Two Months Later
Prince Aemon Targaryen had developed what could generously be described as "a fascination with statistical probabilities" and what Hestia less generously called "the gambling addiction of a man who'd sell his grandmother's teeth for lottery tickets."
"It's not gambling," Aemon grumbled silently, his chin propped against the edge of his ornate cradle with the determination of a general planning the siege of King's Landing. Pyrion—his crimson-and-black dragon hatchling—was currently engaged in what appeared to be a personal vendetta against a wooden horse, attacking it with the focused intensity of someone settling an ancient blood debt.
"Oh yes, of course it isn't," Hestia replied, her voice carrying that particular brand of cheerful condescension usually reserved for explaining why the sky isn't actually a giant blue hat. "That's exactly what all the people with gambling problems say. Right before they bet their last coin on whether a pigeon will land on the left foot or the right foot."
Aemon's baby eyes rolled so hard his entire head nearly followed the motion. "You're just jealous because I'm about to revolutionize the entire concept of strategic resource management through applied probability theory."
"Jealous? Of you?" Hestia sounded like someone who'd just been told that pudding was actually a vegetable. "My dear little dragon prince, I am the system. Being jealous of you using me would be like being jealous of a hammer for hitting nails. It's what hammers do. It's their whole thing."
"That's..." Aemon paused, his infant brain struggling to parse that logic. "That doesn't even make sense."
"Nothing makes sense if you think about it hard enough," Hestia said with the philosophical certainty of someone who'd never actually thought about anything hard enough. "Like fish. They live in water but they can't drink it. Mental."
---
Three months of what he'd come to think of as "Project Optimize Baby" had transformed him from "suspiciously alert infant" to "definitely concerning child prodigy who probably shouldn't exist." The transformation hadn't been without its challenges.
His Geralt assimilation had crawled up to a respectable five percent—enough to give him night vision that made midnight feedings significantly less traumatic and a supernatural ability to detect when people were lying to him. This had led to several awkward moments when wet nurses swore they'd "just changed his diaper" while the evidence squishing against his backside told a very different story.
"The audacity," Aemon had muttered during one particularly egregious lie, glaring up at Septa Mordane with the withering intensity of a man who'd been personally betrayed by someone he'd trusted with his most intimate hygiene needs.
His daily gacha pulls had maintained their commitment to aggressive mediocrity, like a particularly uninspired bard who only knew songs about turnips and taxes. The highlights reel included:
**"Basic Astronomy for Beginners"** - He now knew how to chart stars he couldn't see from his crib, which was about as useful as knowing how to pilot a ship while tied to a chair.
**"Introduction to Maritime Navigation"** - Completely useless unless he planned to steer his cradle across Blackwater Bay like some sort of nautical basket case.
**"Advanced Ale Brewing Techniques"** - Which he'd mentally filed under "Future Coping Mechanisms for Dealing with Targaryen Family Dynamics."
**"Proper Etiquette for Diplomatic Banquets"** - Because apparently the cosmic lottery thought he needed to know which fork to use while sitting in a high chair.
**"Basic Principles of Crop Rotation"** - In case he ever decided to revolutionize Westerosi agriculture while still in diapers.
But the missions—that was where the real treasure lay hidden, like gold buried under piles of bureaucratic paperwork.
---
## COMPLETED MISSIONS LOG: A STUDY IN INFANT EXCELLENCE
**"Dragon's First Words" (150 Points)**
*Objective: Successfully teach your dragon basic commands.*
Pyrion could now technically respond to telepathic commands sucha as "come," "stop," and "don't eat that." The keyword being "technically," since he chose to obey these commands with all the enthusiasm of a teenager asked to clean their room. His preferred response to any command was a look that clearly communicated: "I heard you, I understood you, I have chosen to ignore you, and I am morally superior to you for doing so."
"He's got character," Aemon had explained to hmself after Pyrion had systematically ignored every command while setting fire to a small mountain of toys.
"He's got an attitude problem," Prince Viserys had said to his wife, watching his son's dragon eye a priceless Myrish tapestry like it was personally offensive.
**"Royal Baby Prodigy" (100 Points)**
*Objective: Demonstrate unusual intelligence without arousing excessive suspicion.*
This had been a masterclass in walking the razor's edge between "gifted child" and "obviously possessed by ancient spirits." Aemon had perfected the art of seeming precociously bright while stopping just short of casual conversations about military tactics or detailed critiques of the realm's fiscal policy.
"Such a clever boy," the maesters would coo when he demonstrated an understanding of basic concepts months ahead of schedule.
"Indeed," Aemon would think while drooling strategically, "if only you knew I'm internally composing treatises on economic reform."
**"Sibling Bonding Exercise" (75 Points)**
*Objective: Play nicely with your twin sister for one hour without either dragon starting a territorial dispute.*
This had required the diplomatic skills of a seasoned negotiator and the reflexes of someone defusing a bomb filled with tiny, fire-breathing ordinance. Both dragons seemed to view "sibling playtime" as "opportunity to establish dominance through selective arson."
"Rhaenyra, your dragon is trying to murder mine," Aemon had babbled in what observers assumed was baby talk but was actually a fairly sophisticated analysis of inter-dragon politics.
"Mine's just defending himself!" Rhaenyra had babbled back, though her Syrax was clearly the aggressor in at least sixty percent of their conflicts.
**"First Flight Training" (200 Points)**
*Objective: Begin advanced bonding exercises with your dragon.*
Pyrion could now hover approximately three feet off the ground for thirty seconds before deciding that gravity was boring and fire was more entertaining. His flying style could be generously described as "controlled falling with style" or less generously as "a drunk bat having an existential crisis."
"He's still learning," Aemon would explain to himself when Pyrion crashed into walls, furniture, or occasionally other people.
"He's a menace," Septa Maegan would say to anyone listening, usually while beating out small fires on her robes.
**"Noble Bearing" (125 Points)**
*Objective: Maintain composure during formal court presentations without causing diplomatic incidents.*
Aemon had successfully attended three formal dinners, two nameday celebrations, and one small council meeting without crying, spitting up, or experiencing any other bodily functions that might embarrass the royal family. This was, by far, his proudest achievement—a testament to both his mental fortitude and his growing mastery over his traitorous infant digestive system.
**Plus approximately thirty-seven smaller daily missions, ranging from "Don't Bite the Maester During Medical Examinations" (25 points) to "Successfully Nap Without Screaming Like a Banshee" (5 points).**
---
**Total accumulated points: 897.**
Three points short of his goal. Three measly points separating him from ten glorious pulls and the statistical certainty of at least one rare item.
"Three more points," Aemon muttered, gripping his silk swaddling cloth with the white-knuckled intensity of a man about to flip a poker table. "Three. More. Bloody. Points."
"This is tremendously exciting," Hestia said with the sort of enthusiasm usually reserved for watching paint dry in interesting patterns. "Like watching a man stretch on his tippy-toes to reach a biscuit tin on a high shelf. He might get it. He might fall over and die. Either way, something's going to happen, and that's entertainment."
"Your capacity for emotional support is truly inspiring," Aemon replied through gritted gums.
"I never claimed to be supportive. I claimed to be a system. Systems don't coddle. They process. Like a very sophisticated meat grinder, but for hopes and dreams instead of beef."
**DING.**
**[NEW MISSION AVAILABLE: "Dragon Discipline"]**
**Objective: Successfully prevent your dragon from setting anything important on fire for 15 minutes**
**Reward: 5 Points**
**Current Timer: 14 minutes, 57 seconds remaining**
**Warning: Mission failure will result in property damage, parental disappointment, and possible relocation to the Dragon Pit**
Aemon looked over at Pyrion, who was currently eyeing a silk tapestry depicting the Conquest with the calculating gaze of an art critic who'd decided the entire piece was personally offensive and needed to be destroyed for the good of humanity.
"Perfect," Aemon said with the grim satisfaction of a man who'd just been handed a sword while standing in a pit full of dragons. "Because what I really needed today was more stress-induced premature aging."
"You're three months old," Hestia pointed out helpfully. "You don't have enough hair to go gray, and your teeth haven't even grown in yet. What exactly is going to age prematurely? Your soft spot?"
"My soul, Hestia. My eternal, suffering soul."
"Oh, that went gray months ago. I wouldn't worry about it."
---
The next thirteen minutes and twenty-six seconds were what military historians would later classify as "tactical chaos with comedic undertones." Pyrion, apparently sensing his rider's desperation through their bond, launched what could only be described as a systematic campaign of attempted pyromania designed to test the limits of both draconic-human relationships and fire-resistant castle architecture.
His target list included, but was not limited to:
- **The curtains** (cream silk from Lys, worth approximately three months of a knight's salary)
- **The bedsheets** (fine cotton that had never done anything to deserve incineration)
- **His own toys** (wooden horses, cloth dolls, and a small dragon figurine that Pyrion seemed to view as a rival)
- **Rhaenyra's toys** (because sibling rivalry extended to property destruction)
- **A passing servant's shoes** (the maid had made the mistake of walking too close to a dragon having an artistic tantrum)
- **A priceless tapestry depicting Aegon's Conquest** (which Pyrion apparently found historically inaccurate and morally objectionable)
Aemon deployed every weapon in his admittedly limited arsenal:
**Geralt's Enhanced Senses:** Allowing him to predict exactly which direction Pyrion was about to unleash tiny jets of flame, giving him roughly 0.3 seconds of advance warning to panic appropriately.
**Harsh Toddler Commands:** A sophisticated linguistic assault consisting primarily of "NO!" "BAD!" and "STOP!" delivered with the commanding presence of someone whose voice hadn't changed yet and who was currently wearing what amounted to a very expensive diaper.
**The Ancient Martial Art of Baby-Dragon Wrestling:** A combat discipline that involved grabbing a small, fire-breathing reptile and hoping it didn't decide to express its displeasure through strategic application of flames to sensitive areas.
**Strategic Deployment of Cuteness:** When all else failed, Aemon deployed his most powerful weapon—making his lower lip tremble in a way that suggested impending tears, which even dragons found morally devastating.
Septa Maegan spent the entire ordeal looking like someone who'd signed up to care for a prince and instead found herself managing a very small, very dangerous circus where the main act involved dodging miniature fireballs while maintaining her composure and dignity.
"Blessed Mother, have mercy," she muttered, clutching her seven-pointed star while ducking a particularly ambitious flame that singed her wimple. "I should have become a silent sister. Silent sisters don't have to deal with dragons. Silent sisters get to sit quietly and pray and embroider things that don't try to murder them."
"You're doing great!" Aemon called out cheerfully while wrestling Pyrion away from a bookshelf full of rare manuscripts. "Think of it as character building! Job skills! Hazard pay!"
When the timer finally hit zero, Aemon collapsed back into his cradle with all the grace of a sack of flour that had given up on life. Sweat dampened his silver hair, making it stick to his forehead in ways that were probably adorable but felt deeply undignified. Pyrion sulked in the corner, tail lashing like a cat that had been denied the opportunity to murder something deserving.
**[MISSION COMPLETE: "Dragon Discipline"]**
**[Reward: 5 Points]**
**[Total Points: 902]**
**[ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: "The Hoarder" - Successfully save 900+ Gacha Points]**
**[Bonus Reward: 50 Points]**
**[Final Total: 952]**
"YES!" Aemon pumped his tiny fist in the air with the triumphant energy of a general who'd just won an impossible battle. "Ten pulls! Guaranteed rare! Daddy's about to become a walking weapons of mass destruction!"
"Or," Hestia said with the sort of cheerful pessimism that could crush dreams and spirits with equal efficiency, "you're about to become the proud owner of ten moderately interesting pamphlets about turnip farming and proper sock maintenance. Either way, I'll enjoy watching your dreams crumble into dust."
"Your optimism is the only thing keeping me warm at night," Aemon said dryly.
"That's the swaddling cloth. And probably the fact that your dragon periodically sets things on fire near your crib."
"Shut up, Hestia. Just... shut up and roll the cosmic dice of destiny."
"Oh, this is going to be spectacular," Hestia said with the sort of gleeful anticipation usually reserved for watching enemies walk into elaborately constructed traps. "Here we go then, Mr. Degenerate Baby Gambler. Time to spin the wheel of regret and see what the universe thinks you deserve."
---
## THE GREAT GACHA EVENT: TEN PULLS OF DESTINY
**[INITIATING MASS GACHA EVENT: 10 PULLS]**
**[Using: 900 Points + 1 Daily Pull]**
**[Activating Probability Buffs...]**
**[One Rare+ Item Guaranteed]**
**[Rolling... Rolling... Rolling...]**
Aemon clasped his tiny fists together like a warrior-priest about to call down divine judgment upon his enemies. His jaw—or at least the chubby approximation of one that babies possessed—set into a line of grim determination that would have been intimidating if delivered by someone who could actually walk upright.
"This is it," he announced with the solemnity of someone making a deathbed confession. "Months of grinding. Sleepless nights spent optimizing mission completion rates. Strategic planning that would make Tywin Lannister weep with envy. All leading to this singular moment of cosmic significance."
"Yes," Hestia replied with the sort of fake reverence usually reserved for bad actors in worse plays, "the culmination of your life's work—three whole months of being alive. Historians will write epic ballads about this moment. Bards will compose songs. Children will learn about the day Prince Aemon achieved moderate competence at accumulating imaginary points."
"This is serious business, Hestia. Shut up and let me concentrate on manifesting legendary items through sheer force of will."
"Right, because that's definitely how probability works. Next you'll tell me you can influence dice by staring at them really hard."
"Don't tempt me. I have the accumulated wisdom of ages and the determination of someone with absolutely nothing to lose."
"You're three months old. You have everything to lose. Specifically, your dignity, which is already hanging by a thread made of drool and good intentions."
---
**PULL #1: [COMMON] - Encyclopedia of Westerosi Flora and Fauna (Complete Edition)**
Knowledge flooded Aemon's mind like someone had opened a dam made entirely of botanical diagrams and zoological sketches. Suddenly he knew the difference between deadly nightshade and harmless blackberries, could identify seventeen different varieties of poisonous mushrooms, and possessed intimate knowledge of the mating habits of every creature from the Shadow Lands to the Lands of Always Winter.
"Oh, absolutely riveting," Aemon said with the sort of enthusiasm usually reserved for discovering a new type of tax. "I can now identify poison ivy and classify which mushrooms will kill me versus which ones will just make me wish I was dead. Truly, this is the foundation upon which legends are built."
"Well," Hestia said brightly, "at least if someone tries to assassinate you with a particularly aggressive salad, you'll be prepared. That's got to count for something. How many princes can say they're immune to botanical warfare?"
"I'm adding 'most disappointing first pull in gacha history' to my list of achievements."
"Right next to 'most dramatic baby' and 'most likely to overthrow a government before learning to walk.'"
---
**PULL #2: [COMMON] - Master-Level Accounting and Financial Management**
Numbers, ledgers, and tax codes crashed into his consciousness like an avalanche made entirely of mathematics and bureaucratic disappointment. Suddenly he could balance budgets, calculate compound interest, and identify financial irregularities with the precision of a master accountant who'd spent decades turning creative bookkeeping into an art form.
"Seriously?" Aemon blinked, his baby brain struggling to process the sheer mundane horror of what he'd just received. "I'm a dragon prince. I have a fire-breathing companion and the blood of Old Valyria. What am I supposed to do with advanced accounting principles?"
"Balance the royal budget?" Hestia suggested with the helpfulness of someone offering directions to someone who was already lost. "Revolutionize the Crown's fiscal policy? Become the sexiest man alive at formal financial audits?"
Aemon groaned with the existential weight of someone who'd just realized they'd accidentally chosen the most boring possible superpower. "If I become king, I'm delegating all financial responsibilities to someone who actually enjoys spreadsheets."
"Yes, because outsourcing fiscal responsibility has never gone badly for monarchs. That's definitely not how kingdoms collapse into debt and ruin."
"I hate you sometimes, Hestia."
"I know. It's one of my most endearing qualities."
---
**PULL #3: [UNCOMMON] - Enhanced Physical Conditioning (Passive)**
Warmth spread through his tiny limbs like liquid sunlight, suffusing his muscles with strength that felt distinctly non-infant-like. His arms, previously capable of lifting approximately nothing more challenging than his own thumb, now possessed what could generously be described as "actual functional strength."
"Ohhh yeah," Aemon said with satisfaction, flexing his newly enhanced baby biceps. "Now we're talking. Enhanced physical conditioning means I'm basically a toddler with the physical capabilities of someone who actually goes to the gym. I could probably crush an apple with these hands—assuming I could hold one without dropping it."
"So essentially the same as before," Hestia observed with devastating accuracy, "except now when you reach for toys, you look like you've been hitting the baby weights. Very intimidating. I'm sure your enemies will tremble before your enhanced grip strength."
"Mock me all you want, but enhanced physical conditioning is the foundation of every good action hero. First you get swole, then you get skills, then you save the world."
"You're three months old and you still can't control your bladder. Maybe focus on basic bodily autonomy before planning to save the world."
"Baby steps, Hestia. Literally."
---
**PULL #4: [COMMON] - Advanced Diplomacy and Negotiation Tactics**
A flood of polite phrasing, political maneuvering, and sophisticated persuasion techniques lodged itself in his developing brain like a very educated parasite. Suddenly he possessed the theoretical knowledge to negotiate peace treaties, resolve trade disputes, and convince people to do things they definitely didn't want to do—all while maintaining the appearance of civilized discourse.
"Wonderful," Aemon said with the enthusiasm of someone who'd just been handed a manual for operating heavy machinery while blindfolded. "Now I can argue diplomatically while drooling and wearing a diaper. I'll be the most well-mannered infant in the history of political discourse."
"Don't knock it," Hestia said with surprising seriousness. "Many wars have been avoided by people who knew how to say 'please' and 'thank you' in a way that didn't make everyone want to stab them. Diplomacy is just warfare with better manners and longer words."
"I'm still planning to solve most problems with strategic application of dragon fire."
"Of course you are. But now you can be polite about it first. 'Pardon me, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to burn down your castle now. Terribly sorry for the inconvenience.'"
"See? You get it. Civilized arson is the best arson."
---
**PULL #5: [COMMON] - Comprehensive Guide to Military Strategy and Tactics**
Battle plans, siege techniques, and campaign strategies flooded his consciousness like someone had downloaded the collective military knowledge of every successful general in history directly into his baby brain. He could now theoretically plan invasions, organize supply lines, and execute flanking maneuvers with the expertise of someone who'd spent decades turning warfare into science.
"Right then," Aemon said, staring contemplatively at the ceiling while his enhanced tactical knowledge processed potential defensive positions throughout the Red Keep. "I can now command armies and plan military campaigns. Who exactly am I supposed to lead into battle? My collection of stuffed animals?"
"Hey now," Hestia said with mock offense, "don't underestimate the potential of a well-organized teddy bear battalion. Imagine the psychological impact of being conquered by an army of adorable plushies led by a baby with a dragon. That's the stuff of legends right there."
"You know what? Don't tempt me. I'll organize them into proper military formations. The Knights of the Wooly Table. The Stuffed Animal Liberation Front. The Cuddle Brigade."
"And I'll be there to watch as you become the first general in history to issue strategic orders from a crib while wearing a diaper. Truly, the bards will sing of your glory for generations."
"Your faith in my eventual success is both touching and slightly concerning."
---
**PULL #6: [UNCOMMON] - Danger Sense (Passive)**
His scalp prickled as a new awareness settled into his consciousness like a very paranoid guardian angel. Suddenly the world came equipped with invisible warning labels, and his brain was constantly processing potential threats with the efficiency of someone who'd survived too many assassination attempts to trust anyone completely.
"Ohhh yeah," Aemon said with deep satisfaction, his enhanced senses already cataloging everything in the room that could potentially be used as a weapon. "Spidey-senses, baby edition. Now I'll know when someone's planning to stab me before they even reach for their knife. Try assassinating me now, you bastards."
"Yes," Hestia said with the sort of dry amusement that suggested she found his enthusiasm both adorable and concerning, "because assassination attempts on infants are famously common. Nothing says 'legitimate political threat' like a three-month-old who can barely lift his own head."
"This is Westeros," Aemon pointed out with the grim certainty of someone who'd read too many history books. "People have been murdered for less than being born with the wrong last name. Having supernatural paranoia is basically a survival requirement."
"Fair point," Hestia conceded. "Though I feel obligated to mention that most assassins probably aren't expecting their target to be psychically aware of hostile intent. You'll have the element of surprise. Nothing says 'I'm definitely not a normal baby' like dodging crossbow bolts with supernatural reflexes."
"I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. Preferably while setting the bridge on fire behind me."
---
**PULL #7: [COMMON] - Master Craftsman: Blacksmithing**
Memories of forge fires and hammer strikes embedded themselves in his consciousness like someone had transplanted the life experiences of a master weaponsmith directly into his developing brain. He could now theoretically create legendary weapons, forge Damascus steel, and turn raw metal into works of art that could cut through stone—all theoretical, of course, since he currently lacked the physical strength to lift anything heavier than a rattle.
"Brilliant," Aemon said with the sort of sarcasm usually reserved for discovering that your house was on fire while you were locked outside without pants. "I can now craft legendary swords that would make Valyrian steel look like cheap iron. Just as soon as I develop the upper body strength to hold a hammer without collapsing under its weight."
"Don't worry," Hestia said with false consolation. "One day you'll be strong enough to forge your own toys. Think of it as a long-term investment in your future career as a weapon-crafting infant prodigy."
Aemon scowled with all the dignity a three-month-old could muster. "You know what? I'll show you. I'll build a sword out of building blocks if I have to. The first architecturally-engineered weapon in Westerosi history."
"Yes, and then you'll cry when you accidentally step on it and it falls apart. The circle of life, but with more splinters and wounded pride."
"Your confidence in my engineering abilities is overwhelming."
---
**PULL #8: [UNCOMMON] - Language Mastery Package (High Valyrian, Old Tongue, Summer Tongue)**
The world suddenly made sense in ways it never had before. Conversations that had been meaningless background noise transformed into comprehensible dialogue, and the ancient languages of forgotten civilizations unlocked themselves in his mind like doors opening to reveal vast libraries of knowledge.
"YES!" Aemon said with genuine excitement for the first time since the pulls had begun. "Finally something immediately useful! No more waiting years to figure out what everyone's whispering about me behind their backs. I can understand the insults, the compliments, and everything in between."
"Congratulations," Hestia said with approval. "Now you can be properly offended when people say rude things about you in three different languages. That's progress. True multicultural awareness comes from being able to understand exactly how much people dislike you in their native tongue."
"Or," Aemon said with growing enthusiasm, "I can deliver devastating comebacks that no one expects from a baby. Imagine being intellectually destroyed by someone who's still learning how to control their own limbs."
"Oh, that's delicious. Nothing quite like being roasted by someone in diapers. The sheer existential horror of it would probably scar people for life."
---
**PULL #9: [RARE] - Character Assimilation: Tyrion Lannister (10%)**
The world exploded into crystalline clarity. Suddenly every conversation was a chess match, every smile hid an agenda, and every gesture contained layers of meaning that most people would spend their entire lives failing to recognize. Political implications unfurled in his mind like flowers blooming in fast-forward, and he could see the hidden currents of power and influence that flowed beneath every social interaction.
Wine, wit, and overwhelming cynicism suffused his consciousness, filtered through the perspective of someone who'd spent their entire life turning disadvantages into weapons and enemies into reluctant allies through sheer force of intellectual superiority.
"Oh," Aemon said slowly, his baby voice somehow managing to carry overtones of sophisticated amusement, "this changes everything. I can now weaponize sarcasm at a level that would make grown men weep. I am become Snark, destroyer of egos."
"Congratulations," Hestia said with something approaching genuine respect. "You've unlocked the ability to devastate enemies using nothing but disappointment, cutting observations, and strategically deployed wit. Tyrion would be proud. Or drunk. Possibly both, knowing him."
"The best part," Aemon continued, his mind already spinning with possibilities, "is that no one expects sophisticated psychological warfare from someone who literally cannot walk yet. I'll be the most dangerous baby in the history of political discourse."
"Yes, nothing says 'legitimate threat to the established order' like a three-month-old with a PhD in Advanced Sarcasm and a minor in Destroying People's Self-Esteem."
---
**PULL #10: [LEGENDARY] - Character Assimilation: Edward Elric (1%)**
Reality shattered and reformed around fundamental principles that most people would spend their entire lives never understanding. Alchemical knowledge crashed into his consciousness like a tidal wave made of scientific understanding and barely controlled fury. Circles, formulas, and the basic building blocks of existence itself unraveled and rewove themselves in patterns that revealed the underlying mathematics of creation.
Equivalent exchange burned itself into his bones like a law of nature more fundamental than gravity, and suddenly he could see the world not as a collection of solid objects, but as arrangements of atoms and energy that could be deconstructed, analyzed, and rebuilt according to his will.
"Holy..." Aemon whispered, genuine awe replacing his usual sarcasm as the implications of what he'd just received settled into his enhanced consciousness. "Alchemy. Actual, honest-to-gods alchemy. In a world where the maesters think 'advanced chemistry' means mixing wine and regret in the correct proportions."
For the first time since he'd met her, Hestia sounded genuinely impressed rather than sardonic. "Well. That's... inconveniently powerful. Now you can casually dismantle reality and rebuild it according to your personal preferences. You know, nothing potentially world-ending about that capability at all."
"I can restructure matter at the molecular level," Aemon continued, his voice filled with the sort of wonder usually reserved for religious experiences. "I can create gold from lead, turn stone into steel, transmute any element into any other element as long as I understand the underlying principles. The only limits are my knowledge, my imagination, and the fundamental law of equivalent exchange."
"Yes, and I'm sure that won't cause any problems at all when people notice you casually violating the laws of nature while wearing a diaper. Very subtle. Definitely won't arouse any suspicion whatsoever."
---
## FINAL RESULTS SUMMARY
**[PULL RESULTS ANALYZED]**
**Common Items: 5**
**Uncommon Items: 3**
**Rare Items: 1**
**Legendary Items: 1**
**Total Character Assimilations: 3/3 (MAXIMUM CAPACITY REACHED)**
**Current Power Level: Concerningly High for Someone Who Cannot Yet Crawl**
**Threat Assessment: Adorable but Potentially World-Ending**
---
Aemon lay back in his cradle, tiny chest heaving like he'd just benchpressed destiny itself. Three different sets of memories, skills, and personalities were settling into his consciousness like pieces of a cosmic puzzle finally clicking into place. Geralt's combat instincts provided the foundation of survival, Tyrion's political cunning gave him the tools to navigate the treacherous waters of Westerosi nobility, and Edward's alchemical genius offered him the power to quite literally reshape the world according to his will.
"So," Aemon announced to the universe in general, his baby voice somehow managing to carry undertones of supreme confidence and barely contained chaos, "I am now officially the most dangerous infant in the recorded history of civilization. I have the fighting skills of a mutant monster hunter, the political acumen of the cleverest man in Westeros, and the ability to transmute matter with applied scientific principles that won't be discovered for another thousand years."
"Yes," Hestia said with the sort of cheerful inevitability usually associated with natural disasters, "you're basically a chihuahua that's been given nuclear launch codes and a detailed manual on how to use them. This is definitely going to end well for everyone involved."
Pyrion, apparently sensing the fundamental shift in his bonded partner's capabilities, looked up from his latest attempt to set fire to absolutely everything within reach. The little dragon's golden eyes narrowed with something that might have been respect, or possibly hunger—it was sometimes hard to tell the difference with dragons.
Then, as if to celebrate this momentous occasion, Pyrion opened his mouth and released a tiny jet of flame that managed to catch the edge of a nearby curtain, which immediately began smoldering with the enthusiasm of fabric that had finally found its true calling.
"PYRION!" Aemon yelped, his enhanced danger sense screaming warnings about impending property damage and parental disappointment. "What did we just discuss about the importance of fire safety in enclosed spaces?"
The dragon's response was a look that clearly communicated: "I heard you, I understand you, I have chosen to ignore you, and I am setting this curtain on fire because it insulted my mother."
"Right then," Aemon said with the grim satisfaction of someone who'd just realized they were about to become either legendary or infamous, possibly both. "Time to start revolutionizing this kingdom before I'm old enough to tie my own shoes. I've got a civil war to prevent, a family to save, and approximately seventeen different ways to completely upend the established order of reality itself."
"This is going to be absolutely spectacular," Hestia said with the gleeful anticipation usually reserved for watching particularly elaborate disasters unfold in slow motion. "I do hope you're prepared for the consequences of being a tiny genius with godlike powers, questionable judgment, and a dragon companion who thinks fire is the solution to most of life's problems."
"Consequences," Aemon replied with the sort of confidence that came from possessing the accumulated wisdom of ages and the reckless optimism of someone who'd never actually experienced the full weight of unintended consequences, "are for people who don't have alchemy, political cunning, and a fire-breathing best friend."
"Famous last words," Hestia observed cheerfully.
"We'll see about that," Aemon said, and began mentally cataloguing everything he could now accomplish with the right materials, sufficient motivation, and a complete disregard for the established laws of physics and political stability.
It was going to be a very interesting few years.
Outside his window, the sun was setting over King's Landing, painting the sky in shades of crimson and gold that reminded him uncomfortably of dragon fire and Lannister banners. The irony wasn't lost on him that he now possessed the accumulated cunning of both houses—Targaryen fire and Lannister gold, wrapped up in a package that couldn't yet hold its own bottle.
Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the sounds of the city winding down for the evening: merchants closing their stalls, guards changing shifts, and the eternal background hum of half a million people going about their lives completely unaware that a three-month-old with the power to restructure reality at the molecular level was currently planning their future.
"You know," Aemon said thoughtfully, his enhanced intellect already beginning to process the political implications of his newfound abilities, "I should probably start small. Maybe begin by fixing some of the more obvious problems with the realm's infrastructure. Improve the sewage system, develop better farming techniques, introduce some basic hygiene practices that don't involve 'rub dirt on it and pray to the Seven.'"
"Oh yes," Hestia said with the sort of enthusiasm usually reserved for watching someone walk directly into a wall they'd been warned about seventeen times, "because nothing says 'totally normal baby prince' like casually revolutionizing medieval sanitation while still wearing a diaper. I'm sure no one will find that suspicious at all."
"I'll be subtle about it," Aemon protested. "I'll work through intermediaries. Plant ideas in the right minds. Make it look like natural innovation."
"Right, and I'm sure your definition of 'subtle' won't involve any accidental displays of impossible knowledge or convenient solutions to problems that have plagued civilization for centuries. You're definitely going to keep a low profile."
Pyrion, having successfully reduced the curtain to smoldering scraps, had moved on to investigating whether a wooden chair leg was structurally sound enough to withstand concentrated dragon fire. The early results suggested it was not.
"Pyrion, stop that," Aemon said automatically, his danger sense pinging with warnings about imminent furniture destruction. "We've talked about this. Not everything needs to be tested for flammability."
The dragon paused in his architectural assessment and fixed his rider with a look that clearly communicated: "Everything is potentially flammable if you apply enough heat. This is basic science."
"He's got a point," Hestia observed. "Technically speaking, with enough thermal energy, you could set fire to pretty much anything. Even things that aren't supposed to burn. Very philosophical, really."
"Please don't encourage him. He's already got enough bad ideas without you providing scientific justification for his pyromania."
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