. Having spotted a flash of silver-gold hair long ago, he strode purposefully toward it.

"Prince!"

Ser Steve was on guard, stepping in front of the Prince.

Though they were father and son, duty compelled him to remain vigilant.

He had heard that Prince Daemon did not like the son borne by his first wife, calling him a dragon hatchling that refused to grow up.

Not long after Lady Rhea gave birth, he had even called his son a bastard seed.

The matter quickly reached old King Jaehaerys, who brought the newborn Prince back to the Red Keep and personally raised him.

Eight years had passed in the blink of an eye. Who knew whether father and son could coexist peacefully?

Daemon did not slow down. He cast the White Knight an indifferent glance and continued until he could get no closer.

He lowered his head and silently examined the only silver-haired boy present.

"Ser, it's fine."

Aemon was calm as he stepped out from behind the others.

Less than two feet apart, the older and younger Targaryen studied each other.

Daemon had a stern face and a tall, lean frame. His hardened leather armor lent him an efficient, capable air.

Most striking of all—

He wore a crown of driftwood atop his head, and the shoulder-length hair Aemon remembered had been cut into short silver-gold locks that hung by his ears.

Aemon could not help wondering about the purpose of his visit.

Had his conscience finally stirred, reminding him that he had a son?

Or had he simply come to Runestone to flaunt his achievements?

Daemon was also studying the boy before him.

His height was decent. He had inherited the beauty of the Targaryens, and beads of sweat from recent training still dotted his forehead.

What pleased Daemon most was that the Little One had courage. He had remained composed throughout.

After a few seconds—

Aemon hesitated, then took the initiative to greet him. "Hello, Father."

His voice was dry.

There was no affection in it, only courtesy.

Daemon smiled faintly and glanced at the distinctive Two-Part Banner among the outer ranks of soldiers. He spoke in High Valyrian. "It seems you've found a way to get along."

He had thought the rumors from King's Landing were false.

The White Hart, being granted the title of Prince, beloved by the people...

Was that really his son?

Ah, so he was simply precocious.

Aemon raised a brow and replied in High Valyrian, "You're wearing a crown."

"You're already a Prince. I can't exactly stand still."

Amusement glinted in Daemon's eyes. He was fairly satisfied with this son of his.

He was proficient in Valyrian.

Not only did that make communication easier, but it could also strengthen their bond.

Aemon opened his mouth, but had nothing to say.

Was he supposed to say that his uncle had personally bestowed this title upon him?

And that while Daemon wore a crown, did his dear uncle—his wonderful brother—know about it?

Daemon did not know what his son was thinking. He looked around at the soldiers standing by and calmly said, "You're the master here. Won't you show me some hospitality?"

It was a stiff attempt to change the subject.

Aemon did not press further and turned to lead the way.

His face remained impassive, but inwardly, he breathed a sigh of relief.

It would have been a lie to say he was not nervous around his father, Daemon.

In eight years, father and son had met fewer times than he could count on one hand.

Before this meeting, he had imagined all sorts of scenarios.

Daemon might dislike him on sight and say something hurtful.

Or perhaps they would dislike each other and stir up some family conflict.

Fortunately, Daemon seemed at least a little like a father, and his attitude toward him was not bad.

There would be no need for a father-son falling-out.

Inside the spacious hall.

"Husband, what wind has blown you to the Vale?"

Lady Rhea sat in the seat of honor and asked curiously, "Have you finally remembered that you have a family and come home for a reunion?"

Daemon stood in the hall, his expression cold.

Lady Rhea proudly raised her swanlike neck and sneered, "Though I am unwilling, perhaps the goats of the Vale would be."

"After all, our sheep are prettier. Pick whichever flock you like and enjoy yourself."

Those were insults he had once thrown at her.

Just as House Royce's words declared: "We Remember."

Daemon listened to every word, then shifted his gaze elsewhere, the corner of his lips curling in scorn.

If not for seeing his son, he truly would rather have found a goat to hold while he slept.

Aemon stood nearby, completely dumbfounded.

His mother was terrifyingly aggressive, the complete opposite of her usual taciturn self.

Yes, Lady Rhea was still going.

Her gaze swept over the crown atop her husband's head, and the hostility in her eyes deepened. She mocked, "I hear you won a war. Rather than throw yourself into your brother's warm embrace, you chose to play house in the Stepstones?"

It was a remote wasteland where not even birds would shit.

Yet he thought occupying it would let him stand on equal footing with his brother, the King.

What a colossal joke.

Daemon remained silent, merely glancing at his son beside him with an unreadable expression.

"What exactly is your purpose in coming to Runestone?"

Lady Rhea restrained herself slightly and asked warily, "Did you come to show off your ridiculous crown, or to take away your blood?"

She knew her husband too well.

He would not set foot in the Vale without reason.

It had to be said, a woman's intuition was accurate.

Daemon raised his head, his gaze falling entirely on his son. "You've raised him well. He has some of the bearing of a Targaryen."

"Heh. Hearing praise come from your mouth is like watching a dog stop eating shit."

Lady Rhea gave a cold laugh, her words dripping with sarcasm.

Daemon looked at her disdainfully before turning toward the exit. "The boy stays with you. The Vale suits him better."

Then he called to Aemon, "Take me for a walk. I can barely breathe in this castle that reeks of sheep dung."

"Daemon, he is my son. He will never leave with you."

Lady Rhea exclaimed.

Daemon turned a deaf ear and strode out the doors.

Seeing that his mother did not stop him, Aemon pondered for a moment before following his father, Daemon.

The two of them were fundamentally incompatible. It was better to keep their distance.

The moment they stepped outside, Daemon took a deep breath and cursed, "Bitch!"

Aemon: ...

As expected of you, Father!

What a honeyed tongue.

Daemon had been holding himself back hard. He had not started a huge argument in front of his son.

He was practically seeing red.

Outside Runestone.

The two silver-haired figures, one large and one small, walked together across a grassy field lush with green leaves.

Father and son were unfamiliar with each other, and neither spoke.

The farther they walked, the more oppressive the silence became.

"Sc... reech..."

Caraxes lay not far away, its long neck raised high as it watched with great interest.

Hearing it, Aemon looked over, a flash of envy crossing his eyes.

Of all the dragons he had seen, Caraxes could absolutely be called a giant dragon.

It was far larger than Syrax.

Even compared with the older Dreamfyre, it was no smaller.

Thanks to its serpentine, flexible, slender body, it was even longer, reaching an astonishing sixty meters or more.

Paired with its broad crimson wings, it was simply a nightmare for enemies on the ground.

"You like it?"

Daemon suddenly spoke.

Aemon paused, then answered, "It's enormous, and fierce."

"Targaryen men should come into contact with dragons early."

Daemon nodded lightly and changed direction.

Aemon's heart leaped with joy, and he hurried after him.

"Screech!"

Caraxes let out a low growl, its massive body swaying slightly.

Daemon walked up beside the fearsome dragon's head and held out his hand. "Come. Give me your hand."

Aemon did as he was told.

Without further explanation, Daemon took the small hand marked red from sword practice and pressed it against the side of the dragon's head, covered in scarlet scales.