Aemon's violet eyes widened as a brilliant pane of light shimmered into existence before him, suspended in mid-air.
Front and centre were three grey, card-shaped images marked with a golden hourglass icon beneath them. Just beside that:[Essence Quantity: 3]
The rest of the background faded into a milky white mist, soft and surreal. It felt like stepping into a dream—weightless, otherworldly, and faintly glowing.
"The cake shop's open!" Aemon whispered, barely containing his glee. His tiny fingers stretched out, jabbing eagerly at the edge of the glowing panel.
Are the good times finally here?
The instant his hand brushed the panel, white ripples pulsed outward like waves on water, and the light shifted into a new display.
[Aemon Targaryen]Talent:Dreamer (Gold)Skills:High Valyrian (proficient), Common Tongue (proficient)Magic Cards:NoneStatus:"A severely sleep-deprived human cub. Developmental delays imminent."
"Huh... that's new."
Aemon studied the panel with renewed focus, particularly the [Status] section.
He glanced down at himself—pale, plump little limbs, soft but healthy-looking. He didn't look malnourished at all.
Frowning, he stretched out flat on the floor and measured his height from head to toe with his hands.Short.
Too short.
Technically, he was nine now—well, eight, really, if you counted birthdays properly—but he stood just over a metre tall. Other boys his age, especially those in the Vale with strong ancestral blood, towered over him by at least a head.
"So it's not that they're too tall... it's that I'm too slow," Aemon muttered grimly.
Half blood of the First Men, after all. Maybe that slowed things down a bit.
He tapped the lightboard again, but it remained stubbornly unresponsive.Must be a standalone system.
"Well then... I dub thee Magic Essence Panel," he declared with a solemn nod.
"How does one use you? I refuse to grow into a squat little turnip."
He gave the [Status] bar another annoyed poke.Nothing. Not even a flicker.
With a dramatic sigh, Aemon left it alone and moved on.
It took him nearly half an hour to fully understand the panel's mechanics.
The white side was for redemption—viewing the number of magic essences he had, and what they could be exchanged for.
Flip it over, and it revealed the personal panel, showing his current stats and situation.
Simple enough.
Now armed with knowledge, Aemon picked up the black dragon egg in one hand and tapped the redemption tab with the other.
"I need to fix my sleep issues first. Hatching dragons can wait."
With a soft chime—Boop—three cards flipped into view, glowing with different hues.
[Guidance - One Time Use]"A small opportunity."A golden finger pointed forward across a blank white backdrop.(White tier)
[One-Handed Sword Mastery]"Every brave knight needs this."A green card depicting a long, rust-covered blade.(Green tier)
[Solid as Stone]"Skin like rock, hard to crack."A blue card with a grey figure in a fighting stance, glowing +1/+1 above its head.(Blue tier)
All excellent. All painfully expensive.
Beneath the cards were their respective costs:
White: 10 EssenceGreen: 60 EssenceBlue: 150 Essence
Aemon glanced over at his balance—[Essence Quantity: 3]—and quietly retracted his hand.
"Right... bit out of my league for now."
Still, he wasn't discouraged.
If the panel could gain Essence from magical items, all he needed to do was find more of them.
Closing the lightboard, he clutched the black dragon egg close.
That +3 he got earlier? That came from this.
Dragons, after all, were magical creatures through and through. Even their eggs radiated power.
"Thank the Seven it doesn't harm the hatchling," Aemon murmured with relief, tucking the egg carefully back into its incubation bed. He patted his chest with a puffed sigh.
The panel didn't drain magic recklessly. It only took the excess—the surplus energy that clung to magical items naturally.
In fact, magical things constantly drew ambient energy from the world. Dragon eggs, in particular, generated enough surplus that they could replenish 3 points of essence every so often without risk.
That same rule would apply to other magical relics.
"Right then. Step one in Operation: Grow Tall and Sleep Properly—find more magic stuff."
With determination hardening his features, Aemon slipped quietly out of his chambers.
He dodged the maids preparing lunch and steered clear of the bustling courtyard, where the idle lords and ladies of House Royce gathered in the sun, gossiping or showing off.
The Royce family was no minor house. They held sway over great swathes of the Vale—fertile lands, formidable troops, and an old, proud lineage. Their bannermen often lingered at Runestone, training, politicking, or simply seeking favour.
Which meant Aemon had to keep a low profile.
Soon, he reached a quieter part of the castle grounds.
He lifted a wooden hatch at the edge of the back courtyard and crawled down into the Royce family crypt.
Technically, it was a tomb.
Realistically? It was a glorified storage cellar—dusty, cluttered, and full of forgotten things.
He lit an oil lamp and descended into the gloom. Ancient bronze relics and discarded odds and ends lined the walls.
"Where is it... where, where?"
Kicking aside cobwebs and shoving crates aside, Aemon moved deeper into the crypt. The flagstones underfoot were solid, but the air smelled of old stone and mildew.
This place was his sanctuary.
Quiet. Lonely. Perfect.
A boy without friends needed somewhere to belong.
And if the dead didn't mind? Even better.
Besides, if ghosts did exist, they'd be his ancestors. Couldn't be too scary.
After all, who among the living doesn't have a few relatives on the other side?
With a grunt, he dragged a bulky, corroded suit of bronze armour from a pile in the corner.
Sweating and grinning, Aemon wiped his brow and knelt beside it, gently brushing away decades of dust. Mysterious runes shimmered faintly beneath the grime.
He reached out and laid a hand upon the chestplate.
"Touched damaged magical relic. Magic Essence +5."
"Ha! Knew it!" Aemon whooped, triumphant.
House Royce traced its blood back to the First Men, long before the Andals set foot on Westerosi soil. They once ruled the Vale as the kings of the Bronze Kingdom—a legacy carved into the runes of their enchanted armour.
Of course, the magic never actually saved anyone. Plenty of bronze-clad Royce warriors had died just the same.
But now?
It was his treasure.
And that... was excellent news.
"Little Aemon, reporting for magical scavenging duty!"