They walked silently—the kind that hummed with weight, thick and unspoken, like the city was holding its breath.
Even the clink of armour had quieted. The girl's smile still lingered behind Aemon's eyes—faint, fragile, radiant in its innocence. It clung to his chest like warmth and weight, anchoring something deeper than sorrow.
The shadows of Flea Bottom seemed darker now—not just from filth, but from everything they revealed.
They passed a lane crowded with crumbling stalls and smoke-blackened eaves. Then a crooked arch opened into a square—more open than the rest, yet somehow more forgotten.
It might've once been a market, a gathering place for voices and trade. Now, it was a graveyard of memories—stone sunk in mud, hope worn to the bone. A broken statue stood at its heart, crooked and moss-eaten, its head lost to time. Its plinth was buried beneath grime and rot. Dogs scrounged along the gutters. Children fenced with sticks. A drunk mumbled to himself by a dry, crumbling well.
He stood still in the middle of the square, letting it all settle around him—the stench, the noise, the stillness beneath it all.
This city is dying, he thought. Not from war. But from rot. From silence. From the quiet indifference of those meant to protect it.
He looked down at his hands—calloused from swordwork, yet clean. Too clean. Too soft for this place.
I was born in silk. Into power. Into safety. And what have I done with it?
His mind flickered—through steel and fire. Through the voice that hummed inside him like a second soul. Through endless hours of training. Through strength forged in body, mind, and something stranger still.
"What is strength," he wondered, "if not to lift what others can't? To stand when no one else will? To carry what no one else can?"
Power was never the crown—it was the weight behind it.
A burden worn in silence.
A choice made when no one is watching.
A promise forged not by blood but by action.
And he bore that power now—not by title, but by will.
If I walk away now… I am no better than those who let it rot.
He did not need to be a prince—not today.
Today, I am just someone who stayed.
The wind shifted.
Aemon strolled along the crumbling path, boots gently grinding against loose stones. He paused by an old well, moss clinging to its cracks like forgotten wounds, and gazed out over the sprawling despair of Flea Bottom.
A breeze stirred the dust at his boots.
A shaft of sunlight pierced the haze, laying across his shoulder like grace uninvited.
A bell tolled in the distance—not loud or grand.
Just steady. Like a heartbeat.
Noon. Not an ending. A beginning.
His jaw tightened. His fists curled—not in anger anymore, but in resolve.
He raised his head and spoke—not loudly, not grandly, but with a weight that echoed through him.
"I will fix this," he said. Or maybe he whispered it. He wasn't sure.
Brick by brick. Bone by bone, if I must.
Not for glory. Not for songs. But because I can. And because they deserve more.
They will not be forgotten. Not while I still breathe.
Behind him, the others waited without a word, their stillness saying more than speech could.
The time for thought was done. Now came action—quiet, deliberate, and grounded in coin and bread.
After a moment, Aemon turned to the others, breaking the thoughtful quiet.
"How many coins do we have, all told?"
The words cut through the quiet like a knife through dough.
The Kingsguard exchanged glances. Oswell frowned, arms crossed sceptically. Jonothor raised a questioning brow, still irritated from his earlier losses. Even Rhaegar turned slowly, eyes narrowing with curiosity.
Oswell spoke, his dry humour masking genuine surprise. "You are not thinking of rebuilding Flea Bottom, are you?"
Jonothor grumbled bitterly, "I earned those twenty dragons fair and square. That is my money."
Barristan offered a rare, amused smile, eyes glinting knowingly. "A wager was placed on Aemon besting a knight twice his size. Seems to me the victor deserves his share."
Rhaegar studied Aemon thoughtfully, his voice soft and curious. "What exactly do you need the gold for?"
Aemon's gaze drifted past the filth and haze, settling on a memory: small, trembling hands clutching bread like gold and a child's eyes—hollowed by hunger yet still burning with quiet dignity.
"Bread," he said softly—the word landing with more weight than its syllables should've allowed. " A lot of breads."
A hush settled, weighted by silent understanding.
"There are children out there—starving, weak, forgotten. I could buy them food today, but tomorrow…" He shook his head, sadness mingling with determination. "Tomorrow will be the same. I want to do more. Something that lasts."
He didn't need titles or orders. He needed to act.
He stepped beside a weathered stone bench and set his pouch down with deliberate care.
"We start with what we have," he said, more to himself than anyone.
Without speaking further, he opened it and began to count the coins—one by one, placing them in small, neat stacks.
The others watched. Then, one by one, they joined.
Rhaegar moved first, quietly drawing his pouch and adding his coin without a word.
Jonothor followed with a resigned grumble, tossing his in and muttering, "There goes my Arbor Gold."
Oswell sighed but added his share, dropping a handful of stags with mock reluctance. "We'll be eating stale trenchers for a week."
Only Barristan said nothing. He just reached into his cloak, withdrew a modest stack of coins, and laid them down with the same solemnity he might offer a blade—no jest, no flourish, just intent.
Aemon took a moment to count, his lips moving silently.
"Thirty-eight gold dragons, a hundred and fifty-four silver stags. One hundred and nine copper pennies."
The coins stood in neat rows under the noon light—disciplined as soldiers awaiting orders.
He looked up—not with triumph, but with a quiet, earnest resolve.
No one spoke. The sound of the wind, faint and dry, whispered through the square.
Aemon knelt again beside the satchel, resting his forearms on his knees. His eyes swept over the stacks—not as currency, but as a possibility. The coins were just metal. Weight without meaning.
But here, now, they could be more.
Bread will help, he thought. But help fades. Hunger doesn't.
What I need is something that lasts.
Inside his mind, the voice of S.E.R.A. stirred—quieter than usual. Not cold. Just calm. Thoughtful.
[Coins feed a day. Routine feeds a future. Find someone rooted in the community, compassionate but capable. A baker who remembers names and understands hunger. Build from there—quietly, carefully.]
Aemon's gaze drifted to the street beyond—the distant shape of children chasing scraps of bread through alley smoke.
He nodded to himself. Yes. It starts with one pair of hands. One oven. One promise kept.
He looked up, eyes steady as they found Ser Barristan.
"Food isn't just coin," he said softly. "It's trust. It's rhythm. Someone they can count on—not just today, but tomorrow and the day after."
A pause.
"We need a baker. Someone the children already know. Someone who won't take what's not theirs."
He stood slowly, the weight in his chest no longer just sorrow but direction.
"Do you know anyone we can rely on?"
Barristan did not reply immediately. He tapped a finger thoughtfully against the pommel of his sword, eyes narrowing in consideration. Then, with quiet certainty, he nodded.
"Aye. Thomlin, from the Stormlands. Came to King's Landing decades ago, long before your uncle's reign. Keeps a modest shop near the Street of the Sisters. Quiet man, decent, honest. He's baked bread longer than I've swung a sword—and I've broken bread at his table myself. You can trust him." Barristan offered a quiet nod, placing a reassuring hand lightly on his sword's pommel as if vouching for Thomlin with steel itself.
Aemon nodded decisively. "Then take me to him."
.
.
.
****
.
.
As they left Flea Bottom behind, the air grew clearer—but the weight on Aemon's shoulders didn't lift. The city changed, but his resolve did not. Ser Barristan walked steadily beside him, his face shadowed thoughtfully beneath the golden sun.
They walked on without fanfare, the city shifting around them—filth giving way to cobbled stone, stench to the faint aroma of hearth and grain. It wasn't far, but the silence made it feel like a march.
Then came the scent of warm bread—faint at first, then richer with every step. It drifted on the breeze like a promise, guiding forward.
"How will you keep this secret?" the white knight asked at last, his voice low enough for Aemon alone. "Word spreads fast in these streets—especially when bread is involved."
Aemon's brows drew together, his voice soft but resolute. "We'll start small. Just the youngest orphans first—those unable to fend for themselves."
"And the gold?" Barristan pressed gently. "Thomlin's a good man, but temptation can touch anyone."
"Regular payments," Aemon replied firmly, "but discreet. You, Jonothor, or Oswell can deliver the coin directly—someone we trust. And if even one loaf meant for the children goes astray, Thomlin will answer directly to me. I'll make that clear."
Barristan nodded slowly, eyes fixed ahead. "He'll appreciate plain speaking."
"Do you think he'll agree?" Aemon asked softly after a pause.
Barristan glanced down, his expression softening. "He will. Not simply because you're a prince—but because you care enough to act. Men like Thomlin recognize sincerity, especially from those who could easily look away."
Aemon stayed quiet, but his eyes brightened subtly, hope mingling with determination as they continued toward their destination.
He spoke inwardly: S.E.R.A., can we sustain this with our current resources?
S.E.R.A.'s response came swiftly, practical yet reassuring:
["Yes, Aemon. Current funds will provide 500-600 children with bread daily for approximately three months. Long-term sustainability will require regular replenishment or alternative funding sources."]
Aemon exhaled gently, steadied by the knowledge. A beginning was enough—for now.
They turned onto the Street of the Sisters, where buildings crowded close, shoulder-to-shoulder like old friends whispering secrets in the deepening twilight.
Sunset's amber glow painted the worn cobblestones, bathing the simple bakery ahead in a welcoming, warm light.
Barristan stepped forward, gently pushing open the weathered door. A small bell chimed softly overhead.
Inside, warmth enveloped them. Soft firelight from a large brick oven cast dancing shadows across worn wooden shelves dusted with flour. The comforting scent of freshly baked bread filled the room, blending with the quiet crackle of flames. Simple, humble, yet dignified—a place built from honest labour.
Behind the counter stood a broad-shouldered man, grey-haired and thick-armed, kneading dough with practised strength. Thomlin looked up at his visitors, surprise briefly creasing his brow before recognition warmed his face.
"Ser Barristan?" he greeted, wiping flour-dusted hands across his apron. "Didn't expect you today. Who's your young companion?"
Barristan stepped aside slightly, nodding toward Aemon. Without a word, Aemon carefully pulled back his hood, silver hair gleaming gently in the firelight.
"This," Barristan said, "is Prince Aemon. We come quietly, Thomlin—and with a request that requires discretion."
Thomlin's eyes widened sharply, realization washing over his face. Instinctively, he began to lower himself into a respectful kneel.
"Please," Aemon interrupted gently, raising a hand, "there's no need for that, Mister Thomlin. I'm not here as a prince—not today. I'm here to ask for your help."
Thomlin hesitated, clearly uncertain. Then, slowly, he stood—wiping his flour-covered hands on his apron, white dust drifting to the floor like snow. His brows drew together as he studied the boy before him, trying to reconcile the silver hair with the sincerity in his voice.
His gaze lingered on Aemon before he reached beneath the counter and pulled out a crust of warm bread—plain, fresh, still steaming from the oven.
Wordlessly, he broke it in half and held one piece out.
"No prince should ask for help on an empty stomach," he said, matter-of-fact but not unkind.
Aemon took it with a quiet nod. He didn't say thank you—just tore off a small piece and ate it, chewing slowly as he stepped forward.
It wasn't much. Just bread.
But it was warm. Real. Shared.
Something solid to begin with.
He met Thomlin's gaze, steady and respectful.
"I've walked the alleys of Flea Bottom today," he began softly. "I saw children there, Thomlin—starving, sick, forgotten. Dozens of them. And each felt like a silent accusation. I can't change it all—not yet. But I can start somewhere. With bread."
Thomlin listened closely, his expression thoughtful, guarded, yet attentive.
"I will provide you the coin," Aemon continued clearly, voice calm and unwavering. "Regular payments, enough for bread daily. One loaf per child who needs it—quietly given, no questions asked. No spectacle."
Thomlin studied him intently. "Daily bread's no small promise, Your Grace. Supplies, labour, costs—they add up quickly."
"You'll have the gold," Aemon said evenly. "And my trust. But trust has limits. If a single copper is misused—or even one loaf withheld—you'll answer to me. That's my word, not just as a prince, but as someone who truly cares."
Thomlin's gaze shifted to Barristan, who offered a reassuring nod.
The baker exhaled softly, running a hand over his stubbled jaw, flour clinging to his fingertips.
"You know," Thomlin said at last, his voice weighted with reflection, "I've seen kings rise and fall, and lords feast and grow fat, while the truly needy were left forgotten. Never thought I'd see a prince walk into my humble shop—not to take, but to give."
He paused, carefully searching Aemon's face.
He did not blink. He just waited, sincere and resolute.
At last, Thomlin extended a flour-streaked hand, calloused and strong from years at the ovens, dusted with flour and marked by honest labour. A baker's hand offered freely to a prince who sought no throne—only bread.
"I'll bake your bread, Your Grace," Thomlin said firmly, quietly. "Honestly and quietly. You have my word."
Aemon shook Thomlin's hand firmly, feeling the strength of a promise sealed.
"Thank you, Thomlin," Aemon said, a faint smile breaking softly across his face.
Aemon continued, voice soft but firm.
"We'll start before the city wakes. Small, warm loaves—easy to carry, hard to notice. Quiet deliveries. No lines. No begging."
Thomlin nodded slowly, eyes narrowing in thought.
"I can bake in shifts through the night. But one man can't feed every street in Flea Bottom. If word spreads, we'll need hands I can trust."
Barristan spoke next, his tone measured.
"Someone from Flea Bottom. Familiar. Trusted. They'll take the bread without suspicion."
Thomlin scratched at his jaw.
"There's a woman—Elira. Lives near the Street of Sisters. Sells flowers for a living, barely makes enough to feed herself, yet somehow always finds room—and bread—for more children. Orphans cling to her like roots to stone. She's not rich, but she's steady. Kind. The sort you can trust."
Aemon stood, nodding slowly. Something in that name pulled at him.
"I'll speak with her. If she's who you say, I'd place bread in her hands before I place it in others."
From the corner, Jonothor stirred, lifting his head.
"If we're doing this in shadows," Jonothor said, "I'll have Willem keep watch. He's a Gold Cloak—honest, steady, sharp-eyed. Not like most. He does his duty with a clear blade and a clean conscience. If anyone can guard this quietly, it's my brother."
Barristan gave a short, approving nod.
"A silent sword nearby might be wise. Just in case."
Oswell leaned back, sceptical as ever.
"Bread draws crowds. And crowds turn to chaos fast. Word will spread. It always does."
Aemon turned to him—unshaken, resolute.
"Then we spread it with purpose. Slowly. Thoughtfully. We start with Elira's children. One trusted hand. One warm loaf at a time."
He turned to Thomlin again.
"Make them small but hearty. If this works… I'll send more coins."
Thomlin crossed his arms, a slow smile ghosting across his face.
"Then I'll bake until I can't stand."
Barristan chuckled, a rare and warm sound.
"You'll stand. The realms needed fewer swords and more ovens for a long while."
Aemon stepped forward and unclasped his pouch heavy with coins. He placed it gently on the counter—the clink of metal quiet but thick with purpose.
"Use this to begin," he said. "Let the ovens burn tonight. The bread must be ready by morning."
Thomlin stared at the pouch. Then at Aemon. Slowly, he gave a single, solemn nod.
"You'll have your bread, Your Grace."
Aemon held his gaze a moment longer. "How long will this last?"
Thomlin considered the weight, the coin, and the cost of flour, salt, and firewood. "Five to six hundred loaves a day—small, sturdy ones. Enough for three moons, give or take."
Aemon gave a short, approving nod. "My next payment comes at the end of that third moon. I'll see that the pouch is just as full then."
He glanced around the shop, the warm light playing over flour-dusted shelves and worn wooden counters. "I'll visit when I can. Quietly."
Thomlin's expression didn't change, but something gentled behind his eyes.
"Doors open early, Your Grace. Come before the sun, and you'll find no curious eyes—only the smell of baking bread."
Outside, the city exhaled beneath a sky bruised in bright gold. The bakery windows glowed from within, casting warm light onto the cobbled street—humble and unnoticed by most.
Somewhere in Flea Bottom, a girl still clutched a crust of bread to her chest like a crown.
Crumbs dusted her chin.
She took a bite—small, careful. Then broke the rest in half, tucking one piece beneath a ragged cloth. For the little ones, she whispered.
And hope—soft, warm, and quietly shared—rose like morning bread.