Cole was stunned when a child scolded him in an adult's tone.
He opened his mouth but said nothing, trying to justify his actions.
Bang!
A palm-leaf fan-like hand pressed against his chest, and a tall figure loomed over him.
Gunthor had appeared at some point, his face dark: "White cloak, you're blocking our prince's way!"
As he spoke, he took an arrogant step forward, forcing the pretty boy back.
Cole was shocked—the man's stubble, as stiff as steel, nearly scraped his face.
The castle's front yard was packed with people, and the scene naturally drew the eyes of foreign officials and guests.
There was something entertaining going on!
People nearby picked up on the tension and came over, watching and whispering with interest.
Aemon looked up in surprise and said, "Gunthor, you're here?"
"Yeah."
Gunthor responded casually, staring down the white knight who looked reluctant to back down.
It turned out the three guards had been left in the outer courtyard. The other two were cleaning and waiting, while the big guy had wandered off on his own, taking the opportunity to enjoy some of Red Keep's special food and drink.
By chance, he had seen his own prince being berated again and again.
"Hehe~"
In front of the white knight, Gunthor's thick lips curled into a grin, and he arrogantly spat on the ground.
He was in a bad mood from working under others and decided to pick a soft target to vent on.
Faced with blatant humiliation, Cole's face turned pale. His hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword.
"Wanna try?" Gunthor sneered.
He had nothing to lose, and if someone didn't like it, they could fight.
Cole looked around, trembling with rage.
If not for the crowd, he'd have drawn his sword on the brute right then and there.
Aemon stood between the two, eyes full of curiosity as he looked at Gunthor.
That cynical face—despite being full of the bitterness of a "working man's" life—still chose to fulfill his duties.
And there he stood, towering over Cole, who was already tall and heroic. Gunthor was more than a head taller, and his burly figure was like a living fortress.
"Is this the sense of security that comes from the 'Bronze Giant'?" Aemon almost clapped.
"Cole, what are you doing!?"
The conflict was about to explode when a loud voice rang out.
Aemon turned quickly toward the voice.
A tall middle-aged man in his fifties, also wearing the white cloak and silver armor symbolizing honor, strode in from the Red Keep's gates with a powerful aura.
The Commander of the Kingsguard—Ser Harold Westerling.
Seeing his direct superior, Cole's expression turned complicated. He bowed his head. "Commander."
"I asked what happened, Cole?"
Harold's face was stern, showing no leniency.
Cole lowered his head and took a step back.
At this point, he already realized he'd run into a wall.
Aemon stood calmly by, curious to see what the Iron Guard commander would do next.
"Prince, I hope this man didn't waste your precious time?" Harold asked kindly, turning to Aemon.
Cole was a new member of the Kingsguard. When he donned the white cloak, even Queen had already passed. It was understandable that he didn't recognize Prince Aemon and might cause conflict.
But it needed to be corrected.
"It was just a small matter," Aemon nodded gently, greeting, "Long time no see, Ser."
Harold removed his helmet and exhaled quietly in relief.
As long as he didn't hold a grudge.
At that moment, another figure appeared at the Red Keep's gate, curiously looking this way.
Aemon spotted her and was slightly stunned.
It was a young silver-haired girl in a black riding outfit, walking in with long strides as she pulled off her gloves.
She was extremely beautiful—delicate features, flawless skin.
She had inherited the inhuman beauty of the Targaryen bloodline, practically without a single flaw.
Rhaenyra Targaryen tilted her head slightly, looking back at the small boy who was staring at her.
The same silver hair, the same purple eyes—blood calling to blood.
After a moment of hesitation, it was Aemon who recognized her first and called, "Rhaenyra."
Hearing this, Rhaenyra's eyes lit up, surprised and delighted. "Aemon? It really is you!"
Her long legs sped up as her gloomy mood lifted entirely.
It had been a long time since she'd seen the little guy.
Seeing that she recognized him, Aemon greeted her with a smile: "Yeah. You flew your dragon this morning—so majestic."
Rhaenyra's face shifted slightly, her expression turning sheepish. "I didn't... accidentally hit your boat, did I?"
"Uh-huh~"
Aemon rolled his eyes. You know exactly what you did.
"Sorry, I was in a bad mood then. I didn't expect you to be there."
Rhaenyra apologized at once and reached out to rub his head.
It was fluffy—like a hedgehog.
"I forgive you. But you'll have to make it up to me later." Aemon said generously. He wasn't one to hold grudges.
The two chatted warmly, and the surrounding crowd gradually dispersed.
Harold remained calm, quietly giving Cole a look. The white knight silently retreated.
With the princess here, the matter was as good as resolved.
Aemon caught this but didn't care to press further.
It really wasn't a big deal. Cole had already been embarrassed in public; there was no need to take off his head over it.
"Rhaenyra, did you just come back from the Dragonpit?"
Aemon, remembering something important, held Rhaenyra's soft little hand and said with anticipation: "I just got back. Could you take me there sometime?"
A single skull of Balerion the Black Dread was worth 100 points of essence.
Even if a living dragon couldn't compare, surely their bodies carried great amounts of magical energy?
That would be a massive gain.
Rhaenyra naturally clasped the little claw and pulled him toward Maegor's Holdfast: "No problem—but not today. It's getting late."
"Then take me another day."
Aemon was never impatient. He had both patience and methods.
. . .
In the King's chambers, candlelight flickered.
Viserys Targaryen lay comfortably in a chair, exhausted from the day, and began chatting: "Do you think what I said is workable?"
He was the fifth king on the Iron Throne—Viserys I of House Targaryen.
His silver-gold hair flowed down to his shoulders. A soft stubble lined his chin. His face was ordinary, but kind.
At first glance, he looked more like a wealthy nobleman than a king.
"What about Aemon?"
Alicent, sitting beside him in a daze, responded absentmindedly after hearing the question.
"Yes, he's a good choice."
Viserys was in high spirits, raising his bandaged ring finger. His mood seemed better: "The council had differing opinions, but this is still a good start."
Lately, he hadn't been sleeping well over his daughter's marriage. Finally, there had been some progress.
Rhaenyra had turned twelve this year—she'd be of age in two. Nobles from across the realm had already begun sending marriage proposals.
The stack of letters stood taller than the table.
Alicent frowned slightly and asked cautiously, "Does my father agree?"
"Of course," Viserys answered immediately, his smile deepening.
He hadn't expected Otto Hightower to support the decision.
Alicent quietly lowered her head, hiding the doubt in her eyes, and suggested, "Aemon is still young. Perhaps there's a better candidate?"
Stepmothers and stepdaughters rarely get along well.
Aemon was just a child—innocent and still under her care, entrusted by the late Old King himself. She didn't want him caught in the crossfire.
Viserys stood up, forcing a calm smile despite the confusion in his heart: "During the council's earlier discussion, Ser Lannino of House Velaryon did present a candidate."
Though he said this, his frown betrayed his true feelings—the man Lannino suggested clearly wasn't his preferred choice.
Aemon had the support of Runestone behind him and also represented his brother, Daemon.
Choosing Aemon would not only strengthen royal power but also help mend the broken bond between brothers.
By contrast, Lannino was the son of Corlys Velaryon—the Sea Snake.
House Velaryon of Driftmark remained a mountain weighing on his heart.
- - - - - - - - -
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