Get comfortable, turn the page, and let’s see what this story has been hiding 🔥 ✦ A small silver-haired figure darted from one corner of the crypt to the next, lively as a child turned loose in a treasure room.
Runestone honored bronze.
The crypt held bronze armor left behind by generations of Royce ancestors.
Most of it was badly damaged, and even the youngest pieces were at least a thousand years old.
Handled without care, armor eaten thin by verdigris might crumble on the spot.
That was what time and neglect did.
After a busy stretch of searching, Vaelor found three suits of bronze armor in passable condition.
One was little more than a breastplate.
The other two were missing arms, legs, or both.
[Essence Panel] Damaged magical objects detected.
Magic Essence +5.
Magic Essence +3.
Magic Essence +5.
Magic Essence: 16.
The golden hourglass turned end over end, shining softly until it finally came to a stop.
“Why are the numbers different?” Vaelor was panting from exertion.
He bent over and lifted the oil lamp to study the armor.
The first suit and the last were relatively complete.
More runes had been carved across their bronze plates, forming circular patterns at the chest and wrists.
The suit that gave the least essence was covered in verdigris.
Its surface was weak and brittle, and only the breastplate still retained a faint ring of ordered runes.
After its magic had been drawn out, those runes seemed even deader than before.
Even the stale copper smell grew stronger.
Vaelor’s eyes shifted thoughtfully.
The magic had probably come from the ancient runes.
Only some forgotten power once held by the First Men could have drawn magic to itself after so many centuries.
‘When Mother comes back, I should ask her.’ Perhaps she would know something useful.
He needed more magic.
Once he confirmed that the crypt held no other bronze armor worth using, Vaelor dusted off his dirty little hands and prepared to exchange for a magic card.
“Gods be good.” He muttered the words under his breath and tapped the white card on the panel.
It was the only card he could afford.
Bronze armor was different from a living dragon egg.
Its ability to store and gather magic was poor.
After this sweep through the crypt, who knew when it could be used again?
Pop.
The panel flared with blinding light beneath his fingertip.
The card marked [Guidance: One Use] shattered in an instant.
A phantom golden finger emerged from it and pointed east, beyond the crypt.
Vaelor’s mouth opened in surprise.
A scene suddenly appeared in his mind.
East of Runestone, near the coast, a stretch of low hills rolled beside the sea.
His vision drew closer and closer until it stopped on a cluster of soft, slender, dark-green grass.
The blades swayed gently, releasing a faint fragrance.
“I think I know where that is.” The vision faded.
Vaelor matched it with his own memories and left the crypt in high spirits.
Even his steps had a bounce to them.
The Vale was a land of sharp contrasts.
Its terrain changed wildly from place to place, and the wealth of its nobles changed just as much.
House Royce had once been illustrious beyond question, and its domain remained vast.
Farmland, grazing land, timber, stone: it lacked almost nothing.
If the long eastern coastline below Runestone had not been all towering cliffs and reef-choked beaches, with no proper place to build a harbor, even its old neighbor Gulltown, the Vale’s only true city, might not have been able to compare.
The place shown by [Guidance: One Use] was a lush pasture on the eastern coast.
That tuft of fine, dark-green grass was the medicine he needed for sleeplessness and strange dreams.
Creak.
A wooden hatch lifted from below, and a small silver-gold head peeked out.
Vaelor looked left and right.
After confirming no one was nearby, he began climbing out.
“What were you doing in there?” He had only made it halfway up when a man’s rough, deep voice rumbled overhead like thunder.
Vaelor jumped.
His eyes went round.
‘Who is that?’ Thump.
A large foot kicked the wooden hatch wide.
Vaelor, suddenly very aware of his own collar, was lifted by the back of it and set on the ground.
The sunlight was bright enough to make him squint.
He looked around.
Still the rear yard of Runestone.
A towering figure stood before him, blocking the glare.
The man lowered a rough, dark-faced head and stared down.
“Gunthor?” The man before him stood more than seven feet tall.
In the future Vaelor remembered, even the monstrous Mountain would not stand much taller.
Once he recognized the man, Vaelor straightened his little neck and gave a haughty nod.
“Are you questioning me?” If the nod counted as a greeting, then he had greeted him.
Yes, this was exactly his attitude.
If Gunthor disliked it, he was welcome to try striking him.
In Runestone, perhaps in all Westeros, there was not a soul who could casually lay hands on Vaelor Targaryen.
At eight years old, Vaelor had already mastered the art of being impossible to handle.
Gunthor Royce, the seven-foot giant, apparently accepted that method.
He gave a perfunctory bow.
“Prince Vaelor, may I ask what you thought of the crypt?” “Nothing in particular.
It needs cleaning.” Vaelor stood and patted the dirt from his clothes.
With no righteous ground beneath him, he supplied his own.
“It was too filthy, so I cleaned it myself.” Then he waved a small hand, generously sparing Gunthor the trouble of thanking him.
His birth was noble and complicated in equal measure.
He lived in Runestone, but carried the name Targaryen.
Unless something unexpected happened, he would one day inherit House Royce’s ancestral seat.
That should have settled the matter.
Unfortunately, his mother, Lady Rhea, spent her days hunting and paid very little attention to her fine son.
Worse, she never spoke clearly about the succession.
Her attitude remained vague.
That ambiguity left the cadet branches and collateral lines of House Royce whispering in private, and some of them inevitably began to grow ideas.
To avoid trouble, Vaelor treated them with exceptional hardness.
He yielded nothing, not even an inch.
Gunthor’s brows drew together.
A fierce pressure rolled off him.
He did not need to say a word.
His mountainlike size was oppressive enough.
“Was there something else?” Vaelor was not afraid.
He stretched his small neck straight and even leaned forward a little, as if daring the man to remember who he was.
The message was obvious.
Hit me, then.
Gunthor’s expression worsened, but he had no proper answer for a silver-haired child barely up to his thigh.
He came from one of House Royce’s cadet branches, an old knightly line.
His blood was not as direct as Lady Rhea’s, which meant he had no claim to Runestone.
For now, he served as the castle’s master-at-arms.
With his absurd size, he had always been the one doing the intimidating.
He had rarely looked this helpless.
“If you have nothing else, you may go.” Vaelor held the advantage and immediately turned to leave before it could vanish.
The seven-foot brute was no ordinary man.
In Fire & Blood, he had left his mark.
After Lady Rhea’s death, a cousin would be appointed to inherit Runestone.
After the Dance of the Dragons, however, Runestone’s lord would be Gunthor Royce, known as the Bronze Giant.
Strictly speaking, a crossbowman from Runestone would one day kill one of Vaelor’s future brothers-in-law during a confrontation with this man.
Vaelor walked quickly away, but his thoughts drifted to his absent father.
Daemon had not yet become entangled with the woman who would be his second wife.
Sisters were still an open question.
He had only taken two quick steps when Gunthor’s distinctive rumble came from behind him.
“Lady Rhea is returning from the hunt.
Septa Martha is looking everywhere for you so you can wash and be ready to greet her.” “Mother is coming back!” Vaelor’s soft cheeks trembled once.
His steps grew even faster.
Without another word for the seven-foot giant, he vanished through the rear yard of Runestone.
✦ ✦ ✦ Ready for more?
CREATORS’ THOUGHTS EmberHollow Thank you for reading.
I hope this chapter pulled you deeper into the story.
Stick around, because there’s still a lot waiting just ahead.