—Aemon's POV—
After being named Crown Prince, we all moved to Dragonstone.
It was quieter than the capital, but there was an edge to the silence—like everyone was waiting for something. Or someone. Probably me.
Now that I held the title, it was time to stop playing at prince and start acting like one. I needed to be more than a symbol. I had to move. I had to prepare. If I waited too long, I'd be reacting to the game instead of shaping it.
So, I started with the second step: Training.
I asked my father for permission to begin. He said no at first—too young, too soon, too much. He thought I'd end up bruised or worse. I told him I wouldn't touch a weapon yet, just rough-and-tumble practice with someone from the men-at-arms. "No swords. No spears. Just running, grappling, some play-fighting," I said.
He relented. Reluctantly.
A common guard was assigned to keep an eye on me, make sure I didn't break a bone trying to play knight.
But the man wasn't common at all. He was the Faceless Man—back again, wearing a new face, same cold eyes. He was here to help me. Not to protect me. To teach.
"You're just here to show me how this assassin's body technique works," I told him. "I'm not using it exactly as it is. I'm not some mad zealot trying to destroy myself for power."
He gave no reply. Just a nod. That meant he understood.
I'd already gathered my own small group—three boys I'd taken under my wing.
They were orphans from Flea Bottom. Broken little souls, scavengers and survivors. But they were eager. Hungry for a better life. On Grandfather Baelon's word and my promise of future and purpose, they'd sworn loyalty to me. Now they were my companions. My friends.
The tallest was Hobb—strong, thick-headed, but steady. Rolly was small and quick, like a fox darting through the woods. Todric, the silent one, had the makings of a damn good archer. Focused. Precise. He rarely spoke, but when he did, it was worth hearing.
I didn't treat them like tools. Even though I intended to use them—build something with them—I owed it to them to make them into something more. I taught them everything I could: strength training from my world, basic weapon forms from knights I'd hired from House Hightower, and discipline. More importantly, I taught them morals. Honor. Brotherhood. Code.
This world was cruel. But these boys were still children. If I was going to raise them into warriors, I'd do it the right way. Not like the monsters that raised others.
Once their basic routine was in place, I wrote to the Citadel, calling on Baelor, Theon, Alister, and Perestan—the friends I'd come to trust, men with minds sharp enough to help me lay foundations. I needed them to start setting up the frameworks: factories, supply chains, training centers. We weren't just building muscles here. We were building a future.
With the Faceless Man's guidance, I began adapting the "Assassin's Body" art to the boys' training. I made their schedules myself—workout regimens, diet plans, sleep cycles. Everything was structured. We kept what worked. We threw away what didn't. Bit by bit, we shaped something new.
I trained alongside them. Morning runs. Afternoon yoga. Evening breathing drills. Meditation. Stamina building. Pain tolerance exercises. I didn't lead from the throne—I led from the dirt, sweating beside them.
But as we went deeper into the art, we hit a wall.
The Assassin's Body method, in its pure form, had three core pillars:
Magical Potions to stimulate the body, to introduce magic power.
Blood Magic Rites to strengthen muscle and bone by force with magic.
Curses that allowed one to use that magic passively, permanently.
It sounded powerful. Too powerful. Which meant it came with cost.
The potions were dangerous. They built magic, yes—but they slowly ruined the body. Liver, nerves, heart—over time, the damage was irreversible.
The blood magic was worse. It gave strength in the short term but left long-term weakness—hidden internal scars that even healers couldn't find. The very act of using it made your body more brittle, more volatile.
And the curses? They locked the power in place… at the cost of binding your own life to it. You became a tool of your own design.
I couldn't allow that. I wouldn't let the boys go through that, and I wouldn't do it to myself.
We needed an alternative.
So, for now, we stuck with what actually worked. The breathing drills made us tougher, helped with focus and stamina. The poison resistance training—well, that made sense too. In a place like this, poison wasn't just a tool; it was tradition. A wrong sip at the wrong table could be the end of you.
But even with all that, something was missing.
Then I thought of Zalrazar.
He wasn't just my dragon. Being with him—it wasn't some magical bond you read about in old scrolls. It was real. Physical. Tangible. When I flew with him, it wasn't like riding a beast. It felt like we moved with one rhythm. One breath. One life.
And I started to wonder—if that connection was strong enough to be felt, maybe it was strong enough to be used.
That connection held power. Magic. And if the potions and rituals were meant to build magic within a body, then maybe… just maybe, I already had that. Through him.
I just didn't know how to use it yet.
Next, I focused on the business. Or invention. Or empire—whatever you'd like to call it.
This would be one of the main pillars of House Targaryen's future strength. Not just dragons. Not just politics. But wealth—real, liquid wealth. The kind that could build cities or buy armies.
But for that, I needed two things: coin and freedom.
So, once again, I approached my father.
"Father, I need to speak with you. It's something important, something I've been thinking about for a long time."
He looked at me over the rim of his goblet, raising a brow. "Gods, what now, Aemon? First you wanted to be a bard, then a maester, then a knight. What next? A pirate king? You've only seen six name days, and you're already trying to live six lives."
He smirked—but when he saw the seriousness in my face, the joking stopped. I wasn't smiling. I wasn't pouting. I looked him in the eye and waited. That made him shift a little in his seat.
"Alright," he said, voice lowering. "What is it, then? What can your father do for you?"
"I want to start a company," I said, straight and simple.
There was a moment of silence. He blinked, tilted his head, and scoffed lightly. "Don't stop there, brat. What kind of company?"
I didn't answer him right away. Instead, I asked, "Father… besides dragons and slaves, what made Valyria so great?"
He leaned back in his chair, stroking his beard. "Their ingenuity," he said finally. "Their innovation. They forged Valyrian steel, crafted buildings that still stand after a thousand years. Glass candles. Sorcery beyond anything we understand. That's what made them great."
"Exactly," I nodded. "And I want to reclaim that spirit of invention. Of advancement. I want us to be more than just dragonlords sitting on ancient ruins."
Then I reached into my satchel and pulled out two things: a smooth, white sheet of paper, and a fountain pen.
"I made these in the Citadel," I said, handing them to him.
He took them, inspecting the pen first, then the sheet. He scribbled a few words. His eyes widened.
"It's smooth," he muttered. "Much smoother than parchment. And the quill—how long does it write before running dry?"
"If you're writing daily, about two weeks," I said, grinning. "And it's called a fountain pen. Not a quill."
He glanced at it again, more impressed now than skeptical. "Two weeks? Without refilling? How?"
I shrugged, letting a bit of smugness bleed into my tone. "That's the ingenuity only true Valyrians have, Father."
He reached over and tugged my ear. Hard.
"Getting cheeky, are we?" he said, though I caught the hint of a smile.
"Ow! Alright, alright! I'll explain!" I yelped, laughing as he let go.
"Good. Now explain," he said, leaning forward.
"On the pen," I said, pointing at the small engraved symbol, "see that arrow? Twist it in the direction of the arrow, but keep the pen upside down."
Viserys followed my instructions, brow furrowed with curiosity. The pen clicked softly, and the back unscrewed.
"That's the ink chamber," I explained. "It holds a special ink—different from what's used with regular quills. It dries faster, flows smoother, doesn't smudge."
He tilted the pen and sniffed the chamber cautiously. "Smells different too. What's in it?"
I grinned. "That's the trick, Father. Only I know how to make this ink. That's our edge. No one else will be able to copy it. That's the real product—not just the pen, but the ink. We'll make coin by selling refills."
He looked at the pen again like it had suddenly turned into a gold bar. I could see his mind working.
"And these two—this paper and pen—they're not my only inventions," I added quickly. "I have more. Lots more. But to bring them to the world, I need land for a factory, and coin to hire workers."
I took a deep breath. "So I'm asking for a loan. Not a gift. Just a loan. The company will be mine and mine alone. Once I repay it—with interest—we're even."
Viserys narrowed his eyes. "A loan, is it? Why not open this company under our family name? Why interest? You'd rather treat your father like a banker?"
"Because if I open it under the family name," I said, trying not to sound too rehearsed, "the profits will go into the Crown's treasury. And I plan to sell something called stocks later on—it's a bit complicated, but let's just say it'll be easier if the company isn't tied directly to royal affairs. I want autonomy. Independence. The family will still benefit as shareholders, but they won't get to meddle in the running of the company."
I could see the confusion in his eyes. I'd lost him with 'stocks.'
He frowned. "I don't like the sound of this, Aemon. It's too... business-minded for a boy your age. But fine. Let's make a deal. You get your loan, but you have two years to repay it—with interest. If you fail, then half of the company comes under the family name."
I tried to look frustrated, but honestly, I was thrilled. The terms were better than I expected.
"Father," I protested, putting on my best concerned face, "I'm asking for thirty thousand gold dragons. Even with ten percent interest, that's thirty-six thousand in two years! Just setting up the factory and training workers will take at least a year and a half. Even if our products are a hit, that's a stretch. This deal's flawed, isn't it?"
He raised a brow. "That's something you'll have to figure out, son. Earning money is easy. Keeping it—that's the real challenge. And you're not allowed to borrow more to repay me. You want autonomy? Earn it."
He leaned forward, tapping me on the forehead with a finger. "Use that clever little head of yours."
I nodded, keeping my smirk internal.
He thinks he's caught me by the neck. But little does he know, I already have more gold. I just need the right excuse to pull it out—the treasure map and Iron Bank accounts the Faceless Man gave me are more than enough. I'll let him think I'm sweating. Let him think I'm learning a lesson.
Let him think he's the teacher.
But in truth... the game has already begun.