Prince Aemon Targaryen—still mentally John Smith, cosmic accident victim and professional optimizer—had dedicated his first year of life to what he termed "Project Maximum Efficiency Baby Development."
It was not your standard baby plan (eat, sleep, poop, repeat). No, this was a campaign of ruthless optimization that would have impressed generals and alarmed pediatricians in equal measure.
By his first nameday, Aemon could walk with the swagger of a man who'd just bench-pressed a dragon, speak in full sentences that made maesters frantically scribble notes while questioning their life choices, and had already gained a reputation as either the greatest prodigy or the most worrying omen in House Targaryen's increasingly questionable history.
"House motto should probably be changed to 'Madness, genius, or both,'" Hestia noted during one of their evening strategy sessions. "Though it doesn't sound as catchy as 'Fire and Blood.' Unless you put it on a tea towel. Tea towels make everything sound friendlier."
"Why would you put a family motto on a tea towel?" Aemon asked, pausing mid-crawl across his nursery floor.
"Same reason people put 'Live, Laugh, Love' on kitchen walls, I suppose. To remind themselves of their values while doing mundane things. Though 'Fire and Blood' might make doing the washing up feel a bit dramatic."
"Everything in this family is dramatic. Yesterday, Uncle Daemon drew his sword because someone served him the wrong wine."
"That's not dramatic, that's just Tuesday for Targaryens. Dramatic would be if he'd composed a song about the wine first."
---
## Character Assimilation Progress Report
### Geralt of Rivia: 10% (Plateau Reached - The Toddler Wall)
*"The wolf medallion vibrates when there's magic nearby. Which is inconvenient, because this castle leaks magic like a broken chamber pot leaks... well, chamber pot contents."*
Aemon had hit what Hestia diplomatically called "the toddler wall."
"Think of it like putting a Formula One engine in a shopping trolley," she explained during one of their nightly debriefs, while Aemon practiced his intimidating stare in his silver mirror. "Loads of power, very impressive noises, but ultimately still a shopping trolley."
"I don't want to be a shopping trolley," Aemon grumbled, his voice carrying the kind of frustrated authority that suggested he was mentally bench-pressing his problems away.
"Well, you are. A very judgmental shopping trolley with unusually good night vision and the ability to make grown men confess their sins just by looking at them."
And that, at least, was undeniably true. Aemon could now see perfectly in the Red Keep's darkest corridors—which was helpful, considering how many people conducted suspicious business in poorly lit alcoves. He could hear whispers three rooms away, detect lies like a medieval polygraph machine, and had developed an uncanny ability to make people deeply uncomfortable just by maintaining eye contact.
"Septa Maegan," seven-month-old Aemon had announced during one particularly memorable diaper change, his golden eyes fixed on her with laser precision, "you're not ill. You're avoiding me because of the plum incident."
The septa's face had gone so red she could've been mistaken for a Martell banner in direct sunlight. She'd muttered prayers for an hour afterward about "children knowing too much" and "unnatural awareness in babes."
"What exactly was the plum incident?" Hestia had asked later.
"She dropped a plum tart and blamed it on wind from the window. I was there. There was no wind. Also, she ate half of it off the floor when she thought I wasn't looking."
"You're going to give that woman nightmares."
"Good. People should be held accountable for their lies, even small ones. Especially small ones. Small lies grow into big lies, and big lies start wars."
"You sound like you're planning to interrogate the entire castle staff."
"Not planning. Already doing it. Did you know Ser Criston has been skimming copper from the armory budget to buy better soap? And the cook's been watering down the wine because his nephew owes money to a bookie in Flea Bottom?"
But the real Witcher perks—superhuman reflexes, sword mastery, flashy combat Signs—were still locked behind the insurmountable barrier of being a baby with the muscle mass of an undercooked noodle.
"You've got the instincts," Hestia said encouragingly. "The way you track movement, how you automatically assess threats—yesterday you spotted that wobbly chandelier before anyone else and started crying to warn people."
"I wasn't crying to warn people. I was frustrated because I couldn't just fix it myself."
"Well, either way, you saved Lord Hightower from a concussion. But the point is, your reflexes are excellent. You just lack the upper-body strength to do anything about them."
"This is humiliating."
"Look at it this way—if you ever have to fight a man to the death with a wooden spoon, you'll absolutely destroy him. Until then, patience."
"Patience is for people without plans."
"And nappies," Hestia added cheerfully. "You still need those. Hard to be taken seriously as a warrior when someone has to powder your bottom twice a day."
Aemon's glare could have melted steel. "You're enjoying this."
"Immensely. Yesterday you tried to practice sword forms with a rattle and fell over backward. It was like watching a very small, very angry turtle."
"I'm going to remember this when I'm older."
"I'm counting on it. Revenge plots keep you motivated."
### Edward Elric: 8% (The Midnight Mischief Division)
*"Alchemy is science. Science with explosions. Science that makes regular carpentry look like it's not even trying."*
Alchemy, at least, was proving more promising than sword fighting. No need for bulging muscles or the ability to reach things higher than eighteen inches off the ground—just brains, determination, and the ability to draw circles without drooling on them.
The servants had begun whispering about "Prince Aemon's mysterious toys"—intricate metal soldiers with jointed limbs that moved like real people, tiny dragons with wings that actually flapped, clockwork mechanisms that had no business existing several centuries before anyone invented proper gears.
When Queen Aemma found a beautifully wrought silver horse on her bedside table one morning, she'd stared at it like it might suddenly sprout wings and fly away.
"Where did this come from?" she'd asked, turning the impossibly detailed figurine over in her hands.
"Maybe the Smith blessed him," King Viserys had suggested hopefully, because Targaryens were always eager to attribute anything unusual to divine intervention rather than face the alternative explanations.
"Yeah," Aemon had muttered to himself from his crib, "blessed me with chronic insomnia and the irresistible urge to cannibalize candlesticks at three in the morning."
"You know," Hestia had observed, "most babies your age are excited about learning to clap. You're running an underground metallurgy operation."
"It's not underground. It's just... discrete."
"You transmuted the lock on your nursery door so you could sneak out and raid the castle's metal supplies. That's not discrete, that's criminal."
"It's resource optimization."
"It's why half the castle thinks you're either blessed by the gods or possessed by demons."
The limitations were frustratingly clear: small-scale operations only. Toys, tools, reshaping existing metal into new forms. Anything larger than a dinner plate left him face-down in his pillow, drooling like he'd just run a marathon while carrying a horse.
"Think of it like... alchemy with training wheels," Hestia had suggested diplomatically.
"I prefer 'prototype phase,'" Aemon had grumbled.
"You once tried to transmute your entire cradle into a throne because you were bored during naptime. Prototype phase my arse."
"I was testing structural integrity theories!"
"You were testing whether you could get better cushions without having to ask your mother for them."
"Which is still science!"
"Science that nearly gave your wet nurse a heart attack when she found you sitting in what looked like a miniature Iron Throne made of melted baby furniture."
"The aesthetics were intentional. If you're going to make a point, make it dramatically."
"You're one year old. The only point you should be making is 'I need my diaper changed.'"
"That's inefficient communication. Why make one point when you can make several?"
### Tyrion Lannister: 47% (Prodigy Mode: Fully Engaged)
*"If people assume you're harmless furniture that occasionally makes noise, they'll tell you all their secrets. Works best if you don't immediately spit up on them afterward."*
This was where Aemon truly excelled, and where his unusual combination of adult cunning and baby-face worked like a perfectly engineered intelligence-gathering operation.
Nobody guarded their tongues around babies. They spilled secrets like wine at a Dornish wedding, assuming the small creature drooling in the corner couldn't possibly understand the difference between casual gossip and high treason.
By ten months old, Aemon was fluent enough to ask devastatingly loaded questions, request specific books that made maesters raise eyebrows, and feign wide-eyed innocence while systematically extracting state secrets from anyone foolish enough to think babies weren't listening.
"Mama," he'd piped up sweetly during one of the ladies' afternoon gatherings, his voice carrying that particular brand of innocent curiosity that made adults want to answer honestly, "why does Uncle Daemon look like he wants to hit Papa with a very large stick every time people say the word 'heir'?"
The silence that followed was so complete and absolute it felt like the Red Keep itself had suddenly forgotten how to breathe. Teacups paused halfway to lips. Embroidery needles stopped mid-stitch. Someone's pet bird probably forgot how to chirp.
"What makes you think that, sweetling?" Queen Aemma had asked very, very carefully, in the tone of someone who'd just realized they were standing in a field of explosives.
"He does the eyebrow thing," Aemon explained matter-of-factly, as if discussing the weather. "You know, where they go all pointy and angry-looking. And his mouth goes all pinchy like he's tasted something sour. Also, he told Ser Harrold yesterday that 'birthright is wasted on weaklings,' and then he looked at the throne room door like he was measuring it for new curtains."
The ladies exchanged glances that could have powered the Red Keep's forges for a week.
"That'll be a fun conversation for Uncle Daemon," Hestia had commented later. "Might be the first time in recorded history that someone gets politically outmaneuvered by a toddler in swaddling clothes."
"It's not maneuvering," Aemon had protested. "It's information management."
"You just exposed a potential succession crisis using nothing but big eyes and strategic baby babble. That's not information management, that's weaponized adorability."
"The eyes are naturally occurring. I can't help having good bone structure."
"No, but you can help using it to make grown men confess their deepest fears while they're trying to teach you peek-a-boo."
Meanwhile, Aemon was absorbing knowledge like wildfire through a library. King Jaehaerys, delighted to have such an eager student, spent hours teaching him High Valyrian—completely unaware that his great-grandson wasn't just learning vocabulary and grammar.
He was mapping family alliances, noting power shifts with the precision of a master strategist, mentally cataloging which lordlings might prove useful pawns, and building a comprehensive understanding of every political undercurrent in the Seven Kingdoms.
"Grandfather," Aemon had asked during one lesson, his pronunciation of High Valyrian flawless enough to make maesters weep with pride, "when someone says 'the realm's peace depends on strong leadership,' do they mean 'I want to be in charge' or 'I think you're doing a terrible job'?"
Jaehaerys had paused mid-sentence, quill frozen above parchment. "That's... a very sophisticated question for someone your age."
"Mama says I have an old soul."
"Your mama is quite perceptive. In my experience, it usually means both."
"So it's politics?"
"Everything is politics, young prince. Even this conversation."
"Especially this conversation," Aemon had thought, but kept his expression innocently curious.
"You're becoming quite the manipulative little gremlin," Hestia had observed that night.
"I prefer 'strategic information manager with advanced social engineering capabilities,'" Aemon had corrected.
"You have cheeks people want to pinch, and you weaponize them for intelligence gathering. That's not strategy, that's adorable extortion."
"It works, doesn't it?"
"Oh, I know it works. Yesterday you convinced the kitchen staff to give you extra honey cakes by asking if they thought you looked 'too skinny for a dragon prince.' They practically force-fed you dessert for an hour."
"Dragons need proper nutrition."
"And one day," Hestia had continued, "you'll probably lure half the realm into a carefully constructed trap using nothing but your big golden eyes and the promise of sharing your toys."
"Toy diplomacy," Aemon had mused, the gears in his mind already turning. "I like it. Non-threatening, universally appealing, and it establishes a gift-debt relationship that can be leveraged later."
"See? Manipulative gremlin."
"Strategic information manager."
"With tiny hands and a tendency to drool on important documents."
"Nobody's perfect," Aemon had said philosophically. "But I'm working on it."
---
"So," Hestia had said, reviewing the year's progress, "you're a baby with the cunning of Tyrion Lannister, the night vision of Geralt of Rivia, and the scientific curiosity of Edward Elric. Plus you can make grown adults question their life choices just by looking at them."
"Don't forget the strategic planning capabilities and advanced pattern recognition."
"Right. Those too. The question is, what exactly are you planning to do with all this?"
Aemon had considered this, staring up at the ceiling of his nursery where he'd been mentally redesigning the architectural support beams for maximum efficiency.
"Step one: survive childhood without anyone figuring out exactly how unusual I am. Step two: grow large enough to properly utilize my abilities. Step three..." He'd paused, his golden eyes gleaming with the kind of ambition that had historically made Targaryens either legendary or catastrophic.
"Step three?" Hestia had prompted.
"Step three: optimize everything."
"Everything?"
"Everything," Aemon had confirmed with the quiet confidence of someone who'd already started making lists. "The Seven Kingdoms could use some serious improvements."
"You're one year old."
"Which gives me plenty of time to plan."
And in the Red Keep, as servants whispered about the strange prince who never seemed to sleep and always seemed to know more than he should, Prince Aemon Targaryen—cosmic accident victim, efficiency expert, and possibly the most dangerous baby in Westeros—continued his relentless optimization of absolutely everything within reach.
After all, he had a kingdom to improve.
Eventually.
---
Every day brought missions. Not the cute "baby's first giggle" variety that normal infants stumbled through. These were structured objectives, precisely calibrated to optimize growth, sharpen skills, and push Prince Aemon Targaryen toward greatness without crossing the line into "witch-baby possessed by the ghost of every tactical genius who ever lived."
"Think of it like a training montage," Hestia had explained, "except instead of punching meat in a freezer, you're punching expectations in the face. With your brain."
"That's... surprisingly accurate," Aemon had admitted.
"I have my moments. Like when I figured out that spoons are just tiny shovels for your mouth."
---
## Completed Daily Missions (Sample from Month 8)
### Mission: "First Steps" (500 Points)
**Objective:** Successfully walk across the solar without falling, crying, or setting anything on fire.
**Status:** Complete with style points.
"Outstanding footwork," Hestia observed, watching Aemon march across the chamber with the focused intensity of a man about to deliver very bad news to someone who definitely deserved it. "You looked like a small but extremely determined accountant going to tell someone they've been embezzling from the charity fund."
"I was projecting confidence and authority," Aemon replied, adjusting his stance with military precision.
"You were projecting 'I know where you live and I'm not afraid to use that information.' Which is impressive for someone who still needs help reaching doorknobs."
"Intimidation is about presence, not height."
"Right. That's why mice are so terrifying to elephants."
"That's... that doesn't even make sense."
"Exactly. Confusion is just intimidation wearing a party hat."
### Mission: "Linguistic Prodigy" (300 Points)
**Objective:** Demonstrate advanced vocabulary in three languages during family dinner.
**Status:** Complete. Possibly too complete.
King Jaehaerys had clapped his great-grandson on the back with genuine pride. "High Valyrian, Common Tongue, and Old Ghiscari at barely one year old! Absolutely remarkable, my boy."
Aemon had smiled with the kind of innocent sweetness that made hardened knights want to buy him ponies. "Words are just tools, great-grandpapa. Like swords, but much pointier because people don't see them coming until they're already bleeding."
The table had fallen silent. Everyone laughed—that nervous kind of laughter people make when they're not entirely sure if they should be calling for a septon or a healer.
Everyone except Queen Alysanne, whose sharp eyes had fixed on Aemon with the look of someone who'd just heard the distant sound of future civil wars marching over the horizon.
"Subtle," Hestia had commented later. "Really flew under the radar there."
"I was being charming."
"You were being ominous. There's a difference. Charming is 'please pass the jam.' Ominous is 'words are weapons and I know how to use them.'"
"The message was important."
"The message was terrifying. Your great-grandmother is probably having nightmares about you leading armies with nothing but pointed observations and devastating rhetorical questions."
"That's... actually not a bad strategy."
"See? Terrifying."
### Mission: "Dragon Bonding Exercise" (200 Points)
**Objective:** Successfully direct Pyrion through basic aerial maneuvers without property damage.
**Status:** Mostly complete. Define "property damage."
Pyrion had enthusiastically incinerated a priceless tapestry depicting the glory of Old Valyria. The flames had been magnificent—artistic, even.
Aemon had patted his dragon's snout affectionately and whispered, "Good boy. Next time, aim for something less historically significant. Like Uncle Daemon's boots. Or his ego."
"Brilliant plan," Hestia had deadpanned. "Turn your dragon into a flying war crime before you're even out of swaddling clothes. I'm sure that won't come back to haunt you at all."
"It was target practice."
"It was arson with wings. There's a difference."
"Pyrion needs to learn precision. How else will he know the difference between 'destroy my enemies' and 'destroy everything in a three-mile radius'?"
"Most people would start with 'don't burn the furniture.'"
"Most people lack ambition."
"Most people lack access to weapons-grade lizards, which is probably for the best."
### Mission: "Political Awareness" (400 Points)
**Objective:** Identify and correctly assess implications of at least five separate political discussions.
**Status:** Complete with bonus points for psychological warfare.
"Uncle Daemon's not happy about something," Aemon had announced at breakfast, his tone carrying the casual authority of someone delivering a weather report about incoming storms.
"What makes you think that, sweetling?" Princess Aemma had asked, though her expression suggested she already knew the answer would be uncomfortably perceptive.
"Because Father got offered a seat on the Small Council and Uncle Daemon didn't. Also, his eyebrows are attempting to declare independence from his forehead, and he's been gripping his wine cup like he's planning to use it as a weapon."
Prince Daemon, sitting directly across the table, had raised those very eyebrows. "You're remarkably observant for someone whose greatest achievement yesterday was successfully not drooling on himself during lunch."
"Observation is a skill," Aemon had replied with the calm confidence of someone who'd never met a challenge he couldn't intellectually bulldoze through. "Drool control is just basic professionalism."
Daemon had blinked. Then he'd laughed—sharp and genuine and slightly alarming. Everyone else had looked like they were mentally calculating the distance to the nearest exit.
"I like this one," Daemon had declared, pointing his butter knife at Aemon with approval. "He's got steel in him."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Viserys had muttered.
"Steel's useful," Aemon had said diplomatically. "But brains are better. Steel can be melted. Brains just get sharper under pressure."
The silence that followed could have been used to preserve meat.
"Did a one-year-old just threaten me?" Daemon had asked, sounding genuinely delighted.
"I don't make threats," Aemon had replied. "I make observations. Threats are what you do when you can't think of anything clever."
"You definitely just threatened him," Hestia had commented later. "With style."
### Mission: "Midnight Alchemy" (250 Points)
**Objective:** Successfully transmute base materials into useful objects without waking the household.
**Status:** Complete. Possibly too complete.
Seventeen ingenious toys. Two decorative vases that looked like they'd been crafted by master artisans. One candlestick that had briefly become a solid gold dragon sculpture before Aemon had panicked about the implications and hastily changed it back.
"Do you ever worry about accidentally creating cursed objects?" Hestia had asked, examining a particularly intricate metal horse that seemed to move when you weren't looking directly at it.
"They're toys," Aemon had said defensively.
"So were the Trojan Horse and the Rubik's Cube, and look how much trouble those caused."
"The Rubik's Cube caused trouble?"
"Have you ever tried to solve one? It's basically a tiny plastic torture device designed to make people question their intelligence and life choices."
"That's... actually a fair point."
"Medieval peasants used to think potatoes were instruments of the devil, so really, perspective is everything. Your magical mystery toys could either be the greatest breakthrough in child development or the beginning of a supernatural incident that historians will argue about for centuries."
"Now I'm worried."
"Good. Worry keeps you sharp. Like caffeine, but for your brain."
### Mission: "Social Manipulation— I Mean, Charming Family Members" (150 Points)
**Objective:** Use natural charisma to extract useful information from three separate relatives.
**Status:** Complete. Disturbingly easy.
Princess Rhaenys had been the day's most productive target. She'd leaned down to pat Aemon's head and had somehow ended up confiding: "Our ships are the true lifeblood of Driftmark, you know. The jewels and gold everyone sees are just for show. The real wealth moves through our trade routes. But don't tell anyone I said that."
Aemon had blinked up at her with innocent confusion. "I didn't ask about ships, Aunt Rhaenys."
"No, but you smiled at me. I assumed you wanted to hear something interesting."
Aemon had made his smile even wider and more cherubic. "This works disturbingly well."
"It's like having a superpower," Hestia had observed. "Except instead of flying or shooting laser beams, you make people confess their deepest secrets by looking adorable."
"It's more efficient than torture."
"And significantly less illegal. Though probably just as effective in the long term."
"Information is power. Power is leverage. Leverage is—"
"The thing that makes people do what you want them to do without realizing they're doing it. Yes, I know. You've explained your philosophy of benevolent manipulation before."
"It's not manipulation if everyone benefits."
"That's exactly what manipulation is. The good kind, but still manipulation."
---
## Notable Achievement Unlocks
### "The Prodigy"
**Requirement:** Five skill areas mastered before first nameday.
**Reward:** 1000 Points + Title Recognition.
"Congratulations," Hestia had said when the achievement pinged. "You're now officially the most unsettling baby in Westeros."
"I prefer 'exceptionally gifted.'"
"Everyone prefers euphemisms. Doesn't make them accurate."
### "Baby Steps to World Domination"
**Requirement:** Gather actionable intelligence while maintaining baby cover.
**Reward:** 800 Points + Enhanced Social Engineering.
"You know," Hestia had mused, "most babies your age are excited about discovering their toes. You're running a comprehensive intelligence network."
"Efficiency is about maximizing available resources."
"Your available resources are 'cute face' and 'people assume you don't understand anything.' That's not efficiency, that's psychological warfare."
### "My First Conspiracy"
**Requirement:** Uncover a genuine political plot.
**Reward:** 1200 Points + Enhanced Danger Sense.
The conspiracy involving Uncle Daemon and certain "irregularities" in trade negotiations with Braavos had been almost disappointingly easy to uncover.
"Adults are terrible at keeping secrets," Aemon had concluded.
"That's because they think children are basically furniture that occasionally makes noise," Hestia had replied. "They forget that furniture might be listening."
### "Midnight Alchemist"
**Requirement:** Practice forbidden arts undetected for thirty consecutive nights.
**Reward:** 600 Points + Mana Efficiency Boost.
"You realize you're developing the skills of a master spy, a court wizard, and a dragon lord simultaneously?" Hestia had pointed out.
"Is that bad?"
"It's either the most impressive thing in history or the most terrifying. Possibly both."
**Total Points:** 4,847
**Target:** 5,000 for Premium Gacha Event
---
## Reputation Management Challenge
By his first nameday, Aemon's official reputation was "precocious genius with an unusually advanced vocabulary."
His unofficial reputation was "unnerving hellspawn with strategically weaponized cheek-pinching potential."
"It's basically deep cover espionage," Hestia had explained during one of their strategic planning sessions. "Your cover identity is 'adorable prince who says amusing things.' The moment anyone figures out you're actually a tactical mastermind in baby clothes, it's either funeral pyres or having some zealous aunt decide you're the chosen one of seven different gods."
"I prefer to think of it as method acting," Aemon had replied, practicing his most innocent smile in the reflection of a polished goblet.
"Right. And when you inevitably start turning iron into gold in front of witnesses?"
"I'll tell them it's interpretive performance art."
"That might actually work. Rich people will believe anything is art if you say it confidently enough."
---
## Family Dynamics Assessment
**King Jaehaerys & Queen Alysanne:** Proud but increasingly suspicious. Filed under "Potential Boss Battle, Late Game."
Jaehaerys loved having such an eager student. Alysanne watched Aemon with the calculating gaze of someone mentally preparing for inevitable political complications.
"She knows," Aemon had concluded after one particularly intense lesson.
"Knows what?"
"That I'm not just a clever baby. She's got that look people get when they're trying to solve a puzzle they don't have all the pieces to yet."
"Maybe she just thinks you're destined for greatness."
"Or destined to burn everything down. With Targaryens, those two things tend to overlap significantly."
**King Viserys & Queen Aemma:** Loving but confused. Currently operating under the theory that their son is a genius touched by divine favor, not a displaced soul optimizing childhood development like it's a military campaign.
"They're sweet," Aemon had said fondly. "Completely unprepared for what I'm becoming, but sweet."
"What are you becoming?"
"Efficient."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
**Prince Daemon:** Predatory interest levels. Watched Aemon with the narrow-eyed focus of someone who'd recognized a kindred spirit and wasn't entirely sure how he felt about it.
"You're too clever by half," Daemon had commented once, after Aemon had made an observation about the strategic implications of certain marriage alliances.
"Better than being too stupid by whole numbers," Aemon had shot back without missing a beat.
Daemon had laughed—genuinely delighted. Everyone else had started mentally updating their wills.
"He's dangerous," Hestia had observed.
"So am I."
"Yes, but you're dangerous like a chess master. He's dangerous like a dragon with abandonment issues."
**Princess Rhaenyra:** Twin sister, natural rival, potential ally. Currently engaged in an escalating competition over who could be more impressive.
"I can read better than Aemon!" she'd declared during one family dinner.
"I can lie more convincingly than Rhaenyra," Aemon had countered smoothly.
"Can not!"
"Just did."
The court scribes had begun discretely preparing documentation for what they were increasingly certain would be a legendary sibling rivalry.
**The Dragons:** Syrax remained elegant and precisely controlled, much like her rider. Pyrion had developed into an enthusiastic pyromaniac with artistic tendencies.
"They're going to start competing too," a nervous dragon keeper had observed.
"Yes," Aemon had agreed, watching Pyrion practice flame patterns. "And it's going to be magnificent."
---
## Current Status Report
**Age:** 1 year, 1 month, 3 days
**Official Titles:** Prince of House Targaryen, Heir to Dragonstone
**Unofficial Titles:** The Prodigy, Future Headache of Every Maester in Westeros, That Unsettling Child
**Dragon Bond:** Pyrion (Fire Enthusiast, Furniture Destroyer, Loyal unto Death)
**Mental Status:** Dangerously Confident with Occasional Moments of Existential Terror
**Political Influence:** Minimal but Radioactive
**Character Assimilations:** Geralt 10%, Edward Elric 8%, Tyrion Lannister 47%
**Achievement Points:** 4,847/5,000
### Immediate Objectives:
1. Reach 5,000 points without engaging in obviously supernatural baby behavior
2. Unlock Premium Gacha Event (50-pull guaranteed legendary)
3. Prevent Pyrion from reducing the Red Keep's furniture budget to ash
4. Avoid accidentally triggering a succession crisis
5. Investigate the feasibility of indoor plumbing improvements
6. Master the art of looking innocent while planning world optimization
---
## Final Assessment
That night, Aemon lay in his ornate crib, mind racing through calculations, contingencies, and the growing certainty that he was either about to achieve something legendary or break reality like a particularly enthusiastic toddler with a priceless vase.
"Are you ready for what's coming?" Hestia asked, her voice carrying that particular blend of excitement and concern that usually preceded historically significant events.
"Obviously not," Aemon replied with the kind of brutal honesty that came from being too smart for his own good. "I'm a one-year-old prince with dragon backup, three separate skill trees developing simultaneously, and more accumulated knowledge than anyone else in this castle. Of course I'm terrified."
"Good," Hestia said cheerfully. "Terror is like seasoning. It makes everything taste more interesting."
"That's a disturbing analogy."
"All the best analogies are disturbing. That's how you know they're working."
Outside, thunder rumbled across the Red Keep like the sound of destiny clearing its throat. In seven days, Aemon would either unlock god-tier abilities that would reshape the Seven Kingdoms, or he'd break the fundamental laws of reality so thoroughly that future historians would need entirely new categories of disaster to properly classify what happened.
Either way, it was definitely going to be memorable.
"Legendary," Aemon whispered to himself, golden eyes reflecting the lightning outside his window. "One way or another, this is going to be absolutely legendary."
"Or apocalyptic," Hestia added helpfully.
"Sometimes," Aemon said with the philosophical calm of someone who'd already committed to a course of action regardless of the consequences, "those are the same thing."
---
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