"It's that hammer," Leaf said firmly.
The Children of the Forest possessed a unique spell—the Sea Hammer. It held terrifying power, capable of stirring the water element and even shattering continents.
When the Flame Hammer appeared, Leaf, far south of the Neck, immediately sensed a similar aura. The Flame Hammer and the Sea Hammer were eerily alike. The difference was that one required a vessel and fire magic to activate, while the other was a forbidden spell of the Children, drawing upon the element of water.
Being attuned to nature, the Children of the Forest naturally repelled fire. Upon discovering the dangerous Flame Hammer, they followed its trail to the valley—where they encountered Aemon, its wielder.
"Your hammer is extremely dangerous," Leaf warned. "This time you lacked fire magic, so you only cracked a mountain. Next time, when it's fully charged, its destructive force will rival the Sea Hammer."
The Sea Hammer had only been used twice in history. Once, it shattered the Arm of Dorne, forming the Stepstones. Another time, the tsunami it unleashed drowned the Neck, transforming dense forest into swampland.
But both times, the spell brought greater casualties to the Children than to their enemies. The tribal elders then issued a decree:
The Hammer of the Seas defies Heaven's will. Because of it, we were driven beyond the Wall. From this day forth, the spell is forbidden.
"You have a sharp nose," Aemon chuckled. His guess had been right—it was indeed the Flame Hammer.
He then questioned Leaf about the Bronze God Tree.
She said she didn't know it personally, but her people had ancient murals depicting it. The legends claimed the Bronze God Tree dated back before the Age of Heroes, to when Westeros was shared by giants and the Children of the Forest.
A single seed of the Bronze Tree once sprouted, revered by the giants as a deity. The Children resisted, leading to a war. The Children prevailed, and the seed vanished. It was but one conflict among many between the two races.
Later, the giants' intelligence waned. Once as clever as the Children, they became simple brutes. Even their stature diminished: in ancient days the average giant stood seven or eight meters, with some over ten. But those Leaf had seen beyond the Wall barely reached four meters—dwarfs among giants.
"Was it because you destroyed the seed of the Bronze God Tree?" Aemon asked, eyes narrowing.
"No, nonsense!" Leaf snapped, agitated as a startled squirrel.
The world held mysteries no race could fully grasp. Over time, the Children themselves had lost many gifts. The Sea Hammer was nearly forgotten, and even Greenseers became rare—few enough that casting such a forbidden spell together was impossible.
"Magic tides?" Aemon muttered.
Magic clearly existed in this world, and at its height, its sorcery was terrifying. Dragons and the Children of the Forest were proof of that. Yet now such magic was scarce.
The Dance of the Dragons was blamed for the dragons' near extinction, but an even greater cause was the receding tide of magic. Eggs hatched weaker dragons—stunted, malformed, or dead. Eventually the eggs themselves turned to stone, and dragons were declared extinct.
Aemon lowered his gaze, hiding the glint in his eye. If the Dance of the Dragons coincided with the ebb of magic, then the thirty years prior had been its final surge. Many eggs hatched, birthing remarkable young dragons—Syrax, Sunfyre and his siblings, Seasmoke, Tessarion...
Syrax alone produced several clutches of eggs, hatching alongside Rhaenyra's children. Even Tessarion, once grown, laid a clutch, birthing Morghur. She earned the title "Blue Queen."
It was a golden revelry for dragons, until Targaryen excess brought them to ruin. Their internal war ended the Age of Dragons.
Had history gone unbroken, dragons would have remained gone for two centuries—until the red comet rose and Daenerys, "Mother of Dragons," hatched three in the Red Waste. Whether they could truly sustain their kind was uncertain.
"Tsk. I'm starting to feel stressed," Aemon muttered, rubbing his brow.
He wanted to know one thing: dragons equal fire magic. So if more dragons lived, would that keep magic from vanishing completely? If he stopped the Dance and hatched more, could he preserve enough magic to prevent dragons from dying out, or eggs from failing to hatch?
A crucial question.
Dragons lived roughly two centuries, sometimes longer. Take Araxes, the youngest of the family: it survived into the age of the Red Comet. Proof that some could endure the ebb.
Aemon asked Leaf directly.
Confused, she answered, "I sense a surge of magic, especially fire magic. But the Children's natural magic feels suppressed."
So she didn't understand tides of magic. Nor economics.
"Since you can't help, let's settle a score," Aemon said coldly, hand on the hilt of the Lady of the Void.
"Settle what?" Leaf shrank back, baring her teeth, claws twitching toward the satchel at her waist.
Swish—Aemon's sword cut the strap clean. The bag fell, and with a flick, he caught it.
"Give it back!" Leaf cried, leaping.
"Stay put, squirrel-girl." Aemon pressed a hand to her forehead, rifling through the satchel with the other.
Inside were only wild fruits, a cob of corn, a crude herbarium stitched with leaves and hemp... pathetic.
"I almost pity you," he sneered—until his hand closed around a small, green pumpkin, no larger than a baby's fist.
"What's this?" he murmured, sensing magic inside.
A prompt chimed in his ears: Item imbued with natural magic detected. Extract?
Without hesitation, Aemon accepted.
"Draining magic. +3, +3..."
Five pumpkins yielded him fifteen points of magic essence.
"Give them back!" Leaf cried, nearly frantic.
"Here," Aemon tossed her the empty satchel. She clutched it and checked her pumpkins—now useless. These were weapons of her people, meant to explode with great force. But drained, they were nothing.
Once again, she felt the cruelty of men. First the Flame Hammer, now this.
"Any backup plans?" Aemon asked, sword gleaming, a smile tugging his lips.
Leaf glared, her savage heritage flashing through—three-fingered hands, claw-like thumbs.
But when his blade touched her neck, his voice turned cold: "If you won't be honest, I'll ride north and burn your kin beyond the Wall with dragonfire."
"You'll never find us!" Leaf spat. "Cunning human!"
"Want to bet?" Aemon said calmly. "Beyond the Wall, there are few places to live. I'll find you."
It was a bluff. The Wall was protected by magic, and he had no guarantee he could hunt them out. But Leaf, inexperienced, paled at his confidence.
Timidly, she said, "I apologize for spying on you... and for using magic on you. I'm sorry."
She crouched low, one hand on the ground, the other offering her satchel—a gesture of submission among her kind.
"I don't value your trinkets," Aemon said icily.
"All I have is the knowledge in my head," she whispered. "But that belongs to my people."
"Then work it off," Aemon's eyes gleamed. "You'll make me more of those pumpkins."
Leaf gasped. "No! Only those who master natural magic can craft them!"
"Say it again," Aemon warned, eyes narrowing.
Her spirit broke. "How many do you want?"
"Let's do the math," Aemon said smoothly, putting away his blade. "Capturing you cost me a Flame Hammer strike. Each use is worth ten thousand gold royals. Your little pumpkins? Three gold royals apiece."
Her heart sank.
"Three days for one pumpkin? Pathetic," Aemon scoffed. "A Greenseer should do better."
She teared up, but he waved it off. "Forget it. One pumpkin, three gold royals. A thousand pumpkins—three thousand. So, to repay me for my hammer? Three thousand pumpkins for ten thousand gold royals. You're getting a bargain."
Leaf, unable to calculate, blinked in confusion.
"Of course," Aemon assured, hand on his chest.
Each pumpkin gave him three essence. Three thousand meant nine thousand. The hammer had cost him eight thousand. Profit made.
"Thank you," Leaf said softly, bowing.
"You're welcome," Aemon replied with mock charm.
"But three thousand will take me years," Leaf said weakly.
"Twenty-four years, give or take," Aemon replied, as though generous. "Stay in the valley until you're done. I'll even give you coin when you're free."
For her kind, long-lived as dragons, twenty-four years was nothing. Like humans with mortgages, she submitted.
"One condition," Aemon added. "Stay away from the Lonely Mountain without my leave. Especially the dragon's lair."
He would never let the Children near the Bronze God Tree.
Leaf nodded, clutching a pumpkin. "I'll live in the wild nearby."
Aemon softened slightly. "Then I'll build you a home at Greenridge—there's a great oak there. I'll make you a treehouse."
Her eyes lit up; it was ancestral land of her people.
"Stay here until I return," Aemon said, turning to leave.
He had no wish for Daemon or his uncle to know the Children of the Forest had reappeared. Once his other matters were settled, he would return—ready to exploit this naïve squirrel-girl.
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