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Chapter 1 : A Mother's Embrace, A Father's Gaze

Aemon Targaryen (92 A.C. First Moon)

Kingslanding – Lyanna’s chambers.

A few moments after the birth of Aemon

It was after he had been nursed by his new father that Baelon spoke up. “You can let them in,” Baelon commanded one of the servants.

They entered. The first to walk in was an older lady with a small tiara on her head, reminding him of what Daenerys had worn when he met her on Dragonstone. Queen Alysanne, the Good Queen. Perhaps the best and most influential Queen besides Visenya and Rhaenys, he thought as he looked at the woman. Beside her was a small girl, perhaps ten namedays old, with the familiar looks of House Targaryen.

“Mother, little sister, meet Aemon,” his father announced. Baelon gently took Aemon from his mother’s arms and carried him over to them. ‘Hmm, sister. I’m not certain what time I’ve been born into yet. Considering the Queen’s age and her children, this must be Gael, the Winter Child,’ he thought as he observed Alysanne and the small girl.

“He looks wonderful, a blend of you both. A sadness that your brother isn’t here,” Alysanne said, tears glistening in her eyes as she trailed a hand down his cheek.

Aemon giggled. ‘Oh, that was a childish impulse. Oh dear, I’ll have to learn to control all of that again,’ he thought, embarrassed by his giggle. “Yes, a true blend,” his father said, smiling.

Baelon looked up as they heard footsteps. “Father, meet your fourth grandson.”  “Ah, a strong and curious lad. You can see him looking at us. Congratulations, son, and to you, good-daughter,” King Jaehaerys said joyfully.

‘Yet there was more in the eyes of the old man, a curiosity I don’t quite understand,’ Aemon thought, staring back at Jaehaerys. “Father, I hear I have another brother,” a voice asked.

“It’s true, son. Another brother, something we both doubted would happen again. Yet here he is,” Baelon said as he placed Aemon in his brother’s arms. ‘Was this Daemon or Viserys?’ Aemon wondered.

“See, Viserys, you’ll be fine when your own babe arrives. Where is Aemma and your brother?” Baelon asked, smiling.

“Thank you, Father. Aemma is in the gardens with her ladies. She said she should be here soon. As for Daemon, I do not know. He stormed away earlier,” Viserys replied.

“Hmm, he’ll come around,” Baelon said, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘Was there something about Daemon? Did he dislike that Father remarried or that I was born?’ Aemon wondered as he began to move restlessly.

“Want to go back to your muna?” Viserys asked him. ‘Yes, I want that. Now I have one and won’t be parted for too long’  he thought, letting out a gurgle in response. “Ah, my little boy,” his mother said as she took him from Viserys.

“Come, let’s give mother and son some rest. We can all see the babe again later. Well done, Lya,” his grandmother said as she kissed his mother’s forehead before leaving the chamber. The rest followed, Baelon bringing up the rear.

“Come, let me take him to his crib. You need some rest, and the bedding needs to be cleaned,” Baelon said after they were gone.

“Take him. We’ll enjoy our son for many years,” his mother replied as she handed Aemon to his father. “Sleep well, my son,” his father said, and soon Aemon felt the pull of sleep, drifting off into peaceful slumber.

The following day

As his mother hummed to him, she spoke softly, uttering words that left him utterly shocked. “Oh, my little Aemon, my blessed child. Gifted by the old gods. I never thought I’d hold you again.”

Confusion overwhelmed him. What did she mean by ‘again’? After all, she had just given birth to me. The weight of his thoughts propelled him to cry out, prompting her to embrace him more tightly, a single tear streaming down her cheek. Seeing her cry, his crying ceased. He wanted to tell her that he was okay, to tell her about the weight she carried, the knowledge of the past, that she wasn’t alone in it, and to express the love he felt for her. But he couldn’t do it now—his infancy rendered him unable to act.

“My precious Aemon, I would sacrifice everything for you,” Lyanna professed, her eyes glistening with tears.

“Lya, everything alright?” his father’s voice echoed, breaking the moment between him and his mother.

“Yes, just overwhelmed with our baby,” she responded, a tearful smile gracing her face. What he observed in her eyes resonated as genuine happiness and love. Was this the same sentiment Robb, Arya, Rickon, Sansa, and Bran felt when their mother showered them with affection? The thought of Bran was bittersweet, yet he held onto the memory of the sweet, adventurous boy he once was—not the monster who had taken over his body.

“Well, Lya, I echo the same sentiment. Little Aemon is truly remarkable,” Baelon chimed in, gently taking him from his mother’s arms. Baelon looked into his eyes with his purple gaze. He found love in them, reminiscent of the care Eddard Stark had shown him when circumstances allowed.

“Do you ever wonder what your life would have been like had you not attended the tourney?” his father inquired, his gaze fixed on Lyanna.

“I suppose I’d have returned to the North, perhaps married, as was the purpose of me going to Harrenhal to find a consort. I’d have continued at my father’s side and eventually succeeded him. I’m still surprised that he kept me as heir, even after my brother was born. But fate said no. I met a handsome Targaryen Prince, became a Princess, and now I’m even a future Queen by his side,” his mother replied.

“Yes, I know how you feel. My path was supposed to go somewhere else instead of the kingship. I would have gladly followed the path to be my brother’s Hand. Yet Aemon was slain, and now I’m the Crown Prince and will eventually become King,” his father added, pausing.

“Lya, I never imagined I’d find love again after Alyssa. However, the moment I saw you enter the feast with your father, it took my breath away,” Baelon admitted.

He could share the sentiment. He remembered his feelings when he first encountered Daenerys. She had captivated him from the start, and he had grown to love her for her actions. Yet everything had unraveled the moment he journeyed to Winterfell a memory that still left a bitter taste.

It was in stark contrast to how his mother looked at Baelon. The affection on both their faces was genuine, and he was happy his mother had found happiness after Rhaegar. Perhaps he could find the same in time. It also offered a glimmer of hope a possibility of finding love anew and building a family a family he dreamed of, with children named in memory of those he had lost.

The thought brought an involuntary smile, followed by a giggle of happiness. Oh, those baby impulses.

“Oh, my dear Aemon, your laughter is a beautiful sight,” Lyanna remarked with a giggle, her eyes sparkling with both delight and tears.

“Indeed, just as beautiful as his mother,” Baelon added, sealing the sentiment with a kiss.

He felt a bit awkward as he watched his parents kiss, but it was a small price to pay for seeing his mother truly happy. With contentment settling in his infant body, he yawned, surrendering to sleep’s embrace.

A day later

He woke to an unfamiliar face peering down at him.

“Ah, my half-breed brother. Your mother seduced my father. Even your eyes are wrong,” the man taunted. ‘Daemon? Hmm, apparently, I will have another Theon in my life,’ he thought, irritation building.

The rising irritation was interrupted by his oldest brother, Viserys. ‘He was fond of Viserys despite the historical accounts that portrayed him less favorably. Regardless, Viserys had shown kindness toward him, and his efforts in maintaining the realm’s peace after Jaehaerys I were commendable. Yet he had permitted the Targaryen civil war—the Dance of the Dragons—a decision he considered unwise and unnecessary.’

“Ah, there you are, brother. Finally meeting our new brother,” Viserys declared. Then he turned to him. “Was our brother nice to you, little Aemon?” he added, playfully tickling his belly. Despite his resistance, he couldn’t help but giggle, a childish impulse overwhelming him.

“Enjoying that, Aemon?” Viserys inquired with a smile. Daemon huffed, clearly unimpressed. “That child will only be half of us, brother, never a true dragon.”

Viserys frowned and countered, “Well, you may have noticed, but Balerion recently took flight after years. As you and I know, I attempted to bond with him. Yet it wasn’t meant to be. Now I’m content with Goynogar.” A genuine smile graced his lips. Aemon was puzzled at the mention of Balerion. ‘In his own time, Viserys had bonded with Balerion. Who was this Goynogar? No dragon, to his recollection, had that name. He wasn’t sure why Balerion had flown again after his return. Balerion had only flown again after Viserys mounted him and died in 94 AC.’

“Are you implying that a ‘half-breed’ will tame the Black Dread?” mocked Daemon, disdain in his voice.

His thoughts shifted to his own experience with dragon-bonding. ‘He had briefly formed a connection with Rhaegal, sensing a bond between them, yet it had been short-lived. He had felt Rhaegal’s pain as the dragon succumbed to a scorpion bolt. The Ironborn fanatics had been waiting in hiding on the cliffs of Dragonstone. The wounds he took during the Battle of Winter were still not yet healed, unable to withstand a scorpion bolt shot to the chest, tearing through its insides.’

“Well, brother, time will reveal the truth. We’ll see in six years or more, Daemon. And remember, Aemma is family, just as you are. She’s part of Arryn, so keep that in mind. Let’s never speak of ‘half-breeds’ again in my presence,” Viserys asserted with authority, his tone surprising even Aemon.

“Very well, brother. I apologize for insulting your wife. At least she looks like a true Valyrian,” Daemon conceded, smirking as he exited the room.

“Apologies, little dragon. Our brother can be a bit irritable. Nevertheless, I love you very much, a blessing after Uncle Aemon’s passing. Even Rhaenys was honored when she heard you were named after her father. You know she also has a baby growing up, and soon we will have a great cousin,” Viserys confided, picking him up and kissing his head. ‘Viserys seemed to be a good man, even though he was not the best King, but he was a brother he gradually grew fond of. His words about Rhaenys made him sad, and he remembered his pain when he heard of Eddard Stark’s loss. He wondered if this time she might be the Queen. He hoped not, as his father would have to die again. He would try to change as much as he could to protect his loved ones and the world against the darkness to come.’ He thought as he smiled at his brother and touched his cheek.

“Soon, hopefully, you won’t sleep alone.” With a promise of a future sleeping companion, Viserys returned him to his crib, leaving him to sleep once again.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Bonds Forged in Ice and Fire

Aemon Targaryen (92 A.C. Second Moon)

King’s Landing – Aemon’s Nursery

He woke up and looked at his father, smiling at him. “Well, little dragon, are you up for a flight? All dragons need to fly one day,” his father said as he picked him up. ‘Was his father really taking him on a dragon? A few weeks old, babe?’  Aemon thought in wonder as he opened and closed his mouth.

Dragonpit

Not much later, he was proven right, as his father took him to the Dragonpit. He looked on as his father held him, and they brought out Vhagar. He hadn’t yet seen any of the dragons; he had only heard them. Yet he felt something strange, a connection, from the moment of his birth.

He gaped at the massive dragon, her bronze scales with greenish-blue coloring that reminded him of copper. Vhagar was maybe two times as large as Drogon. Perhaps larger, but he wasn’t sure. Vhagar, the great she-dragon of the Conquest, looked magnificent. How would she look in the sky? he thought in wonderment.

“Vhagar, my girl, meet Aemon,” his father said in High Valyrian. ‘Huh, since when can I understand High Valyrian? Was this a boon of the gods?’ he wondered as the colossal dragon came close to him and his father to investigate. The dragon sniffed and gave a rumble of approval, allowing him and his father to mount her.

After his father was saddled in, he was held closely against his father’s chest. His father gave the command, and the great she-dragon took to the sky. Flying with his father was wonderful, and he truly felt like a Targaryen for the first time.

Yet then a roar and the sight of Balerion leaving the Dragonpit by himself and taking to the air was even more breathtaking. The Black Dread had flown up after them. “Hmm, this is a surprise. It seems someone wants to join us, little Aemon. I hope you don’t get any ideas, little one. Flying with you has frightened your mother enough,” his father said. As he spoke, Aemon could feel the bond with Balerion. The Black Dread himself dwarfed even Vhagar; the she-dragon, perhaps 100 meters long, was around half the size of Balerion. The large golden orbs stared at him, and then Balerion roared in recognition.

Then he felt the connection, something similar to what he had with Rhaegal and Ghost, yet this was more potent. He closed his eyes and opened them again. ‘What happened?’ he thought as he saw his father and himself on Vhagar. ‘Oh, shit, I’m seeing through Balerion’s eyes!’ he thought, bewildered.

“Yes, you are my fire bond. Although I can feel you aren’t in control. Don’t worry. You are just a passenger, although this is unusual. The only ones with whom I could connect like this were Aegon and Daenys, and only via dreams,” an old and powerful voice answered.

‘Oh, by the gods, I’m talking to Balerion! How is that possible?’ Aemon wondered. “I’m not sure. It seems your blood carries a potency that even surpasses that of the Conquerors and the Dreamer,” he received an answer.

“How can I hear you in my head?” he asked.

“Our words flow like the currents of ancient fires, for your blood binds us. I express my gratitude for rekindling my life’s ember. I seemed destined to fade into oblivion, bereft of a worthy successor. My fire can only be enkindled by the flames of those born of fire or those of strong Valyrian blood, much like you,” Balerion rumbled, his immense form emanating a deep, resonant tone.

“But you also possess an icy undercurrent, a force that intertwines with my life’s fire. I am now both the fusion of your ice and my fire courses through my being. This amalgamation sustains me, rekindles the vitality of my youth, and keeps my existence aflame, without which I would have been dead in a year,” the ancient dragon conveyed.

“Ah, the honor is mine to make your acquaintance, Balerion. It seems our paths are intertwined. I have no doubt that the gods have a part to play in this, and I hope we shall take to the skies one day. Yet, before I ask more questions, can you send me back to my body? I don’t want to freak out my father. I doubt he enjoys the fact my eyes are now all white,” Aemon questioned the great dragon.

Everything went black, and he was back against his father’s chest. “Thank you,” he added. ‘Can he hear me now, too?’ he wondered. “Yes, I can,” Balerion replied.

“Aemon? Thank the gods, I thought I lost you for a second,” his father said, worried, and kissed his brow. “Return, Vhagar,” his father commanded, and Vhagar began to fly back to the Dragonpit.

“So Balerion, about this inner fire and fusion of my ice with your fire. What does that all mean?” he asked.

“Alas, that remains a mystery. Valyria knew only of fires that blazed with fervor, for ice was absent in the realm of our forebears. But your essence carries a duality, where fire and ice coalesce. In the frigid expanse of the North, ice holds dominion, a formidable force that must find harmony with fire. This causes equilibrium and shall usher in an era of balance. Yet, tread carefully, for an excess of either element portends disaster, as we saw already with the Doom and fall of the Empire of the Dawn. The old ones told me of a power that seeks to end this duality for a cruel purpose. A harbinger of death, the cold that comes in winter, this power aims to cease the perpetual cycle. Fire, the harbinger of life, counters this dire vision, and a delicate balance is maintained. Should either force overwhelm, the world shall descend into a wasteland of ash or a frozen abyss,” Balerion murmured, his ancient wisdom flowing like an age-old song.

“You are speaking of the Great Other. The gods spoke to me about it. He wants to end life as we know it, bring eternal darkness to the world, and end the cycle. As you say, fire and ice are opposites but balance each other. But where did you learn all this knowledge?” Aemon inquired, his voice a mere whisper. It was reverence he was feeling in the face of Balerion’s millennia-spanning existence.

“As you dwelt in Valyria for a decade, as I said, the old ones, or elder dragons, told me tales of ancient lore. How they came to know all they knew is a secret that remains veiled even from the ancients. Not all of my kind share my insight. However, they have a higher mind than other creatures in the world. So they feel the sting of severed bonds upon death, much as I did when I lost Maegor and little Aerea. Aegon’s and Daenys’ passing, my closest companions next to you, inflicted the most profound anguish, a pain endured across nearly seven decades,” Balerion conveyed, his rumbling voice carrying a melancholy sound to it.

He giggled in delight at what he had now and said, “I am bestowed with a treasure trove of ancient lore indeed. Balerion, I humbly thank you for choosing me as your dragon bond. It’s something I shall enjoy fully.”

“Good, at least you can still laugh, little Aemon,” his father said, smiling.

“His eyes went white?” his mother asked, confused.

“Yes, I don’t know what happened. One moment, Balerion roared loudly, and the next, Aemon’s eyes were white,” his father explained. ‘He wondered if his mother knew about wargs.’ Aemon wondered.

They flew a little bit more before Vhagar landed, with Balerion not far behind them. “Well, it seems we have a little dragon rider in the making,” his father said to his mother as he dismounted from Vhagar. Vhagar was led into the Dragonpit, with Balerion following after her. “We will speak again,” Balerion added as he disappeared into the pit.

“Well, it seems that is my lot. I love both men to be riders,” Lyanna said, kissing him and Baelon. Then his mother saw Baelon’s look. “What, is there something wrong?” she asked, frowning.

“His eyes went white for a while,” his father admitted, and his mother gave him a confused look.

His father explained more. “It was after Balerion came close to us, and it seemed he and Aemon connected, but I do not know how. Yet after that, Balerion roared, and Aemon’s eyes turned white for a few moments.” ‘He wondered if his mother knew what wargs were.’ He wondered.

“Mmm, there were these stories I heard in Winterfell. People’s eyes turned white when they went into the minds of animals and controlled them. They were either called wargs or skinchangers. Although you are saying that Aemon did it with Balerion, it’s possible my house intermarried with the Marsh Kings ages ago, and it was said they were wargs as well,” his mother explained and looked at him in his father’s arms.

“Truly, such a thing is possible, but Lya, Aemon is just a babe,” his father added.

“I know. We will not know the truth until Aemon speaks and tells us. It is maybe even a good thing. From what I know of wargs, most times, the bonds between a warg and an animal are very personal. They connect more than any other bond. Like you might have with a hound or horse. Perhaps it also goes for dragons, but I don’t think there ever has been a warg with Targaryen blood,” his mother added, smiling.

“Perhaps then it will be useful, as I’m almost certain Balerion is bonded with Aemon, yet the last time a young Targaryen tamed him, it ended in disaster,” Baelon added. There was more concern in his voice. ‘I know what he means. Aerea Targaryen died when she claimed Balerion and returned with a form of disease.’

“Let’s hope so, and come, let’s see your father. He might be interested to know if his grandson has received the interest of The Black Dread,” his mother added.

They went into the carriage, not much later arriving back in the Red Keep, and went right to the King’s solar. His father, receiving nods from the Kingsguard, was let through the door.

“Ah, son, good-daughter, good day. What brings you to my solar?” Jaehaerys questioned from his desk.

“Good day, father. Father, it seems we have a new dragon-bonded,” his father said proudly as he walked into the solar of King Jaehaerys.

“Oh, how so? I saw the Black Dread flying again, for a second time. More times than I have seen it do in 30 years. Is little Aemon the cause?” the King asked, curious. The voice was loving. ‘Do I remind him of his lost son? He had noticed his grandfather often visited his nursery, sometimes just holding him or staring into his crib. On occasion, Princess Gael also came along, a sweet child, if a bit thin.’ He thought as he stared at his grandfather.

“Yes, Father, more or less. The moment I flew with Vhagar into the sky, Balerion followed. The dragon’s golden eyes never left our boy,” Baelon said, looking at him and his mother. ‘Hmm, it seems they won’t tell him yet about the possibility of me being a warg.’

“Very good. I thought that he would never fly again after Viserys tried to tame him and how weak he was. But it seems something in the boy has awakened the flame of the old dread,” the King said with a laugh.

“Well, let’s hope Aemma brings us a healthy babe, too, a great playmate for little Aemon here,” Lyanna said with a smile, tickling his tummy. ‘Damn himself, he was happy at this moment. The Black Dread was his dragon. He had a loving mother and father and more family he adored. He felt guilty but hoped his family would want him to be happy. It wasn’t even half a year ago, yet he was starting to be truly happy despite some of the difficulties of being a babe.’ He thought, conflicted as he took in the happiness of the room.

The First Four Moons

I still remember the earlier days of my new life. They were both a blessing and a curse, and I couldn’t do much as I was still a babe. I could only laugh or murmur. So, I planned what I needed to ensure the world would be better prepared for what was to come. I planned what I would do with my fortress in Sea Dragon Point, as I learned from my parents, King Jaehaerys, and my grandfather Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and previous cousin to Ellard Stark. They had negotiated that I would have connected the North better to the Seven Kingdoms. It also seems it lessened the tensions of the North losing the New Gift.

My family was mostly a blessing. Viserys and Aemma were also trying to learn to handle a babe. They were both excited to meet their new child, so they gave as much of their attention as they could. My mother adored both Aemma and Viserys because of it.

My father gave me a newfound peacefulness, which I didn’t know I needed. Where Eddard Stark had raised him, he could never truly show him open affection because of Catelyn Tully. Baelon never had that issue. He gave him the support he needed as a father. Neither Eddard Stark nor Rhaegar Targaryen could have given him that before. As for Rhaegar Targaryen, I would find out more later about the man.

Then, his brother, Daemon, had not accepted my mother and father’s union and felt his father had betrayed his mother, Alyssa, with my mother. He said I was a half-breed, not a pure Targaryen, and that my eyes were wrong. Later, I found out he called my mother other colorful names. That was a thing with Daemon. He picked for himself what was pure Targaryen and what was not, as I found out later. It seemed mostly to be a distaste for my blood and me.

As for my other kin, like my Septa Aunt Meaggale, she was a sweet woman. Unfortunately, she would die four years after my birth of greyscale. Little Gael was a sweet child and became a good companion to me through the years I knew her. My two Targaryen grandparents were both good to me in their own way. Alysanne was more affectionate and loving, yet Jaehaerys looked at me with curiosity and a look of promise. I found out later why that was.

The greatest blessing was my mother. Her presence was a boon in my life, one I had always wished for. Knowing she was my mother from the same timeline made our bond even more special. I remember looking forward to the day I could speak with her and get answers to the questions I always harbored about the rebellion, her earlier life, and my father, Rhaegar.

Notable to me in these early days was the birth of Laena Velaryon, the firstborn of Corlys Velaryon and Rhaenys Targaryen, four moons after my own birth.

Page out of the Journal of Aemon Targaryen the White Dragon.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Babe Aerion

The five moons after my birth.  

I remember noticing that when I was a babe, that time flowed like a river, the time flying by as my time was mostly sleeping. Sometimes, an obstacle would come into the river, breaking the flow. For example, when I saw Balerion, I could at least talk with Balerion through our connection. To the rest of the people around me, I could only make gurgling noises. I remember being unable to wait until he could speak so the flow of my current life could change a little.

 The world was happy for me as my bond with Balerion grew stronger with each passing day. The ancient dragon’s presence was a constant reassurance, a reminder of the connection between fire and ice. Flying with my father and feeling the wind in my hair became a cherished routine, a glimpse into the world of dragons and their riders, something I only had a glimpse of before.

My mother, Lyanna, remained a steadfast source of comfort. Her touch, her laughter, and the warmth of her embrace became my sanctuary. Even without words, he understood the depth of her love and devotion. Now he knew what his previous Stark siblings felt when their mother gave them love.

I remember one day, as the sun painted the sky with hues of gold and crimson, my mother and I sat together in the godwood under a weirdwood. That was also a surprise as he couldn’t remember one being in Kingslanding. Baelor had probably cut it down during his reign. The pious idiot wouldn’t never let a heathen altar stand in his city.

I remember that moment as she cradled me in her arms, and he gazed up at her with eyes full of curiosity.

“You’re growing so quickly, my sweet Aemon,” she whispered, her voice a gentle melody. “Soon, you’ll be crawling and exploring the world around you.”

I babbled in response, and my attempt at communication was met with a soft chuckle from her. “Yes, I know you have much to say, my little dragon. One day, you’ll have a voice that can express all your thoughts. I tell you all of Winterfell, and you tell me all the mischief you have caused.”

He enjoyed being in her presence. It felt like a sense of contentment that words could not convey. The bond between them was unbreakable.

Pages out of the Journal of Aemon Targaryen the White Dragon.

Lyanna Stark (92 A.C Fith Moon)

Kingslanding Viserys and Aemma’s bedchamber.

The screams of birth had awoken in the night. Her gooddaughter, in all ways, had awoken in the black of night as her labor pains began.

She squeezed Aemma’s hand, feeling the sweat and tremor of her grip, her own heart straining with each of Aemma’s cries. ‘Please, gods,’ she prayed silently, ‘let her be safe. Let the babe be strong.’

Aemma’s fear glimmered in her tear-bright eyes, and she looked to her with a desperation she knew well—the same fear she’d felt alone in a tower so many years ago. She kept her face calm, hiding the twinge of fear in her chest, and leaned close to Aemma, brushing damp hair from her brow.

“It will be all right, Aemma,” she murmured, her voice as steady as she could make it. “Breathe. You’re doing well. Just a little longer now.”

Aemma shook her head, biting back a scream, her eyes pleading. “It hurts so much, and my muna… my muna died birthing me. How can you say it will be all right?”

The words cut through her. She knew too well the pain of mothers lost too soon, and she knew the ghost of Aemma’s mother, Princess Daella, hung heavily over this night. She took Aemma’s face gently in her hands, forcing the young woman to look at her.

“Because I am here with you, and so is Alyssane. And your muna is watching over you, Aemma,” she said, her voice firm, yet warm. “She will not let you go. I will not let you go.”

The room fell into a tense rhythm, Aemma’s breaths breaking into cries as each wave of pain struck. Beside her, Alyssane held Aemma’s hand, murmuring soft reassurances, her face solemn but unwavering. The midwives worked tirelessly, yet as time dragged on, an uneasy stillness began to settle over the room, thickening with each labored breath and broken cry.

Finally, there was a cry from Aemma, sharp and desperate, as her body convulsed in one last effort. The midwife caught the babe, a small, fragile thing. But her heart stilled as she saw the way the babe lay so quiet, unmoving.

“No…” Aemma’s voice was barely a whisper, her hand reaching out, shaking. “No… please…”

Her chest twisted with a pain so sharp it almost brought her to her knees. She watched as Aemma’s trembling fingers touched the babe’s soft cheek, already cooling, so heartbreakingly still.

“Aemma,” Alysanne murmured. She heard Alysanne’s voice breaking as she wrapped an arm around her granddaughter, pulling her close. “I am so sorry, my sweet girl.”

Aemma’s sobs tore through the quiet room, and she held her as tightly as she dared, her own grief a heavy stone within her. She knew the pain of a life cut short, knew the feeling of love taken too soon, and she would carry this sorrow with Aemma however long she needed.

She joined them, her arms wrapping around both women, her presence a steady anchor in the storm of grief.

At that moment, she promised herself she would not leave Aemma’s side. She would guide her through the days and nights to come through the weight of this loss. Because, if nothing else, she knew the strength it took to survive loss, and she would give every bit of that strength to Aemma.

With a soft kiss on Aemma’s brow, she whispered, “Your muna holds your babe now. And we, my dear, will hold you.”

Baelon Targaryen (92 A.C. Fifth Moon)

Kingslanding - Outside Viserys and Aemma’s bedchamber.

Baelon sat beside his sons as he held Aemon in his lap. “It will be alright. Aemma is a strong woman Viserys, and both Lyanna and your grandmother are with her.” He said to his son. ‘He knew the words meant little, as well. He remembered they didn’t help take the fear away. Yet he needed to say them like his father had told him.’

“It’s been hours, father. The sun is already rising. What if something goes wrong with Aemma or with babe.” Viserys exclaimed, holding his tired head in his hands. “Then, you will have to be a man. Be there for her, or don’t blame the babe if the babe is fine and she isn’t. It’s never their fault. Be a father to the babe.” He answered sternly. ‘He had never blamed Aegon for Alyssa’s death. He still loved the child even if he lived a few moons, Alyssa would have hated him if he had done so.’

“I understand, father, yet losing Aemma. I know this marriage was arranged, but I care for her.” Viserys answered. “Good,” Baelon responded.

Then the door creaked open, and Lyanna his new light, came out. Her face said it all, not one of joy but one of sadness. “Viserys, come, your wife needs you,” Lyanna said. “Go, son. I will be there soon.” He said, giving his son a pad on the back as he walked away.

“Lya, what is it?” He asked hoarse. Lyanna enclosed in a hug and sobbed on his shoulder. “The babe did not live. He came out stillborn and was strong, but the babe did not live.” She sobbed out. ‘Yeah, there it was.’ He thought. “How, his Aemma?” Baelon asked as he kissed her borrow.

“She is alive,” Lyanna whispered against his shoulder, her voice muffled but trembling. “But in grief, over the babe.”

He exhaled deeply, relief mingling bitterly with sorrow. The loss of the babe was a cruel blow, but Aemma’s survival was a small mercy he would cling to. He pulled back slightly, his hands framing Lyanna’s face, brushing away her tears with his thumbs.

“You have done all you could, Lya,” he said softly, his voice firm yet tender. “You were there for her when she needed strength. Now, we must be there for both of them together.”

Lyanna nodded, though her tears continued to flow. Baelon pressed a kiss to her brow, resting his forehead against hers for a moment. Then, with a deep breath, he straightened, squaring his shoulders. He gave Aemon to his mother, as had he grief to carry, and a family to hold together.

As Lyanna stepped aside, wiping her eyes, they made their way into the bedchamber. The air was heavy with the scent of sweat and blood, the oppressive weight of loss filling every corner. Aemma lay in the bed, pale and trembling, her face streaked with tears. Viserys sat beside her, holding her hand, his expression stricken as he whispered soft words of comfort.

Baelon approached quietly, his shadow falling over the grieving couple. Aemma’s eyes flickered toward him, hollow and distant, and Viserys looked up, his face taut with despair.

“You did well, Aemma,” he said gently, his voice low and steady. He knelt by her bedside, taking her free hand in his large, calloused one. “You are strong. Stronger than you know. And we will be here for you for as long as you need.”

Aemma didn’t respond, her lips trembling as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. Viserys leaned forward, his grip tightening on her hand, and he placed a reassuring hand on his son’s shoulder.

“Remember, you are in this together,” he said, his voice firm yet kind. “There will be days of joy ahead. But tonight, you grieve together. Name your babe, and we’ll send him to the rest of the family later this week.”

The couple nodded silently, stepping away and walking over to his mother, who stood quietly in the corner. They embraced her, and it was then that she cried. She had stayed strong for their sake, but he knew a death in the birthing bed always weighed heavily on her heart. She had lost many of his siblings in their earliest years.

“I know,” he said softly, resting a hand on her shoulder as her tears fell. They stayed there a moment longer in the warmth of the shared embrace before he spoke again.

“Tell Father I’ll return later,” he said, kissing his mother’s brow.

As Baelon turned to leave, his gaze swept across the room. He saw Lyanna sitting in a chair, cradling little Aemon in her arms. Yet Daemon was nowhere in sight, no surprise. The boy had avoided the birthing chamber ever since their mother’s passing. ‘I’ll speak to him later,’ he thought to himself.

Stepping into the corridor, he let his mind drift to what lay ahead. The sun had risen fully by now, casting a warm glow over the stone walls. He paused for a moment, looking toward the horizon with a jaw set in quiet determination. Then, without another word, he made his way toward his father’s chambers.

My first nephew was Aerion. I remember seeing him once as my mother hovered over the child’s crib. His little body already packs in except for his face, his eyes closed, and his skin pale as milk, to my nephew not live one 92 A.C fifth Moon.

His death hit the family hard. But the gods showed their blessing when, ten moons later, Aemma was with child again. Nine moons after that, a squealing girl was born on the second moon of 94 A.C. My brother called her Rhaenyra, and soon, my father began calling his granddaughter the realm’s delight.

Pages out of the Journal of Aemon Targaryen the White Dragon.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4 : Kinship

The year 94 A.C. was a joyful one for me, filled with the arrival of companions who would shape my life in the years to come. On the first moon of that year, Laenor Velaryon was born on the same moon. A few days later, Rhaenyra came into the world. By the time of my second nameday, I was already making quite an impression on my family—though not always in the ways they expected.

By then, I had begun walking and talking, exploring my surroundings with curiosity and a surprising level of determination for someone my size. Being a man in the body of a toddler had its advantages, especially after spending nearly nine moons as a helpless babe.

I soon attempted to train with a wooden toy sword, eager to test my strength and skills. However, I quickly discovered my small frame wasn’t quite up to the task. Undeterred, I turned my attention to drawing. A little toddler trying to sketch wasn’t entirely out of place, but the looks I received when people saw what I was drawing were priceless.

Pages out of the Journal of Aemon Targaryen the White Dragon.

Aemon Targaryen (94 A.C. Third Moon)

Dragonpit

They had just flown, and his father gave some last words to Vhagar, who purred happily at his father’s touch. Yet, waiting on the ground, his own curiosity and the bond he felt with Balerion compelled him to move, his little legs carrying him to the enormous dragon. “My Prince!!” One of the dragonkeepers yelled out.

“Aemon! Don’t go there is dangerous.” His father called out to him. Yet it was too late. He was already at Balerion head. That was lying on the ground. “Little one, you are in trouble. But good to be touched after so many years alone.” Balerion rumbled as he laid his tiny Hand on the dragon’s chin. “I know, but I want to come to you and don’t know why.” He replied.

“A Dragonbond is strong. It’s one of trust and mutual respect. The closer the bond, the stronger the will of both dragon and rider and we are bonded far more than any other before. I’m ice and fire now. I can feel it. I’m the same as you. I will only bond with someone who shares your blood, a future child, or a grandchild.” Balerion explained. “I know, I feel it to the bond, something that is there, but you can’t put your finger on it. It’s the same feeling I felt with Ghost.” He added. ‘Ghost, I will miss you until the day I die.’ He thought sadly.

“Your companion will always be part of you as I will, as you will be of me. Mourning them is a good way to respect them and keep their memory alive.” Balerion said. Then Balerion began to rise and hiss at something coming toward them.

Aemon turned around and saw his father coming. “Balerion Lykrii.” His father called out. “Aemon, come here?” His father said, waving his hand.

“I will be back. Thank you for your words,” he said to the Balerion as he slowly walked to his father. “Drago,” he said happily as his father lifted him up.

“No worries, friend, I will be there for you until we eventually part ways as all beings must. Also, one more thing: I feel someone with blood similar to yours close by,” Balerion said, as he rumbled and huft smoke at his father. ‘What did Balerion mean by that? He was literally the only one with Stark-Targaryen blood.’ Aemon thought, confused.

“Aemon, never do that again. Balerion could have killed you. Dragon aren’t pets.” His father scolded him as they walked toward the carriage. “Bal, friend,” He said childishly. “Like Lae,” he added, smiling like an idiot. His father just sighed at him, probably knowing that telling a dragon isn’t similar would work with a toddler.

“Hmm, you are happy, but don’t think your mother will be pleased.” His father said as they stepped inside the carriage. He felt himself becoming red, ‘Ops, well, it was worth talking with Balerion.’ He thought, sitting on his father’s lap.

Lyanna’s chambers

Aemon sat on a low bench by the hearth, his small legs swinging as he glanced around the room with a mix of feigned innocence and barely concealed curiosity. His mother paced before him, her long skirts brushing the stone floor as she occasionally stopped to glare at him.

His mother’s wolf-gray eyes were as sharp as the ice of the North, and they were fixed on him now. “What were you thinking?” she demanded, her voice low but firm. “You ran straight toward Balerion’s head. He’s not some plaything, and you’re lucky he didn’t harm you, even by accident.”

He squirmed slightly under her gaze, folding his tiny hands in his lap. “Bal friend, like Vhag, is Kepa’s,” he mumbled, his words simple and childish.

His mother stopped and crouched in front of him, her braided hair tumbling over one shoulder. “Aemon, you don’t wander over to a dragon. A dragon isn’t a friend.” His mother said.

He hesitated, his small shoulders hunching slightly. “We are friends,” he said carefully, choosing words that sounded natural for his toddler self. ‘He couldn’t go and explain. He knew what a Dragonbond or a warg was. “Together feels nice.”

Lyanna exchanged a glance with Baelon, who stood quietly by the doorway. His usual easy smile was replaced with a thoughtful expression. He stepped forward and crouched beside Lyanna, placing a steadying hand on her arm.

“Perhaps it’s a warg thing. Perhaps that explains it.?” His father asked softly. “Perhaps still Baelon he but a child.” His mother added with a heavy sigh.

His father looked at his mother. “How are you feeling, Lyanna?” Baelon asked softly. “The nausea hasn’t let up, has it?” ‘Nausea? Was his mother nauseous? Wait! ‘I feel someone with blood similar to yours close by,’ Balerion had said.’ His mother was with child!’ He thought, surprised.

“Muna, sick?” He asked curiously. “No, little one, just a little under the weather.” His mother replied. He frowned as he walked over to his mother, “No, muna, babe. Like Aemma.” He said, and they both looked at him, surprised. “Aemma is sick too, with Ny.” He added, as childishly as he could.

“Could I be?” His mother asked his father. “When was the last time you had your moonblood.” His father asked. “I don’t perhaps a moon ago.”

“Then we go to the measter and see if true. Come one, Aemon, let’s see if you are to have a Valonqar.” His father said, smiling, as he pulled him up into his embrace.

Baelon Targaryen (94 A.C. Fourth Moon)

Skys above Driftmark

‘High Tide,’ He thought. ‘He had wanted to visit since little Laenor was born, but duties and his wife’s pregnancy announcement kept him busy. Prevented him from going to them. Ever since his father named him heir over Rhaenys, the Valeryons felt like they had been slighted. He wouldn’t resent it if Rhaenys became the heir, but his father was King, and the King’s words were law. Yet it was time to unite the House of the Dragon again, and he had the best option for it. One he suspected the Valeryons agreed with.’

“Dive, Vhagar,” The she-dragon let out a trembling roar as he descended toward the platform. It was designed like a dragon pit of King’s Landing. ‘High Tide had started its construction shortly before the betrothal announcements between Rhaenys and Corlys. Corlys was always a man with immense pride, and High Tide was a true sowing of that, and he had to said it never failed to impress.’ He thought as they landed.

“Prince Baelon, welcome to High Tide. My uncle is expecting you in the Hall of Nine. I’m Vaemond Velaryon.” The man proclaimed after he dismounted and took his travel bag with him, and Ser Addam also dismounted.

“I remember you, Vaemond, from my niece’s wedding. It’s good to see you gain. May congratulate on your nephew.” He said, and the man gave him a respectful bow.

He followed the mand and gave the travel bag to Ser Addam. Slowly, they entered Hight Tide, and it was impressive how they looked after five years of construction. The only true thing the castle yet lag was a wall, although he had seen the beginnings of one when he arrived.

Ser Addam stepped forward as the doors opened and announced him to the room. “Prince Baelon Targaryen, Heir to Iron Throne, and Prince of Dragonstone.”

“Prince Baelon, welcome to High Tide,” Corlys said, his voice stoic, as he stood up from the driftwood throne, and then the man gave him a slight bow. ‘At least he does that,’ Baelon thought, relieved.

By his side sat his niece, with a babe in her arms, and little Laena sat at the foot of the stairs to the throne. “Lord Corlys, thank you for receiving me, and congratulations on the birth of your son. I hope soon you can travel to court to present him to the King.” He said.

“Thank you, uncle. The Queen found this little bundle a true joy. He said he reminded him of Aemon.” His niece said. “Yes, I heard. Any reminder of my brother is a happy thing.” Baelone replied, smiling.

“As much I would like to say, this visit is just social, it isn’t. I have come here to repair the rift between our families. House Velaryon has always been a strong ally to the crown. The crown is its strongest if our oldest ally stands beside us.” He proclaimed.

“Very well, everyone out,” Colrys replied. “Daela, take the childeren.” Rhaenys said, and soon, Laenor and Laena were escorted out. “Ser Addam, you can wait outside.” He ordered, and the man nodded, left the room, and closed the door.

“So, My Prince, what are you have to over after my wife was slighted and her birthright taken,” Corlys said with a low voice. “Corlys,” Rhaenys chastised her husband.

“As you know, I didn’t want to be the heir. I would be content to serve my brother as Hand and stand by his side. Yet fate had different plans, as had my father, I didn’t contest it as he is the King, and the King’s word is law.” He said.

“Yet, we are kin, through marriage and blood. So, I propose we bind ourselves again through blood. My son, Aemon, is the heir to the future lands of Sea Dragon Point, which is currently in development. When the keep is finished, it will be the main Nothern port in Sunset Sea. So I asked we betrothed my son Aemon to your daughter Laena. In the marriage, Laena will also be allowed to try and claim a dragon when the time comes. We also will help you arrange a good match for your eldest cousin, Vaemond.” Baelon declared and waited for their reaction.

Corlys looked toward his wife and then back to him. “It is an acceptable proposal. The Queen spoke about it too when she was here, so we had time to consider the possibility of a match between Aemon and Laena. I only want to add a few things: my seat on the small council has to be returned, there has been a decrease in trade traffic for Velaryon ships, and my son will grow up alongside Prince Aemon. It will hopefully bring on a lifelong friendship.” Coryls proclaimed. Baelon sighed in relief at their acceptance, giving his mother a silent thank you.

“I can agree to that. However, you must understand that Aemon will travel north after his tenth nameday to be a ward with grandfather Rickard Stark or Benjen Stark. Pray my goodfather is still around by then. I’m sure Lord Stark would be happy to offer him a wardship, too.” He added. “Hmm, I can see that a few years in the North will do any child good. The North breeds strong men.” Colrys repsoned.

He nodded, satisfied with the agreement. “Then we are in accord. Let this be the first step toward mending the bond between our houses. I will send word to King’s Landing about our arrangement and promptly address your concerns about trade and the council seat.”

Corlys stood, extending his hand, his expression softening slightly. “It is a start, Prince. Let us hope that history will look kindly on this moment.”

He clasped Corlys’s hand firmly, meeting the Lord of the Tides’ gaze. “It will, my Lord. Together, we shall ensure it.”

As their grip loosened, Rhaenys rose from her seat. “It gladdens my heart to see family striving for unity. My mother once said that a house divided falls faster than any sword. I believe she was right.” Rhaenys said, smiling.

“Wise words, Princess, I hope my sister-in-law is still here,” he replied, bowing his head slightly.

Rhaenys smiled and replied. “She is still here. Also, I hope you stay the night so we can host a feast to mark this agreement. Let it be known that House Velaryon and House Targaryen are bound anew.”

“Of course, I prepared for the possibility.” He answered, smiling.

Corlys inclined his head in agreement. “A fine idea, my lady. Let the castle be prepared. Vaemond, come back inside.”

The door creaked open as Ser Addam, and Vaemond stepped back inside, his watchful eyes scanning the room. He turned to him with a subtle nod, signaling the end of their discussion. “Nephew, escort Prince Baelon to his chambers for his stay.”

“As you wish, my Lord. I see you both later during the feast.” He added, and he and Ser Addam followed Vaemond to their assigned chambers.

I remember my father being joyful when he arrived back at court from his trip to Driftmark. I learned then that I was betrothed to Laena. The rider of Vhagar in the past, I remember hoping she would tame a different dragon, meaning my father would live. Also, the news of my mother’s second pregnancy began traveling the realm, and soon, in the year 94 A.C in the Elventh moon, my sister Visenya Targaryen was born. My Aunt Gael was also officially betrothed to the future Lord of Isle of Claw Bartimos Celitgar this year. The boy was then six and ten, and they would wed when Gael would turn six and ten due to Gael’s delicate nature. My Grandmother had argued the case, as she remembered what happened with Daella.

Pages out of the Journal of Aemon Targaryen the White Dragon.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: Visenya Targaryen.

Lyanna Stark Targaryen (Year 94 A.C. Eleventh Moon)

Kingslanding - Lyanna Starks Chambers

She had thought. ‘That after birthing Aemon two times, the pain of childbirth would somehow lessen, but she was mistaken.’ The birthing pains had come once more, and she found herself confined to her bed, surrounded by maids and the castle’s maester bustling about her.

“Lyanna, you are doing great. I’m so proud of you,” her husband, Crown Prince Baelon Targaryen, whispered to her, his purple eyes filled with love and concern. As she endured the waves of pain, she silently prayed to the old gods, pleading for Baelon’s continued health. She had already witnessed the birth of Aemon and watched him grow; she couldn’t bear the thought of losing Baelon now. She and her children needed him.

She kissed him as he held her hand, just as he had during Aemon’s birth. Baelon had defied anyone who dared tell him otherwise, insisting on being by her side. He was a loving and devoted husband, and she cherished him more each passing day.

Another surge of pain coursed through her body, and she pushed with all her strength. “Yes, Princess, just a little more. I see the head. Now, push,” Maester Melos instructed. She followed his guidance, her exhausted body pushing until the ordeal finally ended.

With a triumphant cry, it was done. She let out an exhausted groan mixed with tears of happiness. “You have a girl, my Prince and Princess,” Maester Melos announced. “A new princess for the realm.”

“Give her to me,” she requested, yearning to hold her child. However, her moment of happiness was interrupted as another wave of pain rippled through her body. It was not another child but the afterbirth, a necessary yet painful part of childbirth.

“Well done, Princess. It’s all over now. You have given birth to a healthy babe,” Maester Melos reassured her, handing the babe to her. Exhausted but elated, she cradled her daughter, who lay sleeping peacefully in her arms. The child was less rosy than Aemon had been but equally beautiful.

“She has your eyes this time and my black-brown raven hair,” she said with wonder, looking at her daughter’s closed eyes. She marveled at the child’s perfect features, a blend of their bloodlines.

“She does, Lya. A beautiful girl,” Baelon agreed, his eyes filled with love. He ran his fingers through his daughter’s tufts of dark hair, and a contented smile graced his face. “Have you thought of any names, my love?”

‘ Visenya. The name came to her, a tribute to a legendary Targaryen from the past.’ She thought is perfect for the little fierce daughter she now had. “What about Visenya? I think it’s time our family had another Visenya. We already have a Rhaenys.”

Baelon nodded in agreement, his approval clear. “Very well, my love. Visenya it shall be, for Visenya Targaryen, daughter of Baelon Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.”

As they shared a moment of joy, a servant entered the chamber, seeking permission for Prince Aemon and Prince Viserys to meet their new sibling. “My prince, Prince Aemon, and Prince Viserys asked to come see their sibling. May I let them in?” the servant inquired.

“You may, but please cover up the bed first. Aemon doesn’t need to see all the blood. We will change the linens after he leaves,” Baelon instructed.

Minutes later, their eldest son, Aemon, rushed into the room, his little legs carrying him as fast as they could. He was followed closely by Viserys, who had taken care of his brother during the past few hours, a responsibility he had embraced with love.

“Muna, Kepa!” Aemon exclaimed, running to them and hugging his father’s leg. “Congratulations, Kepa,” Viserys said.

Viserys joined the embrace with Baelon. Later, he congratulated her just as warmly. “Congratulations, Stepmother, you have given us and the realm a wonderful new Princess,” Viserys said with his genuine smile. “You have given birth to a dark-haired one this time. I have no doubt she will be as beautiful as her mother.” Viserys added as he looked at Visenya in her arms.

Aemon had been put on the bed by his father and, in his childlike innocence, reached out to gently stroke Visenya’s head, his eyes shining with love. “I protect you, I love you, little sis.” She smiled at his kind words and the love that shined on his face.

But then, a flicker of fear crossed Aemon’s face. His sudden distress alarmed her. “Aems, everything alright?” she asked with concern. “Is something troubling you?”

Aemon nodded, his eyes filling with tears. “Sorry, Muna,” he muttered before bolting off the bed and running out of the chamber. Before he could be stopped, she tried to call after him, “Aemon, wait!”

“Something is wrong, Baelon,” she said, looking at him and then back to the door.

“I’ll go talk to him,” he said, leaving the chamber to find their son.

“He was worried for you, Lyanna. He is still young, but Aemon has a smart mind. He knew something was up. I noticed even with Aemma when she was giving birth to Rhaenyra,” Viserys remarked with a sad smile. “He’s a good boy, my brother. Even so young, he tries to care for everyone around him, especially his family.” Viserys added, glancing at Visenya and back to the door where Aemon had felt toward. He then gave her a hug. “Thank you, Viserys. You couldn’t have been a better stepson or brother,” she replied, kissing his cheek.

“Thank you. I’ll leave you two alone now. I’m sure my grandparents would love to see her as well. I’m sure grandmother will be happy, having her another granddaughter. So I’ll give you some quiet time before all the noise comes,” he said with a smile before leaving the room.

“Oh, little Visenya, I will protect you until my dying breath, just as I will for Aemon. I’m sure he will as well,” she whispered as she gently kissed Visenya’s brow.

Aemon Targaryen (Year 94 A.C. Elventh Moon)

Kingslanding - Aemon’s Chambers 

Relief washed over him as he saw his mother and sister were safe and healthy. Yet, the emotions he felt were overwhelming. The fear of losing his mother to childbirth again was almost too much to bear.

When he looked at Visenya and saw his mother was all right, he couldn’t help but cry. Overwhelmed by a mixture of relief, love, and lingering trauma of his past, he decided to run away, not wanting to dampen the joyful moment with his tears. He fled to his chamber, seeking solace in the corner where he could let his emotions flow freely.

“Aemon, are you here?” His father’s concerned voice reached him. He had followed him. “Aems, what’s wrong?” Baelon asked as he picked up his son, holding him tightly. “Do you want to talk about it?” he inquired as he cried into his father’s shoulder. The weight of his past lives and the fear of losing his newfound family had become too much.

“Hmm, it’s alright, your mother is fine. As is your sister,” Baelon reassured him, wiping away his tears. “You will have the chance to play with her and your mother when they are both stronger. Your mother is as strong as a wolf, and your sister, a dragonwolf like you,” Baelon added, offering a reassuring smile.

“Kepa, don’t go. Please,” He pleaded. ‘Fearing the loss of this man, he had grown to love and consider his true father. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. It was an odd thing really loving him like that, but it felt true, and he didn’t want to let it go.’ He thought as he held his father tightly.

“I’m here, Aemon. I won’t leave you. I love you and won’t ever leave, okay?” His father promised, his words filled with genuine affection. But instead of comforting him, they triggered more tears for him. He felt weak. ‘But perhaps it was a part of childhood he never could feel when he was younger. A bastard had to grow up faster, after all.’ He thought as he sobbed.

He despised himself at this moment, feeling weak for breaking down like this. The thought of losing his family again was tearing him apart. Balerion’s voice, “You aren’t alone, little dragon, remember,” echoed in his mind as he cried, offering comfort and guidance.

“You do have a strong bond,” His father remarked as he heard Balerion’s roar in the distance. “Just like you, you are strong. Remember that. Everything will be alright, Aemon. We all love you, and nothing will ever change that,” he added, planting a kiss on the top of his head.

As time passed, he gradually calmed down. His father put him to bed, and eventually, he drifted off to sleep, still wrestling with his inner turmoil but feeling reassured by the presence of his father and his dragon friend.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6 : Family Time

Alysanne Targaryen (Third Moon 95 A.C.)

Skies of above Dragonstone

The winds above Dragonstone were brisk and laden with the salty tang of the Narrow Sea, whipping through Alysanne Targaryen’s silver hair as she guided Silverwing in graceful arcs through the skies. Her grandson’s delighted laughter carried even over the rush of air and the occasional roar of a distant dragon. Alysanne smiled to herself, a warmth spreading in her chest. Little Aemon was fearless, full of questions and wonder—a true dragon in the making.

If the boy loved anything, it was flying. From the moment he had been old enough to toddle about, Aemon had been fascinated by dragons and the skies. Alysanne had marveled at his precocity. He had walked, talked, and exhibited uncanny intelligence by age three. Now, at the age of almost four, his questions about Balerion had become a regular refrain. “When can I ride him? When will he let me?” And Alysanne, though patient, could not help but worry. Balerion, that great, ancient beast, seemed strangely drawn to the boy. Even now, as they circled the Dragonmont, the Black Dread’s golden eyes followed their flight.

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it, Aemon?” she asked, her voice carrying despite the wind.

“Kessa,” Aemon replied, using his special word for “yes” as he clung to her waist. He squeezed her arm in excitement. “When can I go flying? With Bale?”

Alysanne chuckled, her amusement tinged with worry. “Not for some time, my little dragon. You are far too young.”

“Bale’s a good friend,” Aemon argued, pointing a small finger toward the looming shadow of Balerion on the mountainside. “Wanna play with Bale. Fly with Bale. He wouldn’t hurt me.”

As if to affirm the boy’s words, Balerion released a low, approving rumble that reverberated through the air like distant thunder. Alysanne’s brow furrowed. How was it that this ancient dragon, so aloof and mighty, responded so instinctively to her grandson? It was a mystery she could not solve, and it unsettled her.

“I know you think that,” she said gently, “but even dragons we bond with are dangerous. Silverwing would never hurt me, but that doesn’t mean accidents can’t happen. Dragons are large and powerful, my little one, and one wrong move can mean the end of a life. You must be patient.”

Aemon pouted, his lower lip jutting out in a way that made her smile despite herself. “Okay,” he relented. “I will try.”

Satisfied, Alysanne turned Silverwing toward the Dragonmont, the great dragon descending smoothly toward her roost. Once they had landed and dismounted, Baelon Targaryen strode forward to greet them. He enveloped his son in a warm hug, ruffling his hair.

“Mother, how was your flight?” Baelon asked, his voice tinged with affection.

“Very well,” Alysanne replied, brushing strands of wind-tossed hair from her face. “On Silverwing’s back, I’m always at peace. Little Aemon, though, has been asking when he can fly on Balerion.”

Baelon chuckled, shaking his head. “One day, my boy, you will. But not yet. We don’t want another situation like Aerea’s, do we?”

Aemon’s face scrunched in annoyance at the reminder, but he said nothing, earning a chuckle from both adults.

As they entered the castle’s grand hall, the roaring hearth’s warmth greeted them, chasing away the lingering chill from their time on the Dragonmont. The rich aroma of roasted meats and freshly baked bread wafted through the air, accompanied by the quiet hum of conversation and the clinking of goblets being set upon the long tables.

At the head of the hall, Aemma Arryn sat with her serene smile, her sliver-golden hair catching the flicker of the firelight. Beside her, Viserys Targaryen leaned back in his chair, his easy grin widening as he spotted them. Daemon Targaryen, as ever, seemed restless, tapping his fingers idly on the edge of the table as he glanced over the gathering with a sharp gaze. ‘That boy has been sour since Aemon’s birth, and Lyanna’s current pregnancy hasn’t helped. Neither did his marriage to Rhae. She hoped a strong-willed woman like Rhae would have balanced him, but sadly it didn’t. Having to marry her only seemed to anger him. I suppose I can be grateful Daemon came, at least.’ Alysanne thought glumly as she looked from her grand to her gooddaughter.

Lyanna was seated beside Aemma, her dark hair braided intricately in the northern style. She was softly rocking one-year-old Rhaenyra in her arms, the little princess giggling and reaching out toward the shimmering silver goblet her grandmother held just out of reach. Aemma smiled at her little daughter.

“Grandmother, father, Welcome,” Viserys called out, rising from his seat to greet Alysanne with a kiss on her cheek. “Did the little dragon enjoy his time with Silverwing?” His eyes twinkled as he crouched slightly to be at his brother’s level. “Or was he plotting to fly off on Balerion already?”

“Always,” Aemon said with a smirk, and Viserys laughed, ruffling the boy’s head. Baelon shook his head and walked over to his wife, kissing her. “How is the realm delight?” Baelon asked Aemma as he sat down beside his wife. “Well, Rhaenyra and Syrax seemed to be bonding.” Baelon nodded.

“Viserys, where is Gael?” She asked. “She went to get grandfather,” Viserys replied. ‘Of course, the man was always working. It was one of the things she loved about her husband, his drive. Yet also one she hated. His duty took first place over his family on most occasions.’ She thought sadly.

“Alys,” Alysanne turned around at a familiar voice. Saw her daughter in hand with her father. “Jae, working again.” She said that as she gave him a kiss on the cheek, Jaehaery’s nose wrinkled. “Hmm, you smell of dragon, my dear.”

“I’m a dragon,” Alysanne replied with a smirk. “That you are, my dear,” Jaehaerys said with a laugh as he took her arm, and they walked to the table.

“So tell me, sister, how about spending time with Bartimos?” Baelon asked with a smirk after all had taken their first bite of food.

Her daughter blushed, and Alysanne smiled. ‘It seems she had a good time.’ “Good brother, I gave him a tour around Dragonstone. He was gracious and less nervous than he was when the betrothal was announced in the Throneroom two years ago. I think I can be happy with him.” Gael explained with an ever-growing blush.

“Good, you tell him, sister, if he hurts, Vhagar is only a short flight away,” Baelon said with a smirk. “I shall, brother, but I doubt I need to remind him,” Gael said, smiling.

‘She will be happy. She has grown over the last year, and Lyanna made the right suggestion. The girl had been too shielded, now she was happy with the man she would marry.’ Alyssane thought happily. Lyanna had been the baggage that had healed wounds in their family. Healed Baelon’s heart, and healed her marriage.

Alysanne took a sip of her wine and bit into a sausage. After a while, she looked over at Lyanna. “So, Lyanna, are excited that your father and mother are coming to the wedding.”

“My mother is excited to meet Aemon and Visenya. She has Rickon, but she wishes for mine, too. I waited quite a long time before giving her one.” Lyanna said as she kissed Baelon’s cheek.

“Father also said it would give Benjen some time to learn to rule on his own, with Winter Coming. He needs the experience. I don’t say this lightly. My father is old, and I don’t know if he lives through another winter.” Lyanna said sadly. “Well then,  you can see him again.” She said. Lyanna nodded in return.

“Grandpapa is a fierce wolf of the North. Mama spook of him fighting in Essos, the Wandering Wolf,” Aemon said proudly. “That he is. Little Dragon.” Lyanna said as she traced Aemon’s cheek, causing a giggle to escape from the boy.

Then, irritated puff. “Dragon, that boy isn’t a dragon.” All eyes went to Daemon, who gave them a drunken mocking laugh. “Daemon! I have said this to you over and over again. They are your kin, so now leave the form here. Before I break a promise to your mother to do something I would never do.” Baelon commanded as he rose from the table.

At that, with an angry growl, Daemon stormed from the table.

“I’m sorry, Lya,” Baelon said, taking her hand in his. “It’s fine Baelon. I have tried to have him come around over the past five years. Yet, some things you can’t change.” Lyanna replied with a deep sigh.

“I know, yet I still hoped he would change his view,” Baelon said as he looked toward the door. “Kepa, me Vis will prove him wrong,” Aemon said sternly.

Alysanne smiled sadly. “You will, Aemon.” Jaehaerys proclaimed and looked strangely proud at her grandson. Then, the prophecy of Aegon’s dagger played in her head. ‘from my blood will come the prince that was promised, and his will be the song of ice and fire.’ Did Her husband think it was Aemon? The Starks were Ice, and they were fire, and Aemon was both.’ She looked then confused at her husband.

“Thank you, grandpapa,” Aemon said in High Valyrian. “You’re welcome, my boy. I know you are a dragon. I haven’t seen a bond with one like you have, Balerion, before. You make us all proud.” Jaehaerys added.

Aemon smiled widely and jumped off his chair, giving Jaehaerys a warm hug. She looked at the scene and smiled, but she would discover more of her husband’s plans tonight.

Jaehaerys and Alysanne’s chambers

Alysanne sat near the window seat of the widow when her husband walked inside. He smiled at her kind before sitting opposite her, poured wine on them both, and gave her a look. “What is it, Alys?”

“You think it’s him. You think Aemon is the Prince who is promised.” She stated without question.

Jaehaerys gave her a smile. The smile that had made her fall in love with him. “There is a possibility. The signs are all there. Baelon falling for his mother, yet my main thought is as to why he is the Prince that was promised Balerion. Alysanne Balerion the dragon was dying when he returned from Valyria or whatever dark place he traveled to when he disappeared. When Lyanna’s first pregnancy began, Balerion slowly gained strength, and with the birth of Aemon. The dragon flew into the sky in decades. Then, when Baelon takes Aemon into the sky, Balerion follows whenever Aemon flies with someone. He is the one Aegon dreamed of, which means the form of darkness in the North is coming.”

She sighed and nodded. All his explanations were valid. “So, what will we do.” She asked. “Guide him as best we can. He is already betrothed to Laena, connecting him to Aemon’s line. He will have his own power base in the North making it stronger, and we plan to make sure Aemon’s children marry Viserys, his son, or his son. So, the throne stays connected.” Her husband answered.

“That’s why you agreed for him to be fostered in Winterfell and his seat to build in Sea Dragon Point. Instead, near the Dornish border because you think we need it for whatever comes from the North.” She said, and he nodded. ‘She wasn’t there during the discussion with Rickard Stark. Her husband did. Now she knew why that was the place that was chosen for Aemon’s future seat.’

“Well, we shall. Our duty to the realm. I know he will do great things.” Jaehaerys said as he gave her a bright smile.

 The dim glow of the chamber flickered from the hearth, casting long shadows on the stone walls. Alysanne sat in silence, gazing into the fire as her thoughts tangled together. Her husband’s words echoed in her mind, weighing heavily upon her heart.

Jaehaerys, ever the serene ruler, stood by the window, looking out into the darkness. The moonlight shone through the glass, its pale light illuminating the silver of his hair, but there was a glint in his eyes that spoke of burdens too great to share. “You do not doubt it’s him, or hope isn’t him, do you?” he asked softly, his voice low yet filled with purpose.

Alysanne finally turned her gaze from the flames, meeting his steady eyes. She shook her head, the weight of the prophecy settling in her chest. “I do not doubt him,” she murmured, her voice carrying the sorrow of a mother who knew her son would be drawn into something beyond his years. “But I do fear the cost. Duty has cost us much, Jaehaerys.”

“If we didn’t want the duty. We shouldn’t have been king and queen. My dear.” Jaehaerys said sadly. “True, sometimes I wish we could return when we were here on Dragonstone. When we were young and didn’t bear the burdens we do now.” She said.

“Same, but we can’t look back, only forward,” Jaehaerys said. “Yes, if I look back, I’m lost in the faces with their closed eyes I saw closed before my own.” With that said, she went to her bed with a heavy heart and closed her eyes. “Sleep well, my love.” She heard before she drifted off.

Chapter Text

Echoes of the past

The year 96 A.C. Was one of happiness and sorrow. On the same moon, when I took flight for the first time, my second nephew, Maelon Targaryen, died stillborn. It was Aemma’s third pregnancy, which she carried to full term, but it was her fifth in total. I still remember the pain on Aemma’s and my brother’s faces every time they lost a babe. Yet even after Maelon, they would try, as my brother was my father’s heir, and he needed a son for an heir.

I found those days difficult. I enjoyed the time I spent with Visenya and the others, but I couldn’t really talk with any in for truth. I was a child of four and could hardly speak of those matters like Aemma’s pain.

So I often discuss it with my behemoth of a friend, the only real friend I had then. With Balerion, he can speak of all things without being on my toes. So, whenever I could, I would ask to go to the dragon pit to see the old dragon nestled in the pit. He left Balerion unchained as he had forbidden it. Balerion now often took flights on his own and would fly to the ocean to hunt for sea creatures.

Pages out of the Journal of Aemon Targaryen the White Dragon.

Aemon Targaryen (96 A.C. Fith moon)

“Balerion, how are you, my friend?” He asked happily aloud when he arrived. “Good young fellow, but where are your guards? Aren’t you supposed to be with someone?” The old dragon asked. “I ran in the pit. I ditch Harold. I’m ready to fly, Balerion,” He said, excitement going through his entire body. Balerion gently bit his gape, lifted him up as if he didn’t weigh more than a feather, and quickly lowered him on his back. “Good plan. I wouldn’t have been able to climb the ropes.” Aemon said with a grin to his companion as he saddled himself in the saddle.

“Ready,” The Balerion roared. “Yes, Soves,” He shouted in High Valyrian. The giant dragon started walking to the cave system of the Dragonpit and went outside through the open door, of the side entrance. Then, with a mighty roar, Balerion leaped into the air, and the morning sun shone through the sky.

It was a breathtaking sight as they flew, Aemon thought and murmured to his friend. “Thank you, Balerion,”

Balerion gave an answering roar, making it so that most, if not all, people of King’s Landing would wake up. “I’m in so much trouble, sorry, Harrold.” He murmured aloud.

“You are my friend,” Balerion rumbled as he flew toward the east to the dragon. ‘The time flew by on the dragon’s back. Thank the gods, the Targaryens still have saddles. Rhaegal didn’t have one and he remembered gripping his spike for dear life. The memory left him melancholy but also with happiness at the past ride with his past dragon.’ He wondered as he sat comfortably on Balerion’s back.

“Rhaegal, my grandchild, Dreamfyre egg, no?” Balerion rumbled. “The dragon eggs Elissa Farman stole are very similar in appearance to your description,”

“Most likely, the three eggs Daenerys hatched were similar in appearance to them, yes,” Aemon answered the ancient dragon.

“Dragonstone, I missed you, old castle,” Aemon sighed as the ancient fortress of the Targaryens came into view. In their time together, Balerion told him a lot about how the Valyrians built the black stone walls, castles, and cities. The architects infused the stone with volcanic lava, and the dragon flame would melt the stone so the masons could hammer the stone into shapes or fuse the laid stone together into solid walls, making them almost unbreakable. It gave the castle an even more impressive appearance than it had before.

“It’s where the capital should have been for us. We gave your family its power, but the hubris of men is never far away from someone. Even Aegon thought of that. There is a reason why most dragons in the dragonpit stop growing, not only for the lack of freedom,” Balerion rumbled.

“Mmm, funny. Dany said the same to me when we were in the dragon pit. All those many years ago. She said, ‘This place was the beginning of the end for my family. Skorverdon daor, a dragon, is not a slave. They were terrifying and extraordinary. They filled people with wonder and awe, and we locked them in here. They wasted away. They grew small, and we grew small as well. We weren’t extraordinary without them. We were just like everyone else.’” Aemon added, speaking of the melancholy memory.

Aemon’s mind then drifted off to her. ‘She wasn’t normal. She was beautiful, and something in her broke. That made her give fire blood to so many people. The day, everything went from bad to worse, and it would eventually end with him killing his last family on the part of his father. Becoming a kinslayer. Oh, Dany, I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.’

“You have to let the pain go of the past, Aemon, or it will consume you. The fate of your aunt was tragic, but she was fire, and with all the death and betrayal around her, with you not being there for her, and her fear for you. As well as you not accepting that part of your family, perhaps you could have helped her and maybe even saved Rhaegal and the girl Missandei. But that is the past of a future that can’t be rewritten. One that isn’t around anymore. The only thing that is still around from that time is the memory you carry. Without it, you wouldn’t be who you are today. The only thing you can do is move forward and keep the memory of the ones you love so you don’t forget them,” the old dragon rumbled.

“There is this saying, Aemon, even dragons have them. ‘Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, but today is a gift, that’s why it’s called a present,’” Balerion chuckled.

‘The dragon actually talks like Maester Aemon,’ Aemon thought with a smile. “I shall keep that in mind, my friend. I better not throw away advice from an almost three-century-old dragon,”

After seeing Dragonstone, they flew back, and the smell of the city as it came into view. ‘Let the scolding come,’ he thought.

“Aemon Targaryen!” His mother yelled at him in a high-pitched voice and hugged him in relief as Balerion put him back down on the ground and stepped down from Balerion.

“You, little evil boy, do you want your parents to die from a heart attack?” She said, glaring at him sternly in the face. “So, boy, what do you have to say?” His father said, looking sternly into his face. That face and his mother looking at him as she did now were among the few times he still felt like a kid.

“I wanted to fly with my friend,” Aemon said in a childlike voice. ‘I can’t tell them I’m talking with Balerion. They would think him crazy.’ He thought guilty as he stared down at the pavement. “Sorry, scared you, Muna, and Kepa,

“Well, it seems our boy at least has enormous willpower. The last child who tried to ride the dread went missing for moons. But you must promise me. You will not ride without me again until you are eight namedays, my boy, or else I will have you read the seven-pointed star in one go,” his father said, hugging him and ruffling his hair. “Even if I’m furious at you, you have shown courage in riding the Black Dread.” His father said, shaking his head.

“I smell another with blood like yours, Aemon. It is your mother,” Balerion said curiously. Aemon looked at Balerion. “Do you maen Visenya?”

“No,” Balerion answered with a rumble. “Oh,” He thought as his eyes widened as he looked toward his mother.

“Muma, babe in your belly?” Aemon said as he placed his hand on her belly, his mother looked shocked at him. “Aemon, I’m not with child,” she said, looking at Baelon. “Lya, I don’t know. But when did you have your moonblood? But Aemon does want a little brother or sister?” His father said.

Aemon smiled at his father. “Doesn’t matter. Visenya is a great sister. If I have a brother or sister. I will be happy.” His father ruffled his hair and then looked at his mother.

“I don’t know, my dragon. Now you ask, I don’t know,” she said, with half a smile. “Well, it seems we do have a trip to maester.” His father replied, smiling.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: The Dragon and the Crab

Alysanne Targaryen (96 A.C. tenth moon)

Dragonstone sept

The sept of Dragonstone was bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, the faint scent of salt drifting in from the nearby sea. Alysanne Targaryen sat quietly on a cushioned seat near the altar, her silver hair pinned back in intricate braids befitting her station. The ache in her hip was a constant reminder of her age, though she refused to let it mar this moment.

Gael had asked to wed here, on the Island where she spent much time in her youth. The separation from her husband caused that. She was grateful for the request; it was good for her health. She still felt pain in her hip when she had a busy day after she broke around a year ago. Traveling was more difficult, and flying much to her grief had become impossible.

Yet now, she didn’t truly care. It was the fifth wedding of her own children she would attend. It could have been more if the world and gods didn’t have other plans. To her right side sat Lyanna, her belly slowly growing with new life, clasping hands with her husband. Who was holding the toler Visenya, her eyes wide and scanning the sept with curiosity.

Beside them sat Aemon, his eyes always searching yet all-knowing. The boy was smarter than most children her age. Yet he was kind and probably had the most remarkable bond with a dragon in all Targaryen history.

Then her gaze swept up to the daise where her daughter’s future husband stood. Baritmos Celtigar is the future lord of Crab Isle and the current wielder of Crab Piercer.

Then, her thoughts were broken as the doors of the sept were opened and her daughter and husband came walking into the sept. Then the herald announced to them, “His Grace, King Jaehaerys Targaryen, and Princess Gael Targaryen.”

Gael looked, a vision of beauty and elegance. Her gown was a pristine white, shimmering like freshly fallen snow under the light. The fabric was a delicate blend of fine silks and soft velvet, flowing gracefully with every step she took. Adorning her shoulder was a striking red dragon head, crafted from intricate embroidery and adorned with gleaming ruby eyes that seemed to sparkle like living flames.

The sigil of her house, the three-headed red dragon, was masterfully embroidered across her chest in vivid scarlet thread, its wings unfurling with an almost lifelike grace.

Draped over her shoulders was her maiden cloak, a deep crimson hue edged in gold, a symbol of her family’s honor and protection as she prepared to pass into her new life. The train of the cloak cascaded behind her like a river of fire, completing her wonderous appearance.

As her daughter passed by, Alysanne was momentarily lost in memories. Flashes of Jocelyn and Alyssa flitted through her mind, but she pushed them aside, offering Gael a warm smile. Her daughter returned it with a radiant one of her own, her happiness shining brightly.

Gael walked gracefully to the High Septon, where Barthimos stood waiting with composed anticipation. As custom dictated, Jaehaerys stepped forward, his hands steady as he removed Gael’s maiden cloak, a gesture once done for Alysanne herself so many years ago, though not by her father. With careful reverence, he passed the cloak to a waiting servant, who whisked it away.

Jaehaerys then took his place beside Alysanne, his smile dazzling, the very same smile that had once stolen her heart. Gently, he took her hand, and she found herself comforted by his enduring warmth.

Alysanne turned her gaze back to Gael as the High Septon began to speak. “We stand here today to wed these two souls. But before we begin, my lord, you may cloak the bride under your protection.”

Barthimos, now twenty-one, looked every inch the handsome young lord. His silvery curls caught the light, and his small muttonchops framed his youthful, confident smile. With steady hands, he draped a white cloak adorned with a red crab over Gael’s shoulders, a symbol of her new house and protection.

The pair turned to face one another, their eyes locking in a moment of unspoken understanding and love. As tradition dictated, they spoke the sacred words together:

“With this kiss, I pledge my love.” The pair said, and they kissed each other. Her daughter’s face was turning a little scarlet. Then, they continue with the words. “Father, Smith, Maiden, Warrior, Crone, Stranger, I am hers, and she is mine, until this day, until the end of my days.”

Gael’s smile was brighter than the sun, and a small tear of joy slipped down Alysanne’s cheek as she watched her daughter truly wed.

The High Septon raised his hands, his voice resonating through the hall. “Your Grace, Your Grace, my lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. Princess Gael Targaryen and Lord Barthimos Celtigar are now joined as one, one flesh, one heart, one soul. May they be cursed who seek to tear them apart.”

The hall erupted in applause and cheers, a chorus of joy echoing through the chamber. Alysanne squeezed Jaehaerys’s hand, her heart brimming with pride and happiness as she looked upon her daughter and her new husband, standing together at the start of their shared future.

Greathall of Dragonstone

Alysanne smiled warmly as the cooks entered the hall, presenting the third course of the grand seven-course feast. Plates of roast duck glazed with raspberry sauce were placed before the guests, filling the room with a mouthwatering aroma.

“I’m grateful it’s only a seven-course meal, husband,” she said with a playful grin as her plate was set before her. “Do you remember our stepfather’s wedding dinner to our mother?”

Jaehaerys chuckled, his expression fond. “How could I forget? The man had ordered a feast of what—thirty courses?”

“Thirty-three, if I recall,” Alysanne replied with a soft laugh, cutting into her duck. “Yet, you handled it well then, just as you are now.” Her gaze shifted toward Gael, who smiled as Barthimos gently fed her a piece of duck.

Jaehaerys followed her gaze, his voice thoughtful. “He made mother smile, even if only for a time. I remember her happiness when Boremund was born. Rogar had his flaws, yes, but he gave us safety when we needed it most. Without him taking us in and declaring for me, I wonder where we would be now.”

Alysanne nodded, dipping a piece of duck into the rich raspberry sauce. “True. Flawed, but a good man at heart.” She savored the bite, the tender meat perfectly complemented by the sweet tang of the sauce, which was a feast worthy of the occasion.

The sound of a knife striking a goblet drew her attention as Baelon rose from his seat, Lyanna beside him. The hall quieted, all eyes turning to her son.

Baelon raised his goblet high, his voice clear and commanding. “Let us toast once more to the marriage of my beautiful sister and her husband!” His smile shone with pride as he looked at Gael.

“To Princess Gael and Lord Barthimos!” Lord Garret Massey echoed, lifting his cup.

“To the Red Dragon and the Crab!” Lord Corlys Velaryon proclaimed, bowing his head respectfully.

“Fire and Blood, and We Fear No Storm!” Viserys added with a grin, his goblet raised high.

“To kinship.” Rickard Stark added, smiling.

The hall erupted in cheers and well-wishes, a chorus of voices celebrating the union. Alysanne’s heart swelled with pride and joy as she watched Gael and Barthimos, their smiles radiating happiness. It was a perfect moment, one she hoped her daughter would carry with her for the rest of her life.

As the day wore on and dinner concluded, the festivities shifted to dancing. The first dance, as tradition demanded, belonged to the bride and groom. Gael moved with delicate grace, her cheeks flushed with happiness as Barthimos spun her around. House Celtigar might not be among the most powerful, but Barthimos’s kind demeanor and the proximity of Claw Isle to Dragonstone and King’s Landing offered practical blessings. Alysanne knew her daughter to be a gentle, shy soul, devoted to her family. Now, Alysanne hoped Gael had everything she had wished for, perhaps even a child of her own, if the gods were kind. Applause brought Alysanne out of her reverie as Jaehaerys stepped onto the floor to share a dance with Gael. Others soon followed, filling the room with music and merriment.

“My queen, may I have the honor of a dance with my goodmother?” Barthimos asked, bowing slightly with a bright smile.

“You may, goodson,” Alysanne replied warmly, taking his hand.

“My queen, you look beautiful tonight just like your daughter,” Barthimos said as they began to dance.

“Thank you, but please, we are family now. Call me Alysanne if we are this close,” she replied with a gentle smile.

“As you wish, Alysanne,” Barthimos said with a grin, his tone lighthearted.

When their dance ended, Alysanne found herself in her husband’s arms. “How are you feeling?” Jaehaerys asked, glancing down at her hip with concern.

“Fine,” she said, though her smile hinted at her weariness. “I can likely manage one more dance after this, but even with the pain, I’m happy, Jae, happier than I have been in a long time.”

“Good,” Jaehaerys murmured before kissing her cheek tenderly. At that moment, Alysanne felt the old warmth of their love bloom anew. Despite the trials and differences of the years, Jaehaerys remained the love of her life.

When the dance ended, Alysanne returned to her seat and watched the others on the floor. Baelon was dancing with Lyanna, who held little Aemon in her arms. To their left, Viserys and Aemma swayed together, delighting the realm’s joy, Rhaenyra, nestled between them. Gael rested her head on her husband’s chest as they moved gently to the music. ‘Be happy, child,’ Alysanne thought with a smile.

Even Corlys seemed in good spirits, sharing a lively dance with Rhaenys. However, at the far end of the main table, Daemon sat alone, his cup heavy in his hand and a dark glower on his face. Alysanne’s gaze followed his line of sight to the stairs, where Rhea Royce was dancing with Jaehaerys, her movements light and graceful. ‘Even after more than a year of marriage, he still does not like her. Perhaps a child would soften his mood,’ Alysanne mused, letting out a quiet sigh.

Suddenly, Daemon stood, his voice cutting through the hall. “It is late, and the hour is ripe. Shall we see them to bed?”

The music stopped abruptly, and the hall fell silent. Gael froze, her face turning crimson with embarrassment. Barthimos immediately stepped forward, his tone calm but firm.

“That will not be necessary, Prince Daemon,” he said, his arm protectively around Gael’s shoulders. “My wife and I will retire on our own.”

He guided Gael toward the stairs, her head bowed in shy gratitude, as murmurs of discontent rippled through the crowd.

Before Daemon could react further, Baelon was at his side, his tone sharp and chastising. Crabbing Daemon’s cub, and putting it away. “You’ve had enough for one night, son. Come with me.”

Daemon glared but didn’t resist as Baelon gripped his shoulder and led him from the hall. The tension slowly dissipated, and the music resumed.

Alysanne watched as Barthimos and Gael disappeared up the stairs, her heart filled with relief and hope. Her shy daughter had found a husband who valued her and shielded her from discomfort, which was a rare and precious gift in their world.

Soon, she retired to her chamber, a content woman.

Rickard Stark (96 A.C. Tenth Moon)

Three days before the wedding

Rickard Stark sighed in relief as the island of Dragonstone came into view on the horizon. The journey from White Harbor had been arduous and one he’d sooner forget. He felt it in his bones his traveling days were long behind him.

“I’m weary, Barbery,” he admitted, turning to his wife. “Making these journeys isn’t as easy as it once was. This might be my last. But seeing Dragonstone and the grandchildren, Lyanna gave us gives me strength.”

Barbery Dustin, standing beside him, smiled softly. “You are still the strong, wandering wolf who wrapped me around his finger,” she said. “I remember the tales you told me of your time with the Company of the Rose. How you earned their respect and fought beside them. So many stories…”

She leaned in, kissing him tenderly.

Rickard chuckled, his voice taking on a playful growl. “When I first saw you, I knew I wanted you as my mate.”

Barbery laughed, her eyes bright with affection. “And I didn’t care that you were older. I found it intriguing your strength and your wisdom.”

He held her close, marveling at how time had barely touched her fierce beauty. “Soon after we wed, little Lyanna arrived,” Rickard said, his voice softening with the memory.

“Not so little anymore,” Barbery replied, her gaze fixed on the growing silhouette of Dragonstone ahead.

“Oh, by the old gods,” Rickard exclaimed as a giant black dragon appeared in the sky. “Rickard, is that the dragon our grandson rides?” Barbery asked, her voice slightly trembling. “It’s she wrote that Aemon somehow snuck out of the castle and made it to the dragonpit. Then, the boy rode the thing at four. It was also then that she knew she was with child with her third babe.” He replied. ‘Seeing Balerion in the flesh, how could Aemon have ridden that thing? Was the boy truly a warg, like Lyanna claimed? Otherwise, he couldn’t truly explain how Aemon had ridden such a beast.’ Rickard mused in awe as he looked at the black dragon.

A few moments later.

Dragonstone Harbor

As the ship drew closer to the dock, Rickard Stark’s eyes caught sight of his daughter waiting for him. Lyanna stood at the edge of the pier, cradling a small child in her arms. Even from this distance, he knew it was his granddaughter, Visenya. Beside her was Baelon, his goodson. Time had etched its lines on Baelon’s face, yet his Targaryen beauty remained undiminished, matched only by the radiant grace of Lyanna at his side.

To Lyanna’s left stood a boy who was a tall child of only four namedays. Rickard’s gaze locked on the boy’s striking eyes, and his heart stirred with familiarity. Those were Lyanna’s eyes, his eyes, Stark eyes the same steel-gray hue as their ancestral blade, Ice.

“Hm,” Rickard murmured to Della as they prepared to disembark. “He’s a fine mix of them both.”

“He is,” Barbery agreed with a warm smile.

The gangplank lowered, creaking under its weight, and the Starks descended to the dock. Baelon stepped forward to greet them, his demeanor formal yet welcoming.

“Lord Stark, by the honor of His Grace, King Jaehaerys, we welcome you to Dragonstone Isle,” Baelon said, his voice carrying the same regal authority Rickard remembered from their first meeting years ago.

Rickard smiled, clasping Baelon’s offered hand in a firm grip. “Prince Baelon, the honor is mine. The journey was long, but I am eager to see my grandchildren, my daughter, and,” his smile broadened, a glint of mischief in his eyes, “even my goodson.”

Baelon chuckled softly at the jest, his handshake strong and steady. “Your daughter speaks often of you, my lord. It pleases me to see her joy reflected in your presence.”

“Father, Mother,” Lyanna’s voice broke through, bright and filled with pride. She stepped forward, her dark hair glinting in the sunlight. “Meet Aemon,” she said, gesturing to the boy.

The child wasted no time, sprinting forward with an exuberant cry of, “Grandfather! Grandmother!”

Rickard knelt just in time to catch him, laughing as the boy wrapped his arms around him. “Hm, spirited, aren’t you?” Rickard said, ruffling the boy’s silver-golden streaked hair. “Takes after me, no doubt.”

Barbery crouched beside him, wrapping her arms around the boy as well. “A fine lad,” she said warmly, her eyes shining with affection.

Lyanna approached, her soft smile brimming with joy. “And this,” she said, gently bouncing the child in her arms, “is Visenya. She’ll will be turning two soon. Come, little one, say hello.”

Visenya peeked shyly at her grandparents, her violet eyes wide with curiosity. “Hi,” she murmured, her voice small and sweet, before burying her face in Lyanna’s chest. Her hair was as dark as Lyanna’s.

He stood, his heart swelling as he gazed at his daughter and her family. “They are a perfect blend of you and Baelon,” Barbery said, embracing Lyanna tightly.

“Just as it should be,” Rickard added, his voice rough with emotion. He reached out to cup Lyanna’s cheek, his calloused hand gentle against her soft skin. “You’ve done well, my wolf.”

Lyanna smiled, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “And I see you in Aemon,” she whispered. “Thank you for coming, Father. It means the world to me.”

“Of course, it’s more than five years since I saw you. This wedding of your goodsister was the perfect opportunity.” He replied, smiling and embracing his daughter again.

“Now, let’s get into the carriage, and my grandson can tell me all about how he flew on that giant dragon I saw flying before,” Rickard said as he smiled at Aemon. “I will. It was amazing.” Aemon said quickly, ‘yet there was something in Aemon’s eyes, a wisdom you never saw in children that age. He only saw it before in Lyanna.’ He waved the thought away, and they walked toward the carriage.

Chapter Text

Chapter  9: A Sister's Arrival and A Son's Confession

Baelon Targaryen (97 A.C. first Moon)

Baelon was nervous. ‘It was the third birth with his second wife. Lyanna is strong, and so had been Alyssa when she had given birth to Aegon, Yet she passed away. I can’t go through that again.’

Lyanna did let go another groan of pain, pulling him out of his thoughts, and then midwives asked his wife to push. “Almost there, Lyanna. Soon, we have our babe.” Baelon encouraged his wife. As he held her hand that slowly crushed his, curing Aemon’s birth, Lyanna had broken one of his fingers. Although he didn’t notice it after the moon, it became blue and painful.

“You’re doing well, my love,” Baelon said, smiling. “Just a little more. You’ve done this before.” He added cheekly.

Lyanna’s eyes, bright with determination and sweat, locked onto his. “Easy for you to say, husband,” she bit out, her voice hoarse but laced with her usual defiance. Then came another contraction, and she threw her head back, crying out as the midwives urged her to push.

Grand Maester Mellos leaned forward, his tone calm but edged with urgency. “I see the head! One more push, Princess. The babe is almost here.”

“By the gods,” Lyanna gasped, clutching Baelon’s hand hard enough to make his knuckles whiten. He braced himself, whispering soothing words, though his heart raced like a war drum.

With a final cry of effort, the room seemed to exhale all at once. A wail pierced the air, shrill and strong. Mellos took the babe, his experienced hands quick and steady. “A girl, You’er Graces,” he announced.

Baelon set away from Lyanna and walked toward the maester, who wrapped the child in a cloth. “A healthy daughter,” Melos said as he gave her to him.

“A wonderful daughter,” He proclaimed as he looked at the small bundle in arms. Then, glancing at his wife.

Then Lyanna let out another groan. “The afterbirth,” Melos said, and help with the last part. “Your mother is very brave, far braver than me.” He whispered, to the babe.

After it was done, Lyanna collapsed back against the pillows. He smiled, tears of joy started pooling in Lyanna’s eyes, as he placed the babe in her arms. “My baby,” she whispered, brushing a trembling hand over the baby’s small bundle of dark hair.

Baelon leaned close, pressing a kiss to Lyanna’s temple. “Well done, my love. Hmm, seems you, the babe, have all your looks,” he exclaimed, his voice soft with awe. The fear that had gripped him so tightly moments ago began to loosen as he looked at his wife and daughter. For now, all was well.

Arya Stark (302 A.C.) – Chance to be changed.

Kingslanding

Arya Stark stood frozen, staring at Jon’s body. He lay still, his neck slashed open with a clean, brutal cut. The sight turned her stomach, but her face remained stoic. “How killed him.” Sansa asked, her voice hoarse.

“We do not know. The guards guarding were the only ones. We only found an entrance to the tunnel system. I swear on my depart love, the unsullied did not kill Jon Snow. He was to suffer for the death of our Queen.”

“There ends the line of the dragon,” Bran said slowly. ‘Ever since he came back, Bran was cold. Nothing of how Bran remained. After the damn battle against the dead, he even had become colder.’ Arya mused bitterly.

“Bran, do you know who did this?” she asked, her voice sharp.

“No,” he replied, an irritated edge creeping into his tone. “I cannot see his death. Every time I try to find him, all I see is shadows.” It was the first emotion Arya had seen from him in a long time, but it only unsettled her further.

“We should burn him, like his ancestors,” Bran continued, his tone flat and unyielding.

“No.” Arya’s voice was firm. “Jon belongs in Winterfell with the rest of our brothers.” She turned to Sansa, seeking her support.

But Sansa’s expression was conflicted. “Jon is a Targaryen, Arya. You heard the rumors, and Varys’ letters ensured the world knows. He should be burned.”

“You are both monsters. You both used him.” Arya hissed as her vision clouded with tears. ‘Tears, I haven’t felt those since Mother and Robb’s death.’ She stormed away and toward her tent.

As she arrived, her heart panting. She looked, trying something to focus, and then Arya’s sighted landed toward her chest, walked toward it, and found the blade she had carried since Jon gave it to her. “Needle.” She murmured.

Then Arya’s sight fell on the Catspaw dagger lying at the bottom of the chest. The weapon she hadn’t worn since the battle against the dead. The blue eyes haunting the blade, and the cold hand that had a choking hold on her neck. Yet there was something odd, a spec of blood on the handle. Arya took the crab and the blade and unsheeted it. “Blood?” She gasped, noticing the redness.

Before she could react further, cold steel pierced her back. The pain was sharp and sudden, stealing the air from her lungs. Words died on her tongue as she coughed, blood spilling from her mouth. The blade had gone clean through her belly.

She collapsed to the floor, one hand clutching Needle, the other pressing against the wound in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding. Her vision blurred, but she forced her gaze upward. Her breath hitched as she recognized her assailant. “Bran,” she croaked, tasting blood with every word.

The figure loomed over her, his voice cold and devoid of humanity. “Not really, Arya, Bran is long gone. This was the best way to end it. Confused by Jon’s death, you would never have suspected me. You could never truly harm me, but I’d rather not wait another hundred years to reappear to make it all end. My master has waited long enough.”

Arya’s world darkened further, but not before she caught a faint, icy glint in his eyes. “No,” she whispered, the word barely audible as the cold claimed her.

Arya awoke in darkness. ‘Is this death? Is this what Jon saw when he died before? Did he know and did not tell, or did he not remember.’ She wondered confused.

“You are dead, Arya Stark. Last loyal kin to the one who could have stopped the darkness,” a deep voice rumbled.

“What?” Arya gasped, spinning around. “Who are you? Where am I?”

“I am Balerion, child,” the voice replied, laced with a faint chuckle. “And you are in the in-between a place between life and death. The lands of the dead are not yet for you. Your brother asked me the same question when I last saw him.”

“Wait… Balerion?” Arya’s mouth fell open. “Like the Dragon of Aegon the conquerer? One of the gods of Valyria?”

“Yes,” Balerion said, his tone almost amused. “That I am, though I hold ties to the old gods as well. You are here, Arya, because I need you. I want you to come back in time to help your brother. The world you left without the line that could have ended the Night King back will fall into darkness, an endless night.”Balerion added, his tone saddened.

Arya’s mind reeled, her thoughts racing. “But… who killed me? Because I know it’s wasn’t my little brother,” she asked, though deep down, she already knew the answer.

“You know the truth,” Balerion said softly, his voice a rumble of ancient power.

Arya’s breath caught. She knew the moment she saw those blue eyes. “The Night King,” she whispered in agony.

“Indeed,” Balerion said. “You were brave, Arya, to strike him down. Yet his essence could not be destroyed. Only Jon or Aemon has the power to do that, break it for a time. When you shattered his body, the Night King’s essence sought the closest link it could find, Bran.”

Arya’s eyes widened. “Bran?”

“Yes,” Balerion continued. “The Night King branded him long ago, forging a connection he could exploit. He manipulated Bran’s actions through that link, guiding events, nudging Jon into place, and much more. Now, the world you left behind is beyond saving. But another path lies open to you.

“Your brother Aemon has already traveled that road, trying to help to save the dragons. Join him, Arya. Fight alongside him. Together, you can prepare the world as it should have been prepared long ago. The choice is yours: will you help your brother?”

“Yes,” Arya said without hesitation, her voice steady. “I will.”

(97 A.C. Third Moon)
Kingslanding – Lyanna’s chambers

Then, white light, and in fright, Arya cried. The world was blurry, and the sounds muffled. Soon, she saw the face of a woman who looked like her. As well as the head of a man with silver hair and purple eyes. ‘Hmm, was she reborn as Targaryen? Yet why did the woman look like a Northern? She looked like her.’

“So, my love, do you have any ideas for a name?” The man asked the woman how he was holding her. “Well, you now have four children with Valyrian names. Would it be okay if we gave her a northern name?” The woman, now her mother, asked. ‘Oh, this going to be weird.’ Arya mused inwardly as she looked curiously at the two.

“Of course, Lyanna, it’s your homeland.” The man replied, smiling. Arya let out a surprise gurgle as she heard the word ‘Lyanna.’ ‘That’s the name of my aunt! Jon’s mother.’ Arya thought confused.

“Arya, after the last Queen in the North. The wife of Torrhen Stark.” The woman named Lyanna explained. ‘Well, her father named her after his own grandmother. She didn’t know the last Queen in the North was named Arya. That’s pretty cool.’ Arya thought.

The man smiled. “Wonderfull, Arya Targaryen, daughter of Lyanna Stark and Baelon Targaryen.” ‘Baelon Targaryen! The second son of King Jaehaery. He never remarried after Alyssa, and mostly certainly not a Stark! Well, it seems the gods changed something, alright.’ Arya thought, and she became more confused by the minute.

Then she heard the door creak open. Out came an older woman with sliver-white hair, holding hands with smaller children. Arya gave a small wile of delight when she looked at the boy closer. ‘Jon! He looked different, for sure, but she saw his eyes, and his hair, although now sliver-golden, still had his curls. He was alive and, for the looks of it, about four or five namedays old.’

“Oh, yes, those are your siblings, little one.” The woman is now her supposed mother. ‘It was an odd thing. As Catelyn Tully would always be her mother. Even if she didn’t truly know me.’ Arya vowed. 

“Mother, childeren meet your sister, Arya Targaryen.” The man with silver hair said. “Arya?” Jon said, his face seemed to grumble. “Yes, son.” The man said, but his voice seemed saddened. Probably because of Jon’s face.

Then Jon bolted for the door. Arya saw a glimpse of Jon’s eyes, ‘tears,’ She thought inwardly. ‘He thinks of me probably.’

“Hmm, the same as last time,” The man said with a pained look at Lyanna. “He will calm down, as he did last time. I will speak to him soon.”

“I hope you are right, Baelon,” Lyanna Stark added as Arya looked around the room. Her eyes found the small girl. ‘And who is that? She had black like Lyanna, yet her eyes were purple gems like Baelon’s.’

“Come Visenya, meet your little sister.” The older woman said as she put a small girl on the bed. ‘Oh sister, she another child of Baelon and Lyanna. “Sis,” The girl squeaked, smiling brightly. As Visenya put her small hand on her cheek softly. ‘Hmm, I wonder if she will be like Sansa or something else entirely?’ Arya wondered.

“Baelon, she is beautiful, although she has all her mother’s features.” The woman said. ‘Oh my, that’s Queen Alysanne Targaryen, the Good Queen and rider of Sliverwing. That’s kind of cool to meet her.’ Arya mused as she looked at the Good Queen.

Arya noticed herself becoming tired, her eyes closing involuntarily. ‘I’m babe, no wonder I’m tired. A babe isn’t meant to do all this, thinking.’ She mused, and slowly, Arya fell asleep.

Aemon Targaryen (97 A.C. Third Moon)
Lyanna’s chambers later that day

Aemon opened the door. ‘The room smelled less like blood than it had before. His mother’s birthing pains had started during the night, and in the morning, his sister had come. A sister they had named Arya. The name broke his strenght. He wanted to be strong, and happy, not run like he did when Visenya came into the world, yet that name brought many memories. Of good and bad.’ Then, his mother’s voice broke him out of his musing.

“Aems, come here,” his mother said,  inviting him with open arms. As Arya lay still beside her. He climbed into the bed and hugged her tightly, finally finding the courage to reveal the truth.

“Mother, there’s something I must tell you,” he began, his voice trembling. “I wasn’t sure when I should, I felt similar when Visenya came, and now Arya’s birth made me realize I should tell you before I lose the chance,” Aemon whispered.

“Of course, Aemon. You can tell me anything. I’m your mother, pup,” she reassured him with a warm smile, holding him close.

Aemon took a deep breath and confessed, “I know you aren’t from this time, Mother.” Her eyes widened in shock. “Aemon, what are you talking about? Of course, I am,” she protested. He smiled at her kindly at the lie as he knew the truth.

“Please, Muna, listen. I know because I’m not from this time either,” he added, sadness in his eyes. “I’m the same Aemon you gave birth to, also those years ago at the Tower of Joy.”

“No, it can’t be,” she gasped, disbelief evident in his mother’s voice. “The gods told me I would give birth to you again at a different time, but not that you would be from my own time or why.”

“Yes, I’m that boy you gave to your brother Eddard Stark after he found you at the tower,” he confessed. “Unfortunately, you died of childbed fever, but I have been alive for twenty and five nameday old. Just as old as you are now. The time where I came from, I failed and died. When I died the second time, the Old and Valyrian gods sent me back in time, and I was reborn as Aemon, son of Lyanna Stark and Baelon Targaryen.”

“No, please don’t say you died at the age of twenty,” she pleaded, her voice trembling with sorrow.

“I’m sorry, but yes, my brother Brandon Stark, son of Eddard Stark, was the one who killed me. But he wasn’t Brandon. A great evil, The Night King, had taken control of him, who in turn is a puppet of The Great Other. The gods told me much more. After my death, the Old and Valyrian gods sent me back in time to prepare the world once more, perhaps to change what happens in this time or reduce the overall loss.” He explained, tears welling up in his eyes.

“So you’ve lived a life, my brother, to care for you, told you about me, and help to choose your own path? As he promised me as I lay dying,” his mother asked with a sad smile. ‘What? His mother had asked his brother to tell him about her and help him choose his path?.’ Aemon felt anger then, a cold anger that he pushed aside and wasn’t something he wouldn’t get into now.

“I’m sorry, but my uncle never told me who my mother was. I grew up thinking I was a bastard of your brother. I ended up at the Wall, thinking I would gain honor. That was the only place a bastard could truly gain it,” Aemon snarled. Then, Arya gave a small wail. ‘Arya, I will always miss you, little sister.’ Aemon thought sadly.

His mother grumbled as she picked up the bundle of his sister, slowly trying to calm her. “No, he betrayed me. He shipped my son off to Wall without telling him. All to protect that whoremonger,” she said, half-crying. Taking his hand in her free one.

“I found friends, mother, and love beyond the Wall. I fought and brought Wildlings past the Wall. I died at the Wall for the first time, and the Red Witch brought me back. The first time. Then I became the King of the North and later a Warden to my aunt Daenerys Targaryen, daughter of Rhaella and Aerys, born after the Rebellion. Who became my love, and then I became a kinslayer, killing her after she burnt King’s Landing. Then I was put into a cell, where the Night King found me, and I was in that cell that I died, thinking I had failed when the Old and Valyrian gods gave me this chance. To prepare the realm for the Night King and the Great Other’s plans for the world. That is a brief summary, mother.” Aemon explained quickly to calm down his mother.

“So when I saw you giving birth this time and before, I feared I was losing you again. Then I saw you and Visenya for the first time, and I could take no more, and then I ran from it all. Then I did it again with Arya, and then it was the name that broke me. Arya was the name of my favorite sibling. Thinking back on it, I realized you reminded me of her in many ways. My uncle always said, Arya was a lot like you.” Aemon said, and he ended up crying.

Arya tried to get a hold of his hand. Her little arms searching. “Here you go.” He said as he placed his finger on it. The girl gave a small, happy gruggle.

“Oh, Aemon, I’m sorry I wasn’t there and for the life you had. But we are here now together and make the most of this chance. Now tell me all of your life and the world I left behind,” she said, tears in her eyes.

He did, and they sat there for an hour or two. By the time he was done, the sun was setting. His mother changed from anger to happiness as he recalled the tale. Arya, Ygritte, and Dany mostly seemed to cheer her up. Or some of the stories of him at Winterfell or his friends at Castle Black and the Free Folk. But she was angered and grieved when she heard of his treatment at Winterfell, the death of her nephews, or the treatment of Sansa. But she laughed when she heard Robert didn’t have any legitimate children of his own.

“Well, Aemon, I’m happy you lived and found some form of happiness in that life. But in this one, we’ll make the most of it, my son, and try to live it to the fullest. Try to prepare the Seven Kingdoms for the coming of the Night King and the Great Other,” she said with a warm smile.

“Mother, can you tell me how it all happened? The Rebellion. I know now that Rhaegar is my father in that other life, and he didn’t rape you as it was said in the Seven Kingdoms after the Rebellion. Could you tell me how it all came to be?” Aemon asked, yearning to understand the truth of his past.

They were interrupted by a small cry, and his mother chuckled softly. “It seems someone is hungry,” she remarked. “Speaking of which, I will have some supper brought for us. After we’ve eaten, I’ll tell you the tale from my perspective. Can you go order a meal?” He nodded and walked toward the door.

So, after they had eaten, his mother told him how she had met his father in her previous life. Funny enough, in both lives, she had met him at Harrenhal. She explained how she was the Knight of the Laughing Tree and how his father had protected her and introduced her to Elia. Afterward, they became friends, and he later crowned her as the Queen of Love and Beauty because she had saved Howland Reed and fought for his honor. He, in turn, saved her from the man who had discovered her identity as the Knight of the Laughing Tree. They eventually married and sent letters to Brandon and her father, yet they never received them. Elia was supposed to retire to Dorne so she could escape from court, which had drained her. Aegon would still be Rhaegar’s heir, and Aegon and Rhaenys would switch between living in Dorne and Kingslanding.  But everything went to hell when the Mad King murdered Rickard and Brandon, with it the Rebellion truly began, and how it all ended with his birth in the Tower of Joy.    

“A sad tale, mother. The singers sang a totally different song. After the Rebellion, it was said Robert Baratheon fought to reclaim his lady love, only to have her die in the end,” Aemon scoffed, remembering how the fat man had looked when he rode into Winterfell, known as the Demon of the Trident.

“Yes, that’s how history works, my son. It is written by the victors,” she said with a wry smile. “Son, I’m proud of you, you know. I am proud of what you did then and of this one. You are a dragon rider in both lives, and if someone had told me in my youth that my son would ride a dragon, I would have laughed. Yet, here you are, riding the Black Dread and Rhaegal.” she laughed softly.

“Well, about Balerion, I can communicate with him because of my blood,” he admitted shyly.

“Damn you, Aemon, for not telling me sooner. Your father and I discussed it the first time you flew with him. He said your eyes roll back, looking white. We wonder if you might be a warg, and what you have told me of Ghost that isn’t wrong. How long have you been able to do this?” she asked, surprised.

“Since my birth, mother. I have listened to everyone, and I have understood everything since my birth. As for Balerion, we share a bond, and he is connected to our bloodline, the Song of Ice and Fire. It also made my childhood less boring because I could talk with someone who understood me. “He explained, relieved to share this secret with her finally.

“That’s how you knew about my pregnancies. It also explains your behavior so well. As an adult in a child’s body, I know I had many thoughts when I was eight years old and woke up after the words with the gods. The maester said I woke from a fever. I was given memories of Lyanna’s life in this onè, so I understand some of what it’s like yours. New uncle Benjen was born a few weeks later. I even partly remember my elder brother’s death. ” His mother explained, shaking her head. “Well, from now on, no more secrets. We will make the most of this second chance we’ve been given, and we will prepare the realm for what is to come,” she declared, enveloping him and Arya in another warm hug.

“That we will, mother. That we will.” He proclaimed.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10 : Otto's Arrival

Otto Hightower (97 A.C. First moon )

The Hightower, Hobert’s solar

Otto Hightower sat with his brother in his solar. Appertanly, some important news had arrived, and he was summoned immediately.

“The babe growing in the belly of the Stark woman. Will not fail. The woman is hail and healthy. Another Targaryen with Stark blood. Both sides, sinful in the eyes of the Seven, as was written in the last raven we received for Runciter.” His brother began.

“Brother, we know that the Stark girl is surprisingly healthy. Prince Aemon came easily, and Visenya did too. I suppose we can be grateful the woman only gave birth to the one son.” Otto said, yet Hobert sighed.

“Otto, that boy is something else. You know that as well as I do. The maesters do not understand the change in Balerion. They were nearly certain the beast’s death was certain. Yet the dragon is flying again and growing by all accounts, and its bond with a young prince, Aemon, is something never seen before. A boy of four rides the Black Dread and returns. Bye the seven, how is that possible?” Hobert had said. ‘His brother left something out. He didn’t know what, but he doubted it was good.’ Otto mused as he studied his brother.

“We need to grow our influence even more in the capital. Beesbury has done a great job, but by all accounts, the man is more loyal to King than to us, his liege lord. That’s why this opportunity is wonderful, brother.” Hobert added, smiling. Holding a letter with the seal of the Hand of the King.

“Ah, that’s why hast in the summons. Hmm, brother, what is then? What news came from Kingslanding.” He asked.

“You have shown that you are the cable Bailif of Old Town Otto. Septon Barth apparently heard the reports of your work. He may be a commoner, but he is still a devout man of the Seven. You are requested to become his personal steward. To help him with his work as the Hand of the King.” Hobert explained, giving him the letter.

To the esteemed Lord Hobert Hightower,

I, Septon Barth, Hand of the King, write to thee in earnest, requesting the service of Ser Otto Hightower, brother of Lord Hobert Hightower, Lord of Oldtown, Beacon of the South, Defender of the Citadel.

It is my wish that Ser Otto take up the honored position of my personal steward, a role left vacant by the passing of Edrian Marbrand. May the Seven, in their mercy, keep him. His loss is felt keenly, and in Ser Otto, I see a man of diligence, wisdom, and piety, well-suited to stand at my side as I stand at His Grace, as he heard and read the reports as work of Bailif of Old Town. His service would be a boon to the realm, ensuring that the will of King Jaehaerys is carried out with faith and duty.

With this appointment, his family shall find welcome within the Red Keep, where proper accommodations shall be arranged. I am told Ser Otto has a daughter of seven and a son of five, both of whom are of the same age, to foster friendships within the royal children. It is always wise that those nearest to the throne be men of faith and devotion and that the King’s court be guided by the light of the Seven rather than heathens worshipers of the North and their own gods of the east.

The North grows in influence, and though the Starks are loyal subjects, they remain ever bound to their heathen ways. I fear that Prince Aemon has already found an affinity with his mother’s gods, a matter that must be handled with care. A steady hand, a quiet word, a presence of true devotion—these things may yet turn his heart back toward the path of righteousness.

I trust this request shall be met with due consideration, and I await your answer within the next two moons. May the light of the Seven ever shine upon you, Lord of Oldtown, Beacon of the South, Defender of the Citadel.

Septon Barth, Hand of the King
(Seal of the Hand of the King)

“It’s a wonderful opportunity. A change for advancement, a way to gain even more of inside to the rulings of the Kingdoms.” Otto exclaimed, a grin forming on his face.

“Good, as says in the letter. Gaywne and Alicent are both optional companions for the royal children. Both may be part of their inner circles if we play our Hand right. Away for future advancement but also information.” Hobert said gleefully.

“True, a true opportunity, as says, the Starks have gained influence at court, the Targaryens themselves follow the faith loosely it could weaken the faith hold on the crown and the lands south of the Neck. Both need to be halted, and if possible, Southern and the Seven influence increased.” He added.

“So, I know it goes without saying you will accept the position.” His brother added. “Of course, brother, it is my duty to do as you command, as is a younger brother’s lot. Yet I would have taken it anyway, for our family and for the faith.” He added, bowing his head.

“Good, go inform your family. I shall write a response. It would be wise if you wrote one as well.” Hobert replied. “As you say, brother.” With Otto left his brothers solar. His mind on the future and what it might hold.

Kingslanding (97 A.C. Fourth Moon)

King’s Road

Otto rode on his horse, a grey destrier, its hoofs clinking against the cobblestone road of Kingsroad. In front, the Red Keep and the walls of Kingslanding stood on the horizon. ‘Hmm, it looks smaller than I remember the last time I was here.’ He mused.

The great Red Keep, the marvel of craftsmanship, a planned building, unlike the city in front of him. The King and the current Hand had done much and more to improve it. Yet it would always be a sprawling city, built in less than a hundred years. It was nothing like Old Town, with its white walls and many marble houses and buildings.  

“Father, it looks amazing, doesn’t it? I wonder if we see any dragons?” Garmund asked. ‘His eldest son was his pride, and he hoped he could find a good match for him. As for Gwayne and Martyn, it has yet to be seen. Alicent, however, is the girl who is turning into a true beauty, even if she is still seven years old. Knowing Princess Aemma’s ailments with childbirth and Prince Daemon’s anger with his wife. Perhaps his daughter might be able to find a good match in a few years. The younger princess could possibly introduce Alicent to them. He would be close to them, as the personal steward to the current Hand of the King and the Grandmaester as his ally. Yes, there was an opportunity for advancement for his family, and seven. He remembered his brother’s words about the growing influences of the Stark and  to make sure of the growth of their house and the influence of the faith.’ He mused.

“It, son, but the Hightower still stands prouder.” He replied as he drove his horse one.

As they reached the city gates. The busyness was even more so than it was at the Old Town itself. Yet this was the Capitol, and it wasn’t as crowded as the last time he was here during the tourney celebrating the victory over the Dornish. That was almost 13 years ago. Garmund had just turned three, and his wife was with child with Martyn. Otto’s face smiled briefly as he thought of Alyrie. His wife and daughter both would do well in the Capitol. Alyrie may even become one of the ladies in waiting for Princess Aemma or Princess Lyanna if they play it right.

“This Kingslanding is far less decanted than Old Town father,” Garmund remarked. “True, but from now on, be on your best behavior. You might find yourself a great match.” He repeated. They had spoken of it before. Garmund was almost seven and ten years old, his squire and cousin to the lord of Old Town. A suitable match should be able to be found.

“As you say, father, I will not disappoint you.” His son replied dutifully.

The air seemed to sake, and the sun seemed to disappear as a loud roar echoed from above. “Bye, all the seven, the reports were true,” Otto muttered silently as the great black shadow made its way to the Dragon pit on Hill of Rhaenys.

“That’s Balerion.” Garmund croaked. “Look, well, that’s why it is important your brother becomes friends with its rider. That’s power, Garmund. In thousands of years, not one of the Kingdoms united Westeros. Dragon’s did that. We are here to align ourselves with that power and to possibly control it. Never forget that.” He added quietly. “Of course, father,” Garmund replied.

Courtyard Red Keep

His two household guards rode in first as the red gates of the Red Keep swung open. The gates were adorned with images of the mighty beasts the Targaryens rode, their forms fierce and imposing. It was an impressive sight, yet there were no signs of the Seven, who are One. ‘No matter, I will turn the monarchs to the right path,’ Otto mused inwardly.

As his party entered, his keen eyes fell upon the welcoming entourage. At the forefront stood Septon Barth, Hand of the King, wearing the golden chain of office over his robes. Not the simple wool of most septons, but fine silks befitting his station. ‘At least the man is dressed to stand beside nobility,’ Otto thought. ‘A man of faith, better than a commoner with no title or worse, like the Rego Rraz, that foreign Pentoshi ruler.’

To Barth’s side stood a Kingsguard, clad all in white save for the sigil upon his cloak. ‘Ser Addam Tarth,’ Otto recognized. ‘The younger brother of the Lord of Tarth. A capable swordsman, from what I have heard.’

The Kingsguard stepped forward and announced in a clear voice, “Ser Otto Hightower, brother to the Lord of Hightower, come to King’s Landing to assume the position of Personal Steward to the Hand of the King.”

Otto dismounted, his movements practiced and deliberate. He strode forward and dipped his head respectfully. “My Lord Hand, thank you for your welcome. I am honored to join in your efforts to better the realm.”

Septon Barth inclined his head in return. “Ser Otto, in the name of His Grace, King Jaehaerys, I welcome you and your family to King’s Landing. I trust your journey was uneventful?”

“It was my Lord Hand. Spring has begun, and the Reach is in full bloom. The land is prosperous.” He then gestured behind him. “May I introduce my eldest son, Garmund Hightower, and my personal squire.”

Barth studied the young man before him. “Ah, a strong lad. How old are you, boy?”

“Six and ten, my Lord Hand,” Garmund replied with a slight bow.

“Very good,” Barth said warmly, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I already see a great knight before me.”

At that moment, the door to the wheelhouse opened, and the rest of Otto’s family stepped out. His wife, Alyrie, descended gracefully, followed by their other children. Gyawne, Alicent, and Martyn.

Otto gestured toward them proudly. “I present my lady wife, Alyrie Hightower, and the rest of our children?”

Barth offered Alyrie a kind smile and took her Hand, pressing a chaste kiss to her knuckles. “Welcome to King’s Landing, my lady. I hope you find your stay pleasant.”

She inclined her head. “You are most kind, my Lord Hand.”

Barth turned back to Otto. “Come, let me show you to your quarters. You will want to rest after your journey. On the morrow, I shall give you a proper tour of the Red Keep, and in due time, you shall be presented to His Grace.”

Otto nodded in gratitude. “That would be most welcome.”

As the Hightowers followed Barth through the courtyard and into the keep, Otto cast one last glance at the great gates behind him. He had arrived, and in time, he would make his mark upon the realm.

Lyanna Stark (97 A.C. Fourth Moon)

Aemon’s and Laena’s laughs rang through the garden as they played with two dragon toys. Aemon’s own black as Balerion, and Laena’s, red like Melyels. “Melyles is fast like the wind.” Laena giggled as she ran around with the red dragon. “Not as fast, Balerion,” He exclaimed, as he followed her as they ran around the Hearttree.

“Hmm, your daughter isn’t wrong.” She said to Rhaenys, smiling at the pair. “Hmm, Melyes is for sure the quickest. Although I have seen the Balerion power return, the dragon wings clap like thunder.” Rhaenys added.

“Visenya wants the same,” Lyanna added. “Even though she didn’t have an egg.” ‘She already saw her daughters flying with their brother through the sky.’ She thought happily, yet at that, Rhaenys’s smile faltered, a shadow passing over her face.

“Rhaenys, what is it?” Lyanna asked, noticing the change in her expression.

Rhaenys hesitated before sighing. “Visenya and Arya will never ride dragons. They are in the same situation as all my aunts except Alyssa. Arya, Visenya, and Gael will not be allowed to tame dragons because they will be wed into other families. If Viserys is blessed with a son, he will marry Rhaenyra. The dragons must stay within the family. The same goes for Laena, as she is meant to marry Aemon.”

“What of Laenor? Does he have Seasmoke now? He is a Velaryeon.”

Rhaenys shook her head. “Laenor was only allowed an egg because my father gifted two eggs to me before his death. He said, for your Alyssa and Baelon. Otherwise, Jaehaerys would never have permitted it.” She exhaled. “I’m sorry, Lyanna.””

“Hmm, now I know why Baelon is always so short with me when I broach the subject with him. He either kept it from me because he doesn’t want her to hurt me, or he thinks I wouldn’t understand.” She said in a pained voice.

“There is a way, though, for Visenya. As you said, Laenor will be a dragonrider and will be Aemon’s goodbrother. Visenya could be betrothed to him, and I doubt that she would be denied a dragon egg or dragon then.” Aemma added kindly. ‘Shit, it was true, and Aemma meant it well, yet she knew Laenor’s passions wouldn’t lay with her daughter. A person’s nature can’t be changed at that deep of a level. Like she would always be the she-wolf of Winterfell.’ She thought as she looked from Rhaenys to Aemma.

“It is an option, Aemon, and I know Laena and Aemon were betrothed young, yet that was to heal the rift between our families. But Visenya and Laenor are both three. I will think about it, as I hope you will, Rhaenys.” She added kindly.

(The Year 97 A.C.)

Writing this now, I see how much the year 97 A.C. changed the course of my life. But back then, I did not yet know what was to come. I lived, yet I was unaware of certain truths. They were just underfoot.

Otto’s arrival had always been expected, but it was only a matter of time. But the introduction of Alicent and her siblings to me and the other royal children was unexpected. Septon Barth was a man of the Seven; to him, my mother’s gods and, by extension, myself were unwelcome influences. Even so, I made the best of the situation.

Gawyne was kind, a boy who wanted nothing more than to be a knight, a trait that reminded me of Bran before his fall. I befriended him, as well as Alicent, who was nothing like the woman described in the histories. But that version of her was thirty years older.

I had promised myself that I would watch and wait until I could hold power. For now, my mother had the reins, and if we played our hand wisely, someone else would become the Hand of the King sooner than expected.

Pages out of the Journal of Aemon Targaryen the White Dragon.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: Wolf in dragon's clothing

Aemon Targaryen (98 A.C. Second Moon)

Rhaenys Granden.

Aemon stood at the edge of the docks, gazing out at the shimmering expanse of the sea. The horizon was painted in shades of gold and crimson as the sun began its descent, casting long shadows over the waters. As merchant ships set sail toward distant lands while fishermen hauled their catches onto the worn wooden piers, the sounds of their voices carried even here over the salty breeze. He inhaled deeply, the scent of brine and fish mixing with the crisp evening air.

With Arya cradled securely in his arms, he murmured, “Hmm, hopefully, my own ships will come to port in the future. Ships from the port of Sea Dragon Point, the northern dragon. I wonder what this future might hold, stopping the dance or, for the very least, making sure the Dragons come out of it alive.” His voice was soft contemplative, as if he were sharing a secret dream with the babe.

She wasn’t her, but still, the sight of her, so small, so vulnerable, stirred something deep within him. She had his sister’s dark curls and the same searching, curious eyes. He wondered how Arya would have reacted to seeing him astride Balerion, to seeing him as he was now.

“How would you have begged me to take you flying?” he chuckled softly, imagining the fierce determination that would have gleamed in Arya’s violet eyes as she pestered him for a ride on the great black dragon.

The babe stirred against his chest, blinking up at him with wide, glistening eyes. Then, with a small gurgle, she parted her lips and uttered a single word. “Jon.”

Aemon froze. His breath hitched, and his arms tightened instinctively around the bundle in his grasp. He almost dropped her. “What?” He rasped, staring down at Arya in shock, his heart hammering wildly. ‘He must have imagined it. He had been thinking of her, of Arya, as the babe reminded him of his lost sister. He was sure his mind was playing tricks on him.’

“No, I imagined it,” he whispered to himself. He shook his head, swallowing hard. He was thinking of her, that was all. He had simply misheard. “She said Aemon,” he reasoned, trying to convince himself.

But then, clear as day, the babe gurgled again, a joyful little sound. “Jon, brother.”

Aemon felt as if the world had tilted beneath his feet. His hands trembled, and a small wave of dizziness overtook him. His breath came in shallow gasps. ‘This was impossible. This was beyond reason. The babe was only not yet a year old. She could not know those words, especially not to use that name for him. And yet…’ He razed inside.

“No, how?” he breathed.

And then, as if answering his unspoken fears, Arya let out another sound. Not a gurgle. Not a coo. But a word, firm and certain, “Gods.”

Aemon staggered, his knees almost buckling beneath him. His mind reeled. His body shivered as if someone had doused him in ice water. It’s true, he thought, utterly stunned. ‘A babe cannot understand such things.’

“Arya?” he whispered, his voice breaking.

The babe whimpered in response, her tiny hands reaching up as if sensing his distress.

Tears pricked at his eyes. He held her closer, pressing a trembling kiss to her soft, dark curls. “Oh, I missed you, little sister,” he choked out, his voice thick with emotion. And she understood, Arya began to cry as well.

He closed his eyes and held her tightly, their shared grief and unspoken understanding washing over them like the tide. “I know,” he murmured. “I feel it, too. I missed you so much.”

Soon, he started recounting all that had happened to him since he died, and he eventually came to how he died. “Nigh Kinn” Arya added. “Yes, Bran was taken over by him. Our brother died the day we thought we won. Even before, I felt something was wrong.” He added.

“How did you know.” He asked. “Nigh, Kinn kil m,” Arya added, her words coming out in slure, and then she broke into a cry. “Damn that bastard. I hate Ramsey, Alister, and many others for all their plotting at the end, with a passion for what they have done. Yet I feel a pure hatred for that monster, which goes beyond all those.” He growled.

He noticed Arya trying to say more, but it seemed she couldn’t stop crying. Aemon smiled at her kindly. “I know how it feels. We can’t control our emotions yet, but soon enough, you will be able to talk properly, and we can discuss some matters of what happened in the past. Just know I love you. You were truly the last left I truly cared for. Even if we had our disagreements at the end. We will make better choices this time. Let’s go see mother and aunt, I suppose, for you.” He said, standing up from where he had been sitting, looking in front of the sun, almost espacing behind the red keep.

At the garden entrance, he waited for his trusted sworn shield. “Ser Harrold, thank you for giving me peace and quiet,” Aemon said to his sworn shield. “Not a problem, My Prince, your wish is my command. Some of the countries wished to enter. But I told them their prince wished for some time alone.” Harrold replied. 

“Good, thank you. Now, I wish to see my mother.” Aemon replied.

Lyanna’s chambers

Aemon entered his mother’s chambers with a measured step, his heart pounding beneath his ribs. His mind wrestled with the implications of what had just happened, but he needed her to hear it for herself.

His mother sat by the hearth. As he walked into the room, Arya cradled in his arms. She turned to him with a gentle smile, the firelight casting warm shadows across her face. “Ah, Aemon, how was your time with Arya? Just in time to have dinner together,” she asked, her voice soft and affectionate.

Aemon hesitated for the briefest of moments before responding. “Hmm, very good, Mother. I have some news. It concerns Arya.”

His mother’s expression shifted at once, concern flickering in her grey eyes. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Aemon said quickly, though his throat felt dry. "Yet Arya is… my Arya, Mother." His voice cracked on the words, emotion swelling within him. His mother furrowed her brow. “What?”

Aemon crossed the room in slow, deliberate steps, stopping just beside the chair where she sat. His gaze flitted from his mother to the babe in his arms, and he swallowed hard before speaking again. “She called me Jon.”

His mother stiffened. “Truly?” she repeated, though her voice was barely above a whisper this time.

Aemon looked from Arya to his mother as his heart thundered in his chest. “Arya, tell Mother who she is to you.” With her tuft of dark hair and curious, intelligent eyes, Arya cooed softly. “Aun, Lya,” she croaked as her tiny hands reached his neck.

His mother inhaled sharply, her entire body freezing as if she had been struck. “See?” Aemon whispered hoarsely. “She is my sister, Mother.” Shock and grief flickered across his mother’s face. She looked down at Arya, then back at him, her lips parting as if to speak, yet no words came.

“Mother, I’m sorry,” Aemon said, his voice thick. “I know you love her as your own. But she is Arya. Arya Underfoot.” His throat tightened as he watched the flickering emotions war across her face.

Arya giggled suddenly, her tiny hand reaching toward his mother. “Lya, fierce!” she exclaimed.

His mother’s breath hitched. Slowly, hesitantly, she lifted Arya into her arms. “Arya?” she murmured, searching the babe’s face. “Did my brother… did he ever speak of me?”

“Ye,” Arya chirped, her tiny hands tangling in her mother’s dark curls as she pressed her face against her neck in a tight embrace. ‘Hmm, his uncle said nothing, only that we would speak after I took my damn vows. When did Arya and his uncle speak of his mother.’ Aemon thought with a frown.

“Hmm, this changes things for us,” Aemon added softly. “I know,” his mother croaked as she sat down again with a heavy sigh. “Considering what you told me about her, Arya has learned some interesting things over the years.”

“True enough,” He added as he winked at his sister, who gave out a happy giggle and added, “Warri.”

“Yes, she became quite the warrior. I remember fighting our way toward the godswood. Her being quick as a shadow, while an undead dragon chased us.” Aemon added as he shook his head.

“I remember that story. Still hard to believe sometimes, most of those damn stories about the Others and White Walkers are true.” His mother sighed. “Believe me, I would rather have imagined it all and been proclaimed mad,” Aemon exclaimed, throwing up his arms in exaggeration. “Tru,” Arya added.

“Yeah, all true,” he replied with a deep sigh. “Yet this time, we know, and we will prepare the world for what is to come,” Aemon proclaimed firmly.

“Why not think of happier moments? All this talk of those times. This subject is for another day, Mother. Perhaps you could tell us stories of Uncle Ned, Brandon, Benjen, and Grandfather. Arya’s father never talked much about them, nor about you, for that matter. Probably, it was all too painful.” He added, his tone lightening.

“Yes, I would like that. It will give me something else to think about,” she replied, her face still pained but softened.

“Yeah,” Arya let out as she happily giggled.

After dinner had been brought in, mother began telling stories about her past.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12 : Loss of a friend

Jaehaerys Targaryen (98 A.C. Eight Moon)

Jaehearys sipped his wine as his mind wondered where his Hand was. ‘Where was Barth? The man was always on time for the council meetings.’ He mused. “Lyman, do you have an inkling on where my Lord Hand is?” He asked his master of coin.

“No, Your Grace, I haven’t spoken with him this morning,” Lyman replied kindly. Then the door opened, ‘There he is.’ He mused. Yet Otto Hightower walked inside instead. The man had a grim look on his face.

 “Your Graces, my lords.” Otto began. “I come with sad news. Our gracious Lord Hand has passed away.” Otto proclaimed.

“What did you say?” He implored, his words and ears not believing what was said. “Sadly, Your Grace, Septon Barth is gone. I found him lying over his table in his solar. I was waiting for him so we could travel to the small council session together. When he did not arrive, I went to check on him. To my own sadness, Barth was already gone. As far as I saw, there weren’t signs of pain. Barth seemed to have gone to sleep based on his posture, and sadly, he did not wake from it.” Otto finished.

‘Barth is gone, my loyal friend who stood by me for as long I could remember.’ He thought, shocked. “Father, are you alright?” Baelon questioned.

“I will be. The council is diminished. Baelon stay for a while. We come together in two days, time. Let’s now morn our friend and one most loyal men of the realm.” He declared. His heart was hammering in his chest, ‘Barth gone.’ Jaehaerys mouthed inwardly.

“I shall do my examination on him, Your Grace. It’s a sad day to lose such a man.” Grandmaester Ruciter announced. “As you say, your grace,” Lyman added. “My condolence, Your Grace. Barth was a good man,” Corlys commented before he walked out of the door with the rest.

“Bye the gods, my friend, for almost fifty years is gone. He married me in Alyssane in Kingslanding.” He muttered, not sure if he believed it.

“I’m sorry, father. I know you loved that man as a brother. Especially after Viserys and Aegon.” Baelon stated. “Indeed, I lost them, but I gained Barth,” He replied.

“Shall I start the funeral arrangements? Let’s have him put to rest in the royal sept in the red keep. He was so close to us all and served the realm loyally for many years. I see no better place to lay him to rest.” Baelon suggested.

“Thank you, my boy, that is a wonderful idea. While I go and see my friend. Also, send a letter to your mother. She would wish to be here.” He added.

Barth/Hand Bedchamber.

Ryam had helped up the last stairs. ‘Damn you, Rogar, had to design a grand tower for the Hand.” He crumbled inwardly. As they arrived in the bedchamber of his loyal friend.

“Your Grace, welcome. As Ser Otto commented, the Lord Hand died in his sleep. Once more, a true loss for the realm.” Ruciter commented as he saw him enter.

When he saw Barth lying still on his bed. Eyes closed, without his chest moving, he knew it was true. His loyal friend was gone. “Leave alone with him for a while,” Jaehaerys commanded. “As you wish, Your Grace.” Otto Hightower proclaimed. He clapt his hands, and all servants and the grandmaester were ushered out of the room.

Jaehaerys pulled up the chair and moved to the bed. Pick up his friend’s hand. “Cold,” He muttered to himself. “You are truly gone, old friend. I have relied on you for the past forty years as my steady right hand. Build my relationship with the faith, and help guide my decisions, and many other things. Even if it broke my heart on the occasion. Oh, Saera’s departure and Rhaenys face when I announced Baelon would be my heir still pains me. Seara, her willfulness and stubbornness reminds me so much of me. Of all my children, Saera was closed to me in character, if not in deed, and cost her. I was bold when I took Alysanne with me, and she was bold when she took those idiots to her bed. I wish she could come back, but it’s too late now.” He lamented as a tear dripped down his face.

“Rhaenys, she will have her blood on the throne one day. Aemon and Laena will have babes and will marry into Viserys’s line. That boy will change things even if I’m not here to see it. Pity he wasn’t born first, but he will be a guiding force when Viserys takes the throne, a strong hand like you were to me. Even if I know you weren’t the biggest advocate for my son marrying a northerner and one that worships the old gods. Aemon will be the light in our houses, as was his mother.” He added, smiling.

“So, my old friend, who will be your replacement, mmm? My gut tells me it should be Baelon. He will be King soon rather than late. Let the realm get used to him. Yet is he ready to take the mantle of Hand? He sometimes still lives in Aemon’s shadow.” He mused.

“He will have to come out of it one day. Maybe Ryam is better for now. The man is strong and steadfast.” He added as he talked to the body of his loyal friend.

Jaehearys sighed, “I shall bother you no more, my friend. Rest, and I see when I go to my eternal rest.”

Lyanna Stark Targaryen (98 A.C. Eight Moon)

Lyanna’s chambers two days later

“Mother, father must be Hand. Ryam is up for the task. The man was one of the worst Hands in history, according to the books. You must go to father, and have him pettions grandfather. It will change father’s life in a big way. Perhaps it will save his life if he starts earlier.” Aemon explained.

“I hope so, too, and it will prevent your father from becoming ill. Like he was before. I doubt we would have as much conflict as we had in our timeline if Baelon was King. I love Viserys, the man is kind-hearted, but he loathes conflict.” She replied, her face in a tight smile.

“Indeed, we can also bring in Lyonel Strong early as master of Laws. The man was by all accounts a loyal hand and a good master of laws. The man also has also partly a maesters education. So he will know much and more.” Aemon noted.

“Also true. You have thought about these things, I suppose. I had to, but I wasn’t most interested in reading. I like to ride, play with a sword, and sew. You are a lot like Rhaegar in that regard, you know. He liked reading and discovering new things, especially about his family. man, besides singing and playing the harp, it was his favorite pastime.” Lyanna added, giving Aemon a soft smile.

“Hmm, I wish I could have known him. I love Baelon, yet part of me will always miss not knowing Rhaegar. You are telling me things you told me and help with filling in the blanks.” Aemon lamented, giving her a sad smile.

“I have the same feeling. I will always love him, as will I, Baelon. Both of them gave me so much joy.” She replied with a smile. “But getting back to the topic, I shall speak with your father, as well as to your grandmother, she will be arriving in two days by ship. Hopefully, she can help influence your grandfather.” She remarked.

“Ship, not by Sliverwing, then. Hmm, I dread the day I can’t fly anymore. I love flying on my black mount. A sad thing for grandmother though, she has become weaker ever since she fell and broke her hip.” Aemon replied sadly.

“Don’t you tell me about it? I can still remember my fear when I heard what you had done. As for Alysanne, it is a sad thing, but she still has a sharp mind.” She added. “Yes, the Good Queen has always been sharp of mind,” Aemon noted with a grin. ‘He loves her very much. He remembers the many dragon rides she gave him.’ She mused.

“Well, why don’t you go and see your sisters? They should be with Aemma and Rhaenyra in the gardens. While I go speak with your father.” She added as she kissed his forehead.

The study of the master of laws.

“Ah, Lyanna, what a welcome surprise,” Baelon said as he rose to greet her, pressing a kiss to her lips.

“I’ve come because of Baelon,” she began. “It’s time for you to become your father’s right hand.”

Baelon exhaled, his expression unreadable. “Lyanna, my father will make the decisions he believes are best.”

She knew her husband well. As much as she loved him, she understood the weight he carried. For most of his life, Baelon had been raised as the second son and told to stand beside his elder brother, not to lead from the front as Aemon had. But things had changed. Jaehaerys has done much to teach him, but some things still take time.

She smiled before she spoke again. “Baelon, it is time for you to take up the mantle of Hand of the King. One day, you will be Baelon Targaryen, First of His Name. Begin now while your father is still here to guide you. You have learned much and served as Master of Laws with wisdom and decisiveness. Now take the next step, even if it is not an easy one.”

Baelon studied her for a moment, then nodded. “You have given this much thought,” he mused. “Sometimes, I forget you were once your father’s heir until you married me. I remember the petition your father sent to King’s Landing, asking that you remain heir even after Benjen was born.” A small smile played on his lips.

Lyanna nodded. “My father himself was never meant to be heir. But after his eldest nephew Edric died, his brother summoned him home to serve as the spare. He learned that his brother’s side ruled as castellan of Winterfell, his right Hand. Even if Ellard was still the heir, I sadly don’t remember him. He died in a wildling ambush when I was born, and Uncle Walton died shortly after. Losing to sons will do that.” She stepped closer. “Now, you have that same chance.”

Baelon sighed, his silver beard catching the candlelight. “Perhaps you are right. I accepted my father’s command to become his heir because it was my duty to be loyal and obey my elders and my father. And yet, it was Aemon who should have held the title Prince of Dragonstone. It should have been his place to become Hand, not mine.”

“Aemon is not here,” She said firmly. “Neither is Rhaenys’ heir. You are Baelon the Brave. Now be brave, and take the mantle of Hand of the King and step out of Aemon’s shadow.”

Before he could respond, she cupped his face and kissed him fully, his silver beard prickling her chin.

Baelon Targaryen (98 A.C Ninth Moon)

Jaehaerys - A Week after Septon Barth Furnal

Baelon took a deep breath as he walked inside his father’s solar. “A my son. What a welcome surprise.” His father said.

“Father, I know the two weeks have been hard. Barth’s passing has been lost for the whole realm. Yet you haven’t yet named a new Hand of the King.” He began.

“Father, it is time for me to take the reigns of the realm into my own. You are becoming older, and one day, I will sit on the Iron Throne. For most of my life, I have lived as a second son. I learned to stand beside my elder brother and protect him with all my might. Yet Aemon is gone, and I am here. I need to show the realm I can rule, and I would rather have you by my side while I’m still learning, even if I’m already forty and one namedays old.” He stated firmly.

His father smiled, stood up, and embraced him. “Well done, my boy, you were a King just then, taking the lead. I know you were raised with a second son. I can’t deny that I sometimes feel Aemon’s loss. I would have wanted him to take up this role, yet he can’t. You are my heir now, you will be a great King when the time comes, and I will name you as Hand, my son. We both have to move forward.” His father expressed.

“Thank you, father. It was my wife who reminded me of whom I am now.” Baelon said with a chuckle. “Hmm, Lyanna has always been a she-wolf. She compliments you well and will be a great Queen-consort when the time comes. Your mother also urged me it should be you.” His father remarked.

“We both married strong-willed women, and Lyanna will be a fine queen. She returned my fire. I lost after Alyssa.” Baelon added with a smile. “Indeed she has, even if wish it had been Vissera instead, would have been able to do it, yet that is the past.” His father said, his voice saddened with loss. ‘I suspect it when she hadn’t yet been betrothed.’

“You know her marriage arrangements were made quite late. That was the reason. I hoped you two might crow to each other, but Alyssa and Vissera were different. While Lyanna shares similarities with Alyssa, you have a type son.” His father finished with an amused chuckle

“I suspected something. I love Vissera as a sister, yet I never looked at her like I did Alyssa or Lyanna.” He remarked.

“Mmm, I know. That’s why your mother eventually arranged the match with Manderlys. Although now I see, a different match would been better. Vissera would have hated the North. She loved court life, tourneys and the south, even if the Manderlys were the most southern of all the northern houses. Perhaps if we had, she would still be around. How the older I become, the more regrets I seemed to have.” His father sighed.

“Yes, I do too. I wish I had handled her better when she came to me. Perhaps she still would have been here.” Baelon added with a sigh. Vissera will always be a loss.

“Well, let’s look to the future instead and send out announcements for a tourney to celebrate the new Hand of the King.” His father grinned.

“Very well, father.” He replied as he embraced him once more.

The year 98 A.C.

The day Lord Barth died struck like a hammer blow. He had been a steady pillar of my grandfather’s reign, a guiding force that held the realm together. I knew, as surely as the sun rises, that the King would name Ryam Redwyne as his new Hand instead of my father. As that was what the histories said.

My mother and I could not let that happen. So we planned to make my father the new Hand, urging him to push to become appointed as the Hand of the King. That, I suppose, was the second change I wrought upon history. The first had been keeping the Black Dread alive through our bond.

But my mother had already changed far more than I had. By marrying my father and giving him three children, she had altered the course of history. The marriage also strengthened the bonds between the North and the Crown, as well as healing the rift been my grandparents. She had also prevented the death of Gael, my sweet aunt, who went on to bear a son, Clemaerys Celtigar, in the twelfth moon of the year 98 A.C.

With this change of my father’s Handship. I hoped the chance of saving him grew. Such a duty reshaped a man’s life in ways both seen and unseen. And I prayed then that this change would be a start.

Page out of the Journal of Aemon Targaryen the White Dragon.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13 : Tourney of the Hand of the King

Aemon Targaryen (98 A.C. Tenth Moon)

Tower of the Hand

“So, Grandfather has announced your appointment to the realm,” he asked his father in the study tower of the Hand.

“Yes, a tourney will be held on the first moon of the new year,” his father replied, smiling at him. “How are your sisters, Aemon? Is Visenya still following you around?”

“She has, and together with Rhaenyra, they have been begging me for a ride with Balerion almost every day,” he said with a chuckle.

“Please don’t those girls sway Aemon or your mother, and good-sister will have your hide.” His father noted with a chuckle.

“Yes, I know. Aemma and Muna have warned me repeatedly,” he added with another chuckle.

“How is Arya, that little thing, is as quick with walking as you were when that age and quick of tong too.” His father grinned.

“Arya also seemed to enjoy puppies, horses, and the godswood the most,” Aemon added.

“Yes, she has an affinity for those things. Who knows, maybe in the future, a foster to maybe the Rywells or the Caswell’s they do breed quite great horses.” His father mused aloud. ‘It wasn’t a bad idea, although Arya would probably fit. The Rywell’s better, considering they are more open to unladylike pursuits. His uncle Ned would have made the right if she had been fostered with the Mormonts.’ Aemon mused to himself.

“Perhaps Kepa. Will see what Arya becomes.” He added.

Then, his father gave a suspicious grin. “So, are you excited to see Laena again? I’ve heard she will join her mother and father for the celebration.”

“I am, Father. Rhaenyra, Visenya, and I always enjoy it when Laenor and Laena come to the city. It will be nice to see them again, Kepa,” he said, smiling at his father.

“Come, son. I’ve done enough work for today. Up for a flight?” His father asked.

“Yes, Kepa, I’m up for a flight,” he replied childishly.

Soon, they arrived at the royal stables. “Your Graces,” Martin began with a bow. “At ease, Martin, have  Ash and Pebbels saddle. My son and I are going to the dragon pit.” His father commanded.

“As you wish, your Grace.” Martin bowed, and soon Ash, his black pony, and his father, grey mare Palfrey, were saddle.

As they rode through the city, he generously distributed coins to the common folk. The joy on their faces always warmed his heart.

He had even asked his mother to look into finding opportunities for some of them at Sea Dragon Point, where they might have a better future. King’s Landing, especially Flea Bottom, was overcrowded, and he hoped to help those who wished for more. 

Soon, the great Doom of dragonpit came into view.

“My princes, will you be flying today?” Tymon asked in High Valyrian. He almost didn’t register the question, as the armor Tymon wore never failed to leave him in awe. The head dragonkeeper was in a position of great power and influence, and his armor reflected that well. The dragon-shaped helm, the scaled vest crafted from actual dragon scales, the black chainmail beneath it all, and the cape, made from shed dragonskin, only added to his imposing presence, making him look every bit a herder of dragons.

Yet, he had seen my father in his own armor, and the difference was stark. It was partly valyrian steel. It made me wonder again what had become of those relics. ‘Dragon-scale and Valyrian armor, once prized beyond measure, was nowhere to be found in my past time. Had it been Baelor? Had the man destroyed such artifacts, just as he had burned books and cut down the weirwood in the godswood? Or did they burn with Aegon V at Summerhal. Even the dragon eggs didn’t survive that fire.’

“Indeed, we will be.” His father replied. The roar inside the dragonpit made the ground slightly rumble. He then felt his strong connection with Balerion. “Ah, my friend, are we flying again.” His bonded asked.

“Yes, my friend,” he responded mentally, feeling Balerion’s approval of their bond.

“Mmm, it seems Balerion already senses you, my prince,” Tymon murmured. “It’s astonishing your connection with the Dread, my son. It never ceases to amaze me,” his father added.

Soon, the ground shook as the massive black behemoth walked out of the dragon pit.

“Balerion,” he exclaimed happily, running toward the massive dragon, stroking its head. One of the other dragon keepers remarked in Valyrian, “That boy is a dragon himself. Not even the history books speak of such a bond.”

Then Balerion, as had done before, like a feather, lifted him on top of his back. “Thank you, Balerion.” He said. The dragon rumbled in return. “You’re welcome.”

Soon, Vhagar emerged from the pit as well. Even atop Balerion, Vhagar was still massive. The great green-blue she-dragon was a massive creature measuring 100 meters in length.

“Let’s fly, Kepa,” He shouted to his father after he had climbed the ropes and saddled himself in Vhagar’s saddle.

“Soves,” he commanded. Balerion made a small run toward the edge of the landing area with a mighty clap of Balerion’s wings. He jumped off the cliff, and they made a small dive before Balerion took him into the sky.

“Oh, I missed this, my friend,” He said. Balerion purred like a cat, a contrast to their terrifying reputation. Even dragons could be affectionate, much like humans, especially when treated kindly.

“Me too, my friend,” the old dragon rumbled. Vhagar and Balerion soared through the sky, and a third dragon soon appeared. It was the brown she-dragon belonging to his elder brother. All three dragons roared in happiness. “Sȳz mandia, Viserys,” he shouted as he flew toward them. He saw Aemma smiling happily with her arms around Viserys for support.

“How is the flying.” He asked as he came closer, and the dragon hovered in the same position.

“Quite good, Aemon. Look around,” Viserys replied happily. As gestured with his hands.

The weather was perfect for a peaceful dragon ride, with no wind or clouds, just the sun, which made conversation easier, requiring no shouting. However, even the flapping of dragon wings could produce some noise if they wished to pick up speed.

“Indeed, what you say, we race toward Dragonstone. Come, Balerion,” he shouted with a grin. The dragon obeyed, making their way to Dragonstone. They didn’t take as long as they usually did; they only took about an hour or two at most. At high speed, they were flying.

He grinned as he saw that neither his brother nor his father weren’t close behind him. Balerion landed on the Dragonstone beach near the Ceremonial gates. This beach always brought memories of the past forward. ‘Dany would always be in his heart no matter how hard he tried to forget it.’ The shrieks of Goynogar and Vhagar stopped his musing.

“Ah, Kepa, I would love to be here more. The castle feels more like home than Kings Landing,” he said to his father. After he, Viserys, and Aemma had dismounted.

“Well, it is our ancestral home, Aemon,” his father noted, ruffling his hair. “But yes, we and the dragons do seem more at home here.”

“I agree, Father. This is where we belong,” He added.

“Dragons made us rulers, my son, but they can also destroy us. My father always said that the only thing that can destroy the House of the Dragon is itself,” his father told him, coming up behind him and placing his hands on his shoulders. ‘You have no idea how right he was.’ He thought.

“Only when we are united are we the most powerful family in the world. Not even all the gold in the world, or whatever may come, can stand against us when we are united. That’s the key, something I’ve also told your brother.” Baelon said, looking at Viserys. “Perhaps one day, or hopefully never, you will understand the truth of what I’m saying,” Baelon added cryptically, casting a meaningful look at Aemon’s elder brother.

“Do you understand, Aemon?” his father asked.

“Yes, Father. The dragons must stand united,” he replied, showing a brave resolve. Little did he know that this unity would prove crucial in the future, as the world would descend into chaos in 200 years, with a terrible winter and the rise of the dead, and unity was nowhere to be found in the Seven Kingdoms. The memory sent a shiver down his spine.

“Is everything alright, Aemon? You seemed lost there for a moment,” his father said, looking at him with concern.

“Everything is alright, Father. I was just lost in thought for a moment,” he said, smiling at his father.

“Well, let’s go. We need to return to King’s Landing before darkness falls,” his father said, and they mounted their dragons and took off into the sky, with the setting sun casting a wondrous glow on the world below.

Aemon Targaryen (99 A.C. first moon)

Tourney Grounds

“Come on, Vis and Nyra.” He said as he took both their hands and led them to the tourney stands. Harold chuckled at him as he let them both. Currently, the lower joust was being held, and he wanted to see if there were any new knights. Ser Ducan the Tall was supposed to start in one of those to gain his renown.

Visenya and Rhaenyra might still be four, almost five. They enjoy spending time with him, and part of him hoped Laena and Laenor were also there.

Soon, they were in the stands and walked down toward the lower seats. “Aemon! Vis, Nyra!” a voice called out. He looked toward the familiar voice. Laena was there too, her amethyst eyes shining brightly with delight.

“Laena!” He called out as he hugged her. “I hoped you would be here too. I don’t see Gyawne or Alicent.” Orys noted as he looked around.

“No, they are with father and uncle. I went to ask if they could come, but Otto forbid it, as he said they would spend time with their kin.” Laena replied sadly.

 “Alright, a pity. Did we mis any joust?” He asked. “Yes, although it was a quick one. Hmm, it was a Ser Gerbolt Crackhall vs Ser Hullen Piper. Ser Gerbolt unhorsed Ser Hullen in the second bout.” Laena replied. “Mmm, okay then.” He added as they all took their seats.

 He deliberately went to sit beside Laena, and she smiled as he did. Visenya and Rhaenyra sat to his left side, giggling excitedly to watch the joust.

Then, the herald stepped forward and raised his voice for all to hear. “Now we see a contest between two knights of the same land. Ser Desmond Caron, a well-regarded jouster known throughout the realm, shall face Ser Corin Swann, a newcomer to the lists and nephew to Lord Galwin Swann. Let us see who shall carry the day. Riders, take your positions.”

The knights bowed toward the stands, acknowledging the presence of the royal family. Though much of the royal stand remained empty, only them and the queen and her ladies-in-waiting were there. He knew his father and grandfather were occupied, entertaining Lord Boremund, who was presently engaged in a discussion on trade and the potential for tax cuts on certain goods leaving the Stormlands. If he recalled his mother’s words correctly, Viserys and Daemon were absent, their whereabouts unknown. His mother, however, was speaking with Lords Glover and Forrester about the construction efforts at Sea Dragon Point.

Then, jousters took their places at opposite ends of the field. Ser Desmond rode a sturdy brown destrier, his cloak a bright yellow spotted with nightingales. Ser Corin’s white charger gleamed in the afternoon sun, his black-and-white swan sigil displayed proudly upon his surcoat.

The trumpet sounded, and the riders spurred their mounts forward, thundering across the field. They met in the center, both striking their opponent’s shield. Splinters flew as their lances cracked, yet neither man was unhorsed.

As the crowd murmured in approval, he felt a small hand slip into his own. It was Laena. A warmth rose to his cheeks, though when he stole a glance at her, he saw the faintest blush upon her face as well.

The second pass saw Ser Corin miss his mark while Ser Desmond’s blow landed true. Yet the younger knight kept his seat, refusing to fall.

Both knights struck hard and clean on the third pass, yet neither was unhorsed.

Then came the fourth tilt. Ser Desmond shifted his weight slightly, just enough to throw off his opponent’s aim. Ser Corin’s lance missed its mark, and an instant later, Ser Desmond’s strike landed solidly against his chest. The force of the blow sent Ser Corin tumbling from the saddle, crashing into the dirt below.

“The winner of this fine joust, Ser Desmond Caron!” the herald declared. “Yet let none say the newcomer has shamed himself. Ser Corin Swann rode well, and I daresay he shall find victories of his own in the days to come.”

The crowd cheered, and Ser Desmond raised his lance in salute. Ser Corin, now standing, dusted himself off and bowed to his opponent before making his way from the field, his head held high.

The end of the tourney will be a few days later. 

The tourney had been a splendid affair. He wanted to participate but found great joy in watching it alongside Rhaenyra, Visenya, Laena, Laenor, Gywane, and Alicent. The last two had been able to come on the second day of the tournament. 

They watched excitedly as the tournament’s final joust began and featured his father facing off against Ser Raym Redwyne, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

“Father looks amazing, doesn’t he?” he exclaimed, and his mother looked at him with a wide smile and nodded. As she held Arya in her arms, her eyes wide in excitement. ‘She likely recalled the two previous occasions when she had been crowned Queen of love and beauty. He hoped that he would witness his father’s triumph. As he thought about it, he cast a knowing look at Laena,’ the thought of crowning his wife bringing a smile to his face.

‘She is even now at a young age. Laena was a pure Valyrian beauty with silver hair, amethyst eyes, and milky skin. She also bore a striking resemblance to her mother. Rhaenys also possessed Valyrian beauty, save for her Baratheon black hair, yet both Laenor and Laena inherited their father’s hair.’ His musings were interrupted by the herald’s announcement.

“Here comes Prince Baelon Targaryen, the Hand of the King, Crown Prince, and Prince of Dragonstone! He rides in the final joust against Ser Raym Redwyne, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard!”

The crowd erupted into thunderous applause as spectators rose from their seats in excitement. The two riders guided their steeds to the center of the field, offering respectful bows to the stands. Even the Crown Prince inclined his head to the King of the Seven Kingdoms. His father responded with a bright smile before lowering his visor. With that, the riders turned and rode toward their starting positions.

Clad in armor, Aemon thought his father looked as formidable as ever. His breastplate, forged from Valyrian steel as black as night, bore the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. The sigil was adorned with gleaming red rubies that shimmered like fresh blood in the firelight, a relic of forgotten Valyrian craftsmanship. In his previous post, the breastplate had once been passed down to Daemon along with Dark Sister but was lost with Daemon’s body during the Battle of at the God’s Eye.

Though the rest of his armor was hardened steel, it was no less impressive. His pauldrons, shaped like dragon wings, swept outward with sharp spikes, lending him a fearsome presence. His gauntlets and greaves were etched with intricate scaled patterns and Valyrian glyphs, each detail a testament to the smith’s skill. His greathelm, designed in the snarling visage of a dragon, was crowned with fierce horns while ridged spikes trailed down its back.

The black-scaled faulds, greaves, and sabatons added to the armor’s imposing effect, while golden-inlaid poleyns provided a final touch of elegance.

Yet, the blare of trumpets stopped his wanderings as the joust commenced.

Both riders spurred their horses into a gallop, thundering across the field. The first impact was resounding, each man’s lance striking the other’s shield to the roar of the crowd. The second pass came swiftly; Ser Raym’s lance hit its mark more precisely this time, but Baelon adjusted, regaining the upper hand by the third round. They remained evenly matched through the fourth and fifth tilts. Then came the final charge.

The sixth and decisive pass.

Baelon’s lance struck true, sending Ser Raym crashing to the ground. A hush fell over the crowd for a heartbeat before a deafening cheer erupted across the stands. With practiced ease, Baelon swiftly dismounted, striding toward the fallen knight. He extended a hand, helping the older man to his feet. The two warriors clasped forearms in mutual respect, and the crowd’s cheers grew even louder at the display of camaraderie.

Baelon then mounted his horse once more and rode toward the royal box, just as Aemon had hoped.

“My lady wife, I would crown you the Queen of Love and Beauty,” Baelon declared, his voice rich with affection as he placed a wreath of blue winter roses in her lap. His father had arranged for the flowers to be brought from the North by his brother-in-law, Benjen Stark, knowing they were her favorite. Aemon’s heart swelled with pride as he watched his father honor his mother with this tender gesture.

“Well done, Father!” He called out, jumping down from the stand and rushing toward him.

His father laughed, dismounted from his horse, reaching down to ruffle Aemon’s hair before Viserys stepped forward in the stands with a knowing grin.

“Indeed, Father, an excellent choice for the Queen of Love and Beauty,” Viserys said. “And for your victory, I have a surprise for you.” He paused for effect before continuing, his voice brimming with excitement. “Aemma is with child again. I hope to make you a proud grandfather once more.”

His father’s face lit up with joy. “That is wonderful news, my son! May the gods bless you and Aemma with a healthy babe.”

Aemon watched as everyone gathered in celebration. Even Daemon hadn’t caused problems after making the journey for the tourney, standing alongside them in rare unity. Everything was as it should be. The realm was at peace, and his father was Hand the King almost two years early. ‘Let the rest come.’ He thought confidently.

Chapter Text

Chapter 14 : Passing of the Good and Ghost of the Past

Baelon Targaryen (100 A.C., Seventh Moon)
Sky above Dragonstone

Baelon’s silver hair swept back in the wind as he held his youngest daughter tightly against his chest. Arya squealed in delight, her laughter ringing through the sky as Vhagar soared upward before dipping low once more. The toddler loved being outside, and she had a particular fondness for Aemon, something that reminded Baelon of his own bond with Alyssa. Yet, unlike him and his sister, Aemon had already found companionship in Laena. Even if they did not yet looked at each other with love, the way a man looks at a woman, there was affection.

“Great, isn’t it, Arya?” Baelon asked, his voice light.

“Yeah! More flying!” Arya exclaimed happily, clapping her little hands.

Baelon smiled. Arya was different from his eldest daughter. Visenya was willful and strong, and she enjoyed the swordplay of her namesake, yet she also embraced the grace of a lady, much like her mother. Arya, however, was a wild thing even for a child of three, like Alyssa had been, yet also like Lyanna. A true wild dragon. Baelon wondered what kind of man would one day be able to capture her fierce little heart.

As Vhagar swept through the sky, sudden roars cracked through the air, and a deep, mournful sound sent a chill down Baelon’s spine. A second roar followed, one he recognized instantly. “Balerion”

The first had been filled with pain and grief. The second echoed it. Then came another. “Silverwing,” he mouthed.

Baelon’s frown deepened.

“Vhagar, return to Dragonmont,” he commanded in High Valyrian.

Vhagar rumbled in response and turned, her wings beating powerfully as she carried them back toward the dragon platform. The roars continued, growing louder, a sorrowful chorus in dragonmont.

As soon as they landed, Baelon dismounted, running a soothing hand along Vhagar’s great snout. “Thank you, girl,” he murmured before stepping away.

On the platform, Lyanna stood waiting for him. Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed with unshed tears. She had been crying.

Baelon’s heart clenched. “Lyanna, what is it?”

She took a shuddering breath, stepping forward to embrace him. “It’s your mother, Baelon,” she whispered, her voice thick with sorrow. “I’m so sorry. She’s gone.”

Baelon froze, his breath catching in his throat. He held her tighter as if anchoring himself to reality. Nearby, Vhagar let out a mournful cry, the sound reverberating through Dragonmont.

“She… what?” he asked, though deep down, he already knew the answer.

Lyanna only held him closer. “It’s true,” she said softly. “She passed away. Aemon was reading to her when it happened. She just… slipped away in her chair.”

Baelon’s breath hitched. “Balerion and Silverwing,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “I heard them from the sky… their cries were filled with grief.” His chest tightened, and he struggled to breathe. His vision blurred as the weight of the loss settled over him. ‘His mother was gone.’

His breaths became shallow and uneven. Panic clawed at his chest, his body trembling as he began to hyperventilate. “Take her… please,” he gasped, forcing the words out.

Lyanna gently took Arya from his arms, cradling their daughter against her chest. As soon as Baelon felt the absence of her warmth, a raw, anguished cry tore from his throat, echoing through Dragonmont. The dragons answered, their sorrowful wails filling the dragonmont, a chorus of mourning that carried across the winds.

A few days later, the Dragonmont.

His face was still darkened in grief. Lyanna held his hand tightly, and their children stood beside them. The rest of the Targaryen family. Even his second born had come, Daemon, even if he had disliked his grandmother ever since the marriage to Rhea Royce. Yet here, he was giving respect to a great member of their House and doing his duty.

Viserys stood together with Aemma, still weak from her latest miscarriage. How many times would gods take a child from them? Baelon thought as he looked at the sky.

His father stood beside Aemon. The boy looked hardened, his face edged with grief but solemn determination. He acts always older than he should be. His father wasn’t much better. The rift between him and his mother had been heald, and his mother still preferred the quit of Dragonstone. They loved each other. Now, his father’s other half was gone, and he remembered his father’s first words when they embraced. After he arrived on Vermithor. “Now, I know your loss, son, I’m sorry for pushing you to move on.”

Looking at the gathered crowd, taking a deep breath. He stepped forward. It was time to say goodbye.

“We gather here beneath the shadow of the Dragonmont, under the watchful eyes of our ancestors, to bid farewell to the heart of House Targaryen. The Queen who was more than a Queen, the mother who was more than a mother. Alysanne Targaryen, the Jewel of the Realm, the light of our House, is no more.”

“She was my mother, and too my siblings, and grandmother. But more than that, she was a mother to the realm. To the smallfolk, whom she fought for, think about the fountains in Kingslanding. To the women of Westeros, whose voices she sought to raise. To my brothers and sisters who are no longer here, may she greet them again. May she embrace them, as my mother hadn’t grief more than the loss of her children.”

“My mother was wise, yet kind. Stern when she must be, but always with love in her heart for those closest to her. The world may remember her as the Good Queen, the matchmaker, the dragonrider of Silverwing. But I will remember her as the woman who placed a gentle hand on my shoulder when I doubted, whispered words of courage when I faltered, and taught me that strength is not found in steel alone but in wisdom, mercy, and love.”

“Let us not mourn as though all is lost. Let us honor her as she lived, with love, justice, and courage to stand up for what is right. That is her legacy. And so long as Targaryens remain, so long as this realm endures, Queen Alysanne shall never be forgotten.”

“Fly high, Mother. And may the gods grant you the peace you more than deserve.” He stated, his voice faltering at the end. “Well done, Baelon, you made her proud,” Lyanna said as she kissed his cheek.

Then, his father and Aemon stepped forward, both looking at their dragons. “Dracarys.” His father and son said in unison.

Soon, the black and bronze flames lit the pyre of his mother. Carrying the ashes to the gods above.

Arya Targaryen/Stark  (100 A.C., Seventh Moon)
Dragonstone, Aegon’s Garden

Arya sat quietly on the grass, a wooden direwolf clutched in her hand. She wore black, as did the other younger children seated near her, sons and daughters of lords and ladies who had come to pay their respects. To Alysanne Targaryen, the Good Queen. Some Arya had come to care for and admire.

Across from her sat baby Clemaerys Celtigar, her cousin, the firstborn of Gael and Bartimos Celtigar. His wide, excited eyes followed the toy in her hand.

“Direwolf,” Arya said softly, waving it in front of him. Clemaerys giggled, delighted, and the sound tugged at her heart. When they were small, she remembered doing the same with Rickon and Bran. But they were both gone now, taken before their time.

“Puppy,” said Clarissa Darkelyn, pointing at the toy. She was the eldest daughter of Marick Darkelyn, heir to Duskendale.

“Wolf,” Arya corrected gently. “Wol,” Clarissa tried, her brows furrowing.

“Wolf,” Arya said again, smiling. “Wolf!” Clarissa repeated triumphantly, and Arya pulled her into a warm hug before handing her the toy.

As Clarissa hugged the direwolf close, Arya’s thoughts drifted. She hoped Jon would come find her and take her away. She wanted to do something else. Sitting still was boring. She still called him Jon in her mind, even though his true name was Aemon. It still stung, knowing her father had lied. Jon had been sent to the Watch not only for protection but so her father wouldn’t have to fight Robert for him.

If Robb had known the truth… if Jon had stood beside him as a true Targaryen-Stark, perhaps the North would have had a true claimant to rally behind to oust the Lannisters. As she knew, the South would never allow the Riverlands and the North to break off the Seven Kingdoms. Perhaps more of their family would still be alive in the end.

Jon had been loving in the beginning when he found out the truth. Yet, there was anger inside him toward her and Sansa, as well as a few others of the past. Arya knew why he was angry. Yet even now, three years since she was reborn into this life. They hadn’t spoken about it, only about Bran and what had taken him over.

Her thoughts were broken when her aunt spoke up. “Ah, Aemon, how are you, nephew?”

“As well, I can be. Grandmother was a kind woman. She taught me much. May she be at peace wherever she is and be embraced by her past kin. I’m sure she will be happy to see them. How are you?” Jon replied kindly. He gave his aunt a kiss on the cheek.

“I’m feeling the pain of her loss. I will love until I die. It saddens me that she will not see my children grow. As for mother, one of the things she always felt the most pain is the loss of her children and family. So hopefully, she will see them in what comes after.” Gael sighed as she gave Jon a kind smile.

“Yes, the great losses of the Queen.” Falia Tarth added.

“Prince Aemon, I must say, it was quite the side seeing you. Commanding the Black Dread and lighting the pyre with King. It showed the true strength of the crown, especially in times like this.” Ella Massey added.

“My lady, I do not command him. It’s a bond that one can only understand when one is bonded to a dragon. He a friend, not a thing.” Jon replied firmly.

“Interesting, indeed, my prince. It’s a true wonderment, the dragons. I suppose those bonds between dragon and rider are only truly to be understood by them.” Lady Ella noted.

“Indeed, my lady.” Jon nodded, and he gave her a know glace. She felt the same with Nymeria, and she was sure Jon felt the same with Ghost.

“Oh, how are Arya and Clem? I know grandmother loved them both very much,” Jon asked sadly, looking at her and Clemaerys.

“They are fine. They are just too young to know truly. I remember mother’s face when she saw Clemaerys, she was so happy. Yet I also remember her fear when I carried Clemaerys, Daella, and Alyssa always played on her mind.” Gael replied.

“Yes, she was the same when Arya and Visenya were born. I remember those moments.” Jon noted with a sad smile. “That’s the sadness of time. Sometimes, we want more but can’t have more. Life will not allow it.” Jon added.

Seeing the look of the ladies, Jon quickly added. “Grandfather told me that the day he arrived.”

“Ah, okay. A wise saying for a wise man.” Ella added.

“If you excuse me, my father requested I get my sister. He wished for us to be together for a moment.” Jon stated. “Of course, my prince, it was a welcome talk.” Lady Ella proclaimed, and Lady Falia nodded. “Go, nephew, give my brother my love.”

“Come, Arya,” he said, his voice softer now. “Let’s go see Mother. Father will be waiting… and so will Visenya.”

Arya nodded, slipping her hand into his. “

So, how was the time with Clem? And the other children,” Jon asked after they walked to Baelon and Lyanna. “Boring, yet joyful, Clem is lovely, as was Clarissa. She loved the Direwolf toy, as did Clem.” She replied.

“Thought as much, l loved being near Laena, Rhaenyra, Laenor, and Nya. Yet I was still a grown man in a babes body. It can entertain only for so long.” Jon added quietly.

“Yes, child play can only be done for so long.” She finished. I will talk with him soon. It’s damn time we clear the air.

A Day after the funeral

She found Jon in his chambers, sitting on a chair on his balcony, looking out over Blackwater Bay. As he walked over, his head turned, and he gave her a frown. “Arya, why are you here? I said I wanted to be alone.”

“I persuaded Harold.” She added with a mischievous grin. “It’s time we talked. We never have talked about the past. Expect for Bran and our deaths.”

“Arya, it a past that has brought me naught but pain and betrayal.” Jon rebutted with a hint of anger.

“I don’t care. You weren’t the only one who lost people and has been in pain. It happened to me, too,” She sobbed. “I lost my brothers. All of them, including you. You died, and not a few moments after, I thought my brother had killed me.”

“I know, you told me. I thought you died too, for sometime before that, I thought you died in Kingslanding or somewhere on the road. Then Sansa told me that Brienne told her she saw you, and I hoped you still lived. Then I got a message on Dragonstone, where I was to gain us allies for the upcoming war. I remember being so happy that you and Bran were alive.

Then I returned home, hoping to see my family and be happy. If for a time until the dead came. Yet all three of you were cold and distant. Sansa had no interest in listening to me. I should have known that after she got most of my men killed during a battle, Bran, I didn’t see the boy I saw climbing before, but husk someone else entirely. Then there was you, the one sibling I thought I could count on, yet even you were skeptical of me and my choices.

Ultimately, Daenerys snapped after everything. I will never forgive that act. Yet then, she was still helping us. I loved her then. She was kind of excited to meet you all. She brought me back from the dead, even though I was already breathing. I didn’t live after I died, Sansa helped some when she arrived at Castle Black, but then she stabbed me in the back when she didn’t tell me about the knights of the Vale. I would have made a very different plan if I knew they were there, and maybe even a plan on how to save Rickon, even if it was unlikely. Knowing now what Ramsey had planned for Rickon.

I tried to do what was right. To save us all and brought us men and dragons to fight with us. Yet all of the North were ungrateful cunts, as were you and Sansa. Your reaction was especially surprising, considering you have always loved the tales of Aegon’s two wives.”  Jon stated with anger.

“I was afraid. I thought there was someone who held my brother’s heart. Someone to take him away when the dead were gone. I saw your eyes, too. You were happy with her, at least in the beginning. That was why I was so cold and jealous. I just knew you would leave again like you did before.” She said as small tears rolled down her cheek.

“Leave before? Jon snapped. “I never left. I was forced to. Your Lady mother did not give me much choice. She wouldn’t let me stay and gave me the notion that the South was worse for a bastard. The Watch was the only place for me to go. So don’t go tell I left.” Jon retorted in anger. 

His voice rose, trembling with anger.

“And after the war, you left. After everything, you just rode South with the Hound. Trying to kill Cersei. Do you think you should tell us first? We might’ve avoided the siege if you had. But no. Arya Stark left without a word. Just a note: ‘I still have a list.’ Right after I told you the biggest secret of my life.”

Arya opened her mouth but couldn’t find the words. Her throat burned.

“I will always love you, Arya,” Jon said, his voice softer now but heavy with disappointment. “For how you treated me when we were children. I didn’t care if you were a lady or a warrior. But after we were reunited… after you knew who I truly was… you still left. You were one of the last Starks, and you walked away. I’ve always done what was right. I’ve executed a boy Bran’s age. I’ve gone beyond the Wall. I fought the woman I loved. I killed a woman I loved for the realm. And I died for it, too, for doing what is right. And yet you thought a vengeance quest was more important than standing beside us… or standing for the North.”

Arya’s heart pounded in her chest. Everything he said was true. She felt the weight of his words press down on her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “ You are right, turned away from responsibility, from my duty as a Stark. I know this isn’t an excuse. Yet after Kingslanding, a man named Yoren of the Night Watch told me something. I clung to it as a lifeline. Vengeance was the only thing that kept me going through it all, and Cersei and the Mountain were the last ones left on the list. I lived that way ever since I was there during father’s execution.” She sobbed.

Jon let out a long breath, the tension in his shoulders slowly releasing. “I understand,” he said at last. “I know how you felt the same way with the Night King. It was an obsession after seeing what he could do. But what I did was for the world. What you did… was for yourself.”

Arya nodded slowly, tears trailing down her cheeks. “I felt shame when I came back to Winterfell. I saw Father everywhere. I knew he’d be disappointed in what I’d become. But I pretended everything was fine. It was easier than facing that shame. That’s why too left.”

“You gave the Freys justice, although not the way your father thought us. Baking Walder Freys son’s in a pie was not justice. It was cruelty and vengeance. Doing that, you were wrong, but the rest surviving and the killing, I have killed too. You should feel shame for some things at the Twins, yet for the rest, I’m still grateful you survived through it all. Neither do I think your father would feel ashamed of you.” What he said was a relief, and he was right, yet her sobbing of relief washed over her. Jon then stepped forward and wrapped her in a tight embrace. Arya collapsed into him, crying into his tunic, her fingers clutching the fabric like it was the only thing keeping her standing.

“Now,” Jon murmured gently, holding her close, “shall we give peace to the past? I will let my anger go… and so should you. We’re here now. I want to live in the now, not the past.”

He lifted her face and brushed the tears from her cheeks.

“I wanted that too,” Arya said softly.

“Good,” Jon said with a small smile. “Then let’s leave the bad behind… and share memories of happier times.”

He led her gently to the chair, and the two of them sat together. Speaking of a past, they both still loved.

The year 100 A.C.

The year 100 A.C brought to death to my family that had rocked both sides of them. Alyssane’s passing is still vivid in my memory. I still can see myself sitting beside her, reading a book of the tales of the North. One moment, she was fine. The other, she let out a heavy breath, and she was gone. I felt much pain then, and I still feel the ache of her loss. She has been a true support for me ever since I was a child.

Yet, not a moon later. After The Good Queen’s funeral, a raven arrived. Announcing the passing of Lord Rickard Stark.

I had always hoped to get to know him better from when I went north. Like a saying Jaehaerys told me, ‘That’s the sadness of time. Sometimes, we want more but can’t have more. Life will not allow it.’

It was also the time Arya and I made peace with the past. We both had known. Yet even if there is peace in me, I doubt I will ever truly let it go even if I wanted it.

Page out of the Journal of Aemon Targaryen the White Dragon

Chapter Text

Chapter 15 : Passing of Spring

Otto Hightower (100 A.C. Twelth moon)

Small Council Chambers

Otto contemplated how things were as Baelon granted a Corlys to add twenty war galleys to the fleet that would be stationed in Seadragon Point.

Barth’s death had been inconvenient, yet the King had rewarded his service with a place on the Small Council as the master of laws. The new Hand wasn’t a firm believer, and he had seen it in the policies Prince Baelon implemented.

For example, instead of giving generous donations to the faith, it was cut down and given to programs feeding the poor. A waste of resources.

Then there was the increase in the maintenance of the city’s sewage system, which was something he and Barth had slowly decreased its funding, and what if the city smelled more? That coin could be spent elsewhere.

What irritated him the most was the increase in payments to Night Watch, a glorified criminal colony. Unfortunately, the master of coin and master of ships were both firmly in the camp of the prince, and with the King became more and more absent in his rule due to his advancing age. Baelon word was law.

“How are things processing. Concerning the preparation for the Royal hunt to celebrate the new year.” Baelon questioned as he looked at Lyman.

“The preparations are going splendidly. Most of all, tents and other necessities were set up. We should be able to leave on the first day of the new year. Also, most of the lords also have arrived.” 

“Good, it been the first true event the crown has hosted since my mothers, and goodfather’s passing. It should pass a new leaf.” Baelon sated. Giving his youngest son a smile, the boy had become the official page and cupbearer of his father after he became seven almost two years ago. He knew the boy would also become the squire of Harold Westerling when he became ten when he would travel North.

Otto had noticed that the boy listened. Not just listen because he has nothing else to do. He listened to want to know what was going on, and there were instances where the boy’s eyes would shoot up in recognition. It was as if he had figured something out, yet how or why could he not place it? The boy was seven.  

“Indeed, your grace, the realm could do with some celebration. The past year has been a sad one.” Corlys noted.

“Your grace, there is a dispute I wish to bring up to you.” He began. “Of course, Otto, what is your wish to bring up?” Baelon replied.

 “The dispute of between houses Pyle and Blount. Both have written about the fact that trees have been cut down in their part of the Kingswood, and both sides are saying the land is theirs. As well known, the crown controls most of it, as it is for your grace and his benefit, as well as food for the crown. Part of it is still controlled by the houses that surround it.” He explained.

“Indeed, it is well known that since the acquisition of the Kingswood, the borders of the territory haven’t been well defined. I can remember a similar case between the Houses Langward and Gaunt. Do you already have a solution to the dispute?” Baelon noted.

“Well, I already invited both sides to court to come to explain their case further and bring evidence for their claims. After that, I hope to find a settlement or  His grace, or Your Grace will have to arbitrate a ruling.” He ended with a smile.

Hopefully, after this, the faithful Pyle’s will be further aligned with me. I will make sure they are granted favorable terms. The Blounts always have more algin toward the Stromlands and are stubborn and blunt by nature. Farland Blount had been a difficult man to deal with in the beginning days as the steward of Barth.

“Very well, Otto. I shall step if needed. If that’s all, this small council session is ended,” Baelon proclaimed.

As Otto walked from the chamber. The old grandmaester halted him. “Ser Otto. I received this letter in the morning. It’s from Old Town.”

“Ah, thank you, Ruciter.”

“With pleasure, sir,” Ruciter replied before the man walked on. Loyal to the Hightower and Citadel, yet man is getting on in age. Otto mused as he looked at the man as he walked away slowly.

Not long after, Otto Hightower arrived in his chambers and poured himself a cup of wine.

“Ah, Arbor Red. Nothing better,” he murmured, savoring the taste.

Once finished, he seated himself behind his desk and broke the green seal marked with the Hightower sigil. The letter was written in his brother’s familiar hand.

Dear Brother,

It has been a delight to witness your rise through the ranks. Though it still pains me that you had to serve a commoner, that matters little now.

You are now the Master of Laws. Two of the seven seats on the council are ours. If only Beesbury were more loyal, we might have secured even more influence.

But the waiting is over. You’ve done well. Your daughter now serves within the King’s household, whispering your name and singing your praises.

One last thing—soon spring will pass, and with it, the old. Then our tower’s fire shall burn all the brighter.

After he read that, Otto placed the letter down.

 ‘The prince will die. So, too, will Ruciter.

It is already in motion. If I become Hand now, there’s a chance I could gain full control—at least for a time. And if I entrench myself deeper in Viserys’s confidence, all the better. He is not a steadfast man. The pressure of a son has already weakened his resolve. With the help of the maesters’ potions, it will be a continued struggle. If only such methods worked on that Northern heathen…’

Otto picked up the letter once more, reading the final line again.

Be ready, brother and our house will rise to be the greatest of the realm.

Lord Hobert Hightower, Lord of Old  Town and Guardian of the Citadel.

Otto stood up, threw the letter inside the hearth, and watched the letter that would change the world forever burn. He smiled and looked outside toward the west, toward Old Town.

Jaehaerys Targaryen (101 A.C. First Moon)

Kingswood

Jaehaerys looked around

‘Everything had gone wonderfully. Celebrating the 101 years of their rule. As he looked around, he saw even Rhaenys smiling, mostly because she had seen her daughter with Aemon. Aemon, the boy, brought a smile to his face. He saw in him the promise of the prince who was to come in him, the Song of Ice and Fire. Balerion’s interest in the child and his obedience, as if he were a loyal hound, had only strengthened his certainty. The future line of the throne must carry his bloodline forward. He and Baelon had long discussed it and used it to reconcile with Rhaenys and Coryls.

Viserys, on the other hand, was expected to have a son, and he would marry a daughter or descendant of Aemon in the future, who would marry into his line. Their lineage would be vital to help Westeros face the looming storm from the North. He had feared the prophecy’s arrival with each passing winter in his life. Yet, it had not materialized, except for those wintry emotions, the loss of his children, and ultimately, the death of his beloved Alysanne. ’  The thought brought a smile to his face as he observed the people reveling on the second feast day of the hunt.

“Father, you’re smiling. It’s been a while,” his son remarked, wearing a smile of his own.

“Yes, Baelon, I haven’t felt this much peace since your mother’s passing. The family seems to have healed and found happiness again. It brings me great joy, my boy,” he replied, his voice filled with emotion.

“I feel the same way, Father. Even Daemon seems to have warmed to his other siblings. His time in the Vale may have softened him, though he was vehemently opposed to the match,” Baelon said with a chuckle, and Baelon winced a little.

“Perhaps he has changed. Perhaps Alyssane death helped him see his errors. Maybe, with time, he will be a father and you again a grandfather. Speaking of fatherhood, I’ve missed your siblings, Baelon,” he admitted. Many of his children had passed away, but as a king, he couldn’t forgive all that had happened. Nevertheless, he loved them deeply.

“I know, Father. I’ve missed them too. Perhaps you could write to Seara and try to mend the bond,” Baelon suggested, speaking kindly. He, too, had felt the pain of losing a child. Little Aegon hadn’t survived long after his mother’s death, leaving Baelon melancholy until he met Lyanna, his good daughter, who had brought him out of it.

“Oh, Baelon, I wish I could. If you ever have the chance to go to Volantis, please tell her that I love her?” He pleaded.

“I was too harsh, and it was my fault for choosing the realm too often over my family when I had you, Aemon, and Barth at the time to give the reigns to and spent time with them instead,” he lamented,  knowing that Alysanne had often implored him to send for her. But the unity of the realm and the humiliation she would have faced kept him from doing so.

“I know. It’s a lesson I will take to heart. As for Seara, I will, Father, and I’m glad to hear you say it,” Baelon replied before leaving to lead the hunt he had entrusted to the younger generation.

A few hours later, he sat outside the main tent, watching Baelon return with his three sons and a great elk on a sled. Aemon seemed to be dragging a boar behind him.

“Well done, my kin! It appears fortune has bestowed upon us a grand feast,” he declared as he stood from his chair, then Aemon proudly presented a boar he had single-handedly felled.

“Grandfather, I slew this boar entirely on my own. Behold,” Aemon declared with pride, pointing towards the boar resting on the second sled.

“Well done, my young Dragonwolf,” he commended the boy, enveloping him in a warm embrace. Aemon’s accomplishment at the tender age of eight filled him with hope and pride, seeing great potential in the lad.

“People of Westeros, my son and grandsons have provided us with a splendid feast,” he proclaimed to the assembled crowd. “Let us relish the bounty of meat and partake in the revelry for the coming days. As we enjoy these days of celebration. As we celebrate the 101 years of the reign of House Targaryen. Enjoy the rest of the festivities.” his voice echoed, carrying his words to every corner of the gathering.

Baelon Targaryen (101 First Moon)

Tower of the Hand

Baelon winced, panting heavily as he entered the study of the Hand. Sweat clung to his brow and dripped onto the cold marble floor, where the engraved emblem of the Hand’s pin shimmered faintly in the torchlight.

‘Ruciter’s illness, what a cursed inconvenience,’ he thought bitterly. He had never truly trusted the man’s aides, yet now, in his current state, he wished he had gone to them. He clutched at his stomach, breath short and labored.

Lyanna had questioned him about the pain earlier, concern in her eyes. But he had brushed it off, unwilling to cast a shadow over the celebrations. Not when the hunt had brought his family rare joy since his mother’s passing.

Collapsing into the chair behind his desk, he poured himself a cup of wine with a trembling hand. He drank it in one swallow, the burning in his throat a welcome distraction from the agony in his gut.

He leaned back, trying to breathe through the pain, and muttered under his breath, “By the gods… what’s happening to me?”

Suddenly, a sharp, searing pain lanced through his abdomen. Baelon doubled over with a cry.

“By the Mother, what was that?” he gasped, gripping the armrest of the chair with white-knuckled hands as the pain stole the breath from his lungs.

“Father, are we going for a dragon ride?” a small voice called out,  and he looked up to see Aemon standing in the doorway.

“Sorry, son, I don’t think I can right now. I still have some work to complete today,” he replied, his voice heavy with pain. Trying to send his smart boy away.

“Father, is everything alright?” Aemon asked fearfully, and the roars of Balerion and Vhagar resonated outside.

“Everything is fi...” He was cut off by another stabbing pain and collapsed into his chair.

“No, Father, please!” he heard his son plead, tears in his eyes. It was the last thing he remembered before losing consciousness.

“Baelon, please stay with us,” a voice called out as another wave of fire shot through his gut. The pain was unbearable—it felt as if he were aflame, like his dragon.

“My prince, you must lie still,” came an old voice—strained, but steady. “The best you can do is not move and disturb the injury.”

“Save my father, you old wretch, or—” Daemon’s voice snarled, just before a loud crash as Ruciter was slammed against the wall.

“Daemon, enough! The Grand Maester is doing what he can. He’s as sick as Father is,” Viserys snapped, trying to hold everything together.

“Ahhh!” Baelon groaned, another surge of pain coursing through him. The world began to blur. He was fading again.

He awoke to the sound of weeping.

“No, please, Kepa, don’t leave. I don’t want to lose you,” Aemon cried in Valyrian.

Baelon turned his head slowly and saw his son being held by Viserys, while Lyanna sat beside the bed, her face streaked with tears.

“Oh, Baelon the Brave, be strong, my love,” Lyanna whispered, gently placing her hands on his face. “Please, all of you, leave us for a moment. I need to be alone with my husband.”

When they had gone, her voice softened, almost reverent. “Baelon, thank you… for everything. For our children, for this family. But now you must fight. Fight for us.”

Her words brought him momentary peace as he gazed into her grey eyes.

“I love you, Lya… you and our children. After Alyssa—ahhh...” he tried to speak, but the pain returned.

“Take it easy, my love,” she said, taking his hand and kissing him. Her lips were salty with tears, but the kiss brought some small relief.

“After Alyssa, I never thought I could love again,” he murmured. “But you, my she-wolf… you rekindled my heart.”

And then the darkness returned.

He didn’t know how long he lay there. Time blurred. On the final day, his youngest son came to him.

“Father… I’m sorry,” Aemon whispered, voice shaking. “I thought it was enough… but for things to truly change, I must be ruthless. I couldn’t save you. But I will keep our family strong—and the dragons, too. I’ll prepare the realm for Aegon’s prophecy.”

Baelon felt the boy’s cold tears soaking into his chest.

“Thank you for being my father these nine years,” Aemon continued, sobbing. “I couldn’t have asked for a better one.”

Baelon no longer felt the pain. His body was already letting go, he realized. But he summoned what strength remained.

“Aem… Aemon… I love you, my boy. Be happy. Fall in love. Fulfill your duty to your family.”

He stroked his son’s cheek with a shaking hand.

“I will,” Aemon vowed. “But Father… I couldn’t save you. Balerion wasn’t alive before. I tried to change things so you’d live, too.”

Baelon blinked slowly. It was an odd thing to say, but Aemon had always understood the world more deeply than other children.

“Aemon… it was never your duty to save me. The gods decide such things, and life does.” Baelon said voice strained. “But you… you will have a role to play. I knew it the moment Balerion chose you. I am proud of yo…”

His words trailed off as the cold came for him at last.

(In 101 A.C., during the first moon, Prince Baelon Targaryen died from a burst belly.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 16 : Choices

Jaehaerys Targaryen (101 A.C. First Moon.)

Baelon’s funeral

Jaehaerys Targaryen stood before the pyre, his eyes fixed on the still form of his son. The flames had not yet consumed the body, but the fire seemed to scorch his heart just the same. It was an odd thing, this sense of waking from a dream. All week, he had woken expecting his son to rise, stand, and speak, but now, here was the truth: Baelon would never wake again. The gods were cruel, it seemed. What was the point of being king when all his children were taken before his eyes? Ten had already passed, their souls carried up to the heavens of the father. Only three of his thirteen children remained. Yet, they had left him a legacy. Baelon’s sons, Viserys, Daemon, and Aemon, stood together across the pyre, united as they had never been before. Even Daemon, ever the stubborn one, wore the face of a broken man. His grief, like that of his brothers, was raw.

Behind them stood Lyanna, quietly sobbing. Beside her, their daughters, little Arya, still as a statue, her face hidden in shadow, and Visenya, clutching her mother’s dress as tears rolled down her cheeks. Rhaenyra and Aemma were not faring much better, grief etched into their features, mourning yet another loss to their family. Rhaenys stood among them, her face a mix of sorrow for the uncle she had loved but also cold calculation. The heir had been lost, and now, who would sit upon the throne after him? Her gaze was steady, as though she were already considering the consequences.

Her husband’s face, too, mirrored that same calculation.

‘Vaegon’s arrival couldn’t come soon enough. The realm would want answers soon. He knew Corlys would never accept his wife being passed over again, but what would be best for the realm? If only Aemon were older. If only the boy had the time to prove what was so clear to him, Aemon had everything that made a king. He had the blood of both noble houses, he was bonded to Black Dread, and he possessed a wisdom far beyond his years, even though he was barely ten.

The realm, though, would demand that the firstborn succeed, perhaps even the firstborn of his firstborn, even if she was a woman.’ Jaeherys thought, and with a deep sigh, Jaehaerys stepped forward, his voice breaking the silence of the Dragonpit.

“All those gathered,” he began, his voice steady but tired, “thank you for being here to share in our grief.”

He paused, his gaze sweeping the gathered faces.

“With all my heart, I wish I had the power to change places with my son. But I do not. I have lit the pyres of too many children. Perhaps the gods have need of their company more than I.”

He looked down at Baelon’s body and then to his grandchildren.

“To you, he was the Spring Prince. Baelon the Brave. To me… he was my boy. Someone I will miss until the day I join him.” His voice cracked slightly as he turned to the children Baelon left behind.

“He leaves behind five children, and I am proud of them all. They were his joy. There was nothing he valued more.”He faltered, emotion rising in his throat.

“And I know,” he whispered, “that he watches over them now… as does my beloved Alysanne.”

Then, the stones of the Dragonpit trembled, and all the dragons roared as one, a sound so raw and mighty it seemed the sky itself might split open.

Jaehaerys lifted a hand, eyes glistening as they turned to his last and oldest friend.

“Vermithor,” he called, his voice firmer now. “Dracarys.”

The great bronze dragon let out a mighty roar, and flame burst forth, engulfing the pyre in a storm of bronze fire.

Jaehaerys closed his eyes.

“Farewell, my boy,” he whispered.

Tower of the Hand

Hand’s Solar.

For almost three years, his son had been his right hand. He had been before that even. Yet, as Hand, his son had taken off a part of the weight of his rule. The room was empty now, and who would become his next Hand had been on his mind, even if his mind still reeled from Baelon’s death.

Yet, stepping into his room, he had already made a choice, even if he had considered other options, like Ryam and Corlys, yet both had things he didn’t like for the role of Hand. Ryam was a soldier and would be a great leader in war, as was during the rallying of arms during the Dornish War. If his attack with his sons failed, yet the man had no head for diplomacy or stewardship.

Corlys had a bias toward Rhaenys, and his enmourous pride could become a problem with upcoming decisions he had to make.

Lyman was a good man with a smart head on his shoulders. The right one to manage the crown gold and was loyal to the bone. Yet, was he, not a leader, or was he steadfast, what a Hand needed to be.

His son’s son wasn’t ready, either. Viserys was a bookworm and loved peace and quiet. Even the burden of having a son weighed on his mind. Being Hand only would add to it. Daemon was basically Ryman. If more charismatic, yet he would be too brutal. Also, he would piss off the North on that, he had no doubt. The man still harbored a foolish hatred for Lyanna and her children.

That truly left only Otto or Rhaenys. Rhaenys was a woman. He doubted the realm would accept it.

‘No, it would be Otto Hightower,’ Jaehaerys thought to himself. He was someone he knew, and he didn’t want to summon someone he didn’t know, an unknown entity. No not now, with him being possibly close to his end.

Otto Hightower was a second son who had proven himself capable of handling high-stakes situations. He did well with Kingswood questions and other matters in the past. Then, the fact that the man had worked under Barth was another reason he wanted to name him. Then Otto’s daughter had told much of her father and his work ethic, that he was always serious and did his duties when needed. Although he knew she was probably a little biased.

Yet Barth had spoken the same words of Otto.

He sat down in the chair behind the desk and poured himself some strong Dornish Red, one the last bottles he had, from the gifts of Mara Martell, to come with an offer of peace between Dorne and the throne.

It was a good vintage as he drank deep and was alone for a while. Contplanting the choses to come. “Ryam, please come in.” He commanded.

 “Your Grace, how can I be of service.” His dutiful lord commander asked.

“Please summon Ser Otto Hightower for me.” Ordered, and the man left. Jaehaerys heard Ryam relay some orders.

Some moments later, Ryam walked back inside. “Ser Otto Hightower, Your Grace,” Ryman stated as Otto was let inside.

“You can leave us, Ser,” He noted to Ryam. “Ser Otto, have a seat.”

“Of course, Your Grace, thank you.” The man replied as he sat down.

“Ser Otto, you know, the last two weeks have been a misery. For me, my family and the realm. With my son gone, it’s time to name a new Hand.” He began as the man looked at him silently. “Indeed, Your Grace, you need a steady Hand beside you as king,” Otto stated.

He nodded, “Wine, Ser?” He asked as he looked at the man. “With pleasure, Your Grace,” The man replied with a bright smile. Otto took the cup, smelled it, and drank deeply before setting down the cup. “Dornish Red, and fine one at that, Your Grace.”

“Indeed, this is the last bottle I have of the gift Mara Martell sent as part of the peace offering. After me and my son’s. Burn the Dornish fleet.” He replied.

“Ah, yes, a great victory for the realm. Not so much for Dorne.” Otto added smugly. Reachmen didn’t like the Dornish. They were one primary source of conflict for them over the centuries. The Hightower held a special grudge during one of the Dornish wars When Ser Joffery Dayne marched an army to Oldtown and razed the fields and villages nearby. He also remembered a tale that a previous Lord, named Dalbert Hightower, was slain in a clash in the Prince’s Pass about four hundred years before the conquest.

“Indeed, it was an unnecessary waste of life.” He added, and Otto nodded in agreement.

“Ser Otto, you are here today, as are all the people I still personally know. You are most qualified to become the next Hand of King.” He stated.

“Your Grace, if you think me qualified, it would be my honor to become the Hand of the King. You have already honored me with the position of Master of Laws, and for that, I’m grateful.” Otto replied, his voice steady. Yet he heard pride in there. That was expected, and most men would feel pride if they were given the position.

“I hope as much. Then Ser Otto Hightower, I would name you Hand of King.” He declared.

“Then, Your Grace, I will accept and serve you faithfully,” Otto stated as he stepped away for seat and knelt in front of him. “Rise, Ser Otto, as Hand of King.”

A moon later, King’s Solar.

“Archmaester Vaegon has arrived,” Clement announced. “Very well, Ser, let my son in.” He replied as he rose stiffly from his seat, and the door opened, sowing in his son.

“Your Grace,” Vaegon announced himself. Jaehaerys looked his son up and down. The grey rob a maester around him, a chain of links, and a face, marred with age, even at forty and one. Where had gone the boy he sent to Old Town.

“None of that Vaegon. I’m your father,” He chastised his son. “Father,” Vaegon replied reluctantly. “Come here and give me a hug.” As he embraced his son after so many years. His heart swelled a little after it. The embrace itself was stiff, yet he felt its warmth, a son embracing his father.

“I hope you would have come, too, to your mother’s funeral. Same with the funerals of your siblings, yet you never did.” He asked after they broke apart.

“I didn’t think I was needed,” Vaegon said. “There was family enough. I mourned them in my own way. I never truly felt part of it… not entirely. Yet I loved them.”

Jaehaerys gave a quiet sigh. “Perhaps I’m to blame for that. I see now the error of my ways. I didn’t spend enough time with my children… perhaps things would be different if I had.”

He gestured to the table and poured two cups of wine.

Vaegon took a seat and accepted the cup. “Why did you summon me, Father?”

Jaehearys sight, “To discuss the future of our House. To what is to become of it now with Baelon gone.”

“Well,” Vaegon said, sipping the wine, “it’s something you should have done long ago. You ought to have named the eldest child of your eldest son as heir. In most of Westeros, perhaps not the Iron Islands, a daughter inherits before a younger brother. And yet, you inherited before Aerea, even if she was your brother’s heir.”

He spoke matter-of-factly, with a scholar’s tone. “The Iron Throne has never had a clear line of succession, not since Maegor usurped your brother’s place. Since then, heirs have shifted. And I know Mother wasn’t pleased when you chose Aemon over Daenerys.”

“The realm has its traditions,” Jaehaerys muttered.

Vaegon snorted. “Traditions we made, Father. Our House forged the Seven Kingdoms. Before us, each land had its own laws and customs. The idea of a unified realm is still new. New traditions can still be shaped. If you play it carefully, as you did with the Doctrine of Exceptionalism.”

Jaehaerys huffed but nodded. “If I could, I would name Aemon to succeed me.”

Vaegon’s brow rose. “A boy of ten?”

“Yes,” Jaehaerys said firmly. “That child is special. He commands Balerion as if he were born to it. It’s a sight to behold. He is clever, well-spoken, and already understands his duties. And do not forget, he carries the blood of the realm’s two greatest houses.”

““It could be done,” Vaegon admitted. “With a regency, of course. And the gods willing, you still have a few years left to rule. But naming your third-born son’s child as heir sets a dangerous precedent. Will Viserys accept it? Will Daemon? Even Rhaenys might object, though perhaps less so since her daughter is betrothed to Aemon.”

Vaegon leaned forward. “Naming Rhaenys would at least make sense, although she is a woman. She still is the daughter of your eldest child and your once-undisputed heir. But naming a ten-year-old over two grown sons of your previous heir… that would not sit well with the realm.”

“I know,” Jaehaerys said, rubbing his temples. “That’s why it cannot be done.”

Vaegon offered a wry smile. “Then your choices are clear. Viserys, as Baelon’s eldest son… or Rhaenys. And if the realm will not accept a woman, then perhaps Laenor, as a male heir of Rhaenys’s line. But he’s only seven. Either way, a regency will be needed.”

Jaehaerys groaned. “And whichever I choose, I hear that Corlys is raising his fleets. Daemon is also raising men to fight for his brother’s claim. If I name one, the other might start a war. Another war for the throne.”

“Let the realm decide,” Vaegon said simply. “Call a Great Council. Let the lords of Westeros choose the next heir. That way, no claimant can say the process was unjust. If Aemon wishes, he can put himself forward, but I don’t know if he would. I don’t know his relationship with his siblings.”

Jaehaerys nodded slowly. “He would never challenge his brother, and perhaps not even Rhaenys. Yet I have no doubt that he will serve as a guiding hand in the future. A great council would make it fair, and neither claimant can dispute the outcome. I have conditions for the winner. Aemon’s line must continue. It must be joined to the winning claimant’s line.”

Vaegon looked at him curiously. “Why is that so important?”

Jaehaerys exhaled, the weight of secrets pressing on him.

“There is a reason our House conquered Westeros. To protect it and the world of men from something that is coming. I do not know when or how, but I know Aemon is part of it. That boy carries the future in him.”

Vaegon said nothing for a long moment, then finally nodded. “Then you have a choice, Father. Name your heir and live with the consequences, or call a Great Council and let the realm choose for you.”  

“Yes, I will need to.” He said as he nodded in agreement, then he studied his last remaining son. The Citadel would want him back, but his house had a greater need of his wisdom.

“Vaegon,” he said softly, “would you serve your House? I want you to go to Seadragon Point. Join Aemon there as his advisor. The boy will need a guide, someone stern, someone learned, someone with unbiased views.”

Vaegon blinked, surprised by the request.

“If you accept,” Jaehaerys continued, “I’ll petition the Citadel to send you Seadragon Point when Aemon takes up his place there and to be an advisor to Aemon and join the current maester. Your place, from now on, is with your kin.”

Vaegon considered it for a moment, then gave a single nod. “I will, you allow me to become a measter, and for that, I’m grateful. So, Father, I will join my nephew.”

“Thank you, son, and for the advice.” He noted that he had given his son a warm slime. What he didn’t what felt like a lifetime ago.  

Chapter Text

Chapter 17: Prophecies and Dreams

Lyanna Targaryen Stark (101 A.C. Seventh Moon)

Harrenhal - Courtyard

Here she was again at Harrenhal, a place she always seemed to drift back toward. It was where she had first seen Rhaegar, found her first love, and her second. She wasn’t sure she would find a third; she couldn’t even fathom it. Baelon’s death was far too fresh for her to even think about it. Aemon had fallen into despair, burdened by guilt, and it seemed that only with Balerion had her son found peace. The fact that the old dragon communicated with her son was something she had never gotten used to, but at least Balerion provided Aemon with advice and friendship.

The keep of Harrenhal was vast, more than large enough to hold the Great Council to choose a new heir. In truth, she knew which of his grandchildren Jaehaerys truly wanted to be heir. Aemon was his grandfather’s favorite; he was dutiful and strong and was a model prince in almost every aspect. Aemon also rode The Black Dread and had a bond with the dragon, which had not been seen since the Conqueror himself.

She thought back on what her Goodfather had said before they had left for Harrenhal. “My dear daughter. I would name your son as heir, but the realm would not accept a thirdborn son as heir. Yet his line will be that of the kings one day. His children, born to him and Laena, will marry those of Viserys and Aemma, or his son or daughter will inherit if Rhaenys becomes the heir, as Laena is her heir,” he had said as he patted her hand and smiled with affection. It was something she expected. Baleon and Rhaegar had both told her of the Song of Ice and Fire prophecy and their suspicions on who was the prophesized prince, and it was likely Aemon due to being a son of a Stark and Targaryen, Ice and Fire. ‘Aemon is the embodiment of the song. If the past were better, he would stop the darkness that is to come. But corruption and power-hungry bastards had thrown the world that is to face the darkness into chaos.’ 

The walls of Harrenhal loomed large as the lords of the realm arrived to offer their condolences. She bore it as she should, presenting the image of the grieving widow of Baelon Targaryen, Princess Lyanna Stark Targaryen, mother of Aemon, Visneya, and Arya Targaryen. However, her demeanor changed when her brother Benjen Stark was announced as arriving.

“Your Graces, I am honored to join you at Harrenhal, though I am sorry it must be under these circumstances,” the Lord of Winterfell announced as he bowed to the gathering.

“Welcome to Harrenhal, Lord Benjen of Winterfell and Warden of the North,” Viserys said, being the oldest of Baelon’s children. He had the duty of welcoming the lords along with Lord Lyonel Strong.

“Dear sister, I am so sorry. I know you loved him,” Benjen Stark said as they embraced. Her younger brother resembled her Benjen from her past life so much that when she had grown up with him, she felt that her precious younger brother was reborn into him again. 

“Where are my nephews? Did you bring them?” she asked, hoping to meet her brother’s children. Even if they would soon all travel toward the North to see Winterfell and for Aemon to travel toward his lordship, she didn’t really want to wait to meet them.

“No. Rickon is the Stark of Winterfell now, and Bennard is still too young to make the journey. Lysa is with the boys and is their regent in my absence. It will be a wonderful moment when you and my children finally meet. Rickon is quite excited to meet his cousins.” Benjen said with a smile. She looked forward to that day. It was still hard, but seeing her new brother brought her some joy.

“Ah, I would have loved to meet them and Lysa as well. But I suppose we will in a few moons,” she said, holding her brother’s hands.

“Yes, we will, Lya. Now, where are my nieces and nephew? How are they doing now? We both know the loss of a parent.” Benjen asked, his voice full of excitement as his face lit up. She smiled brightly at him. He would be a good uncle to her pups.

“Aemon often finds solace in the sky soaring with Balerion,” she confided, her voice heavy with grief. “The loss of his father has weighed heavily upon him, Benjen. Words are scarce from his lips, and only in the company of his dragon does he seem to find any semblance of peace. As for Visneya, she doesn’t truly seem to understand his death. Sometimes, she asks when Papa is coming home. And Arya, she’s but a babe, too young to have known her father,” she added, her voice trembling as her brother’s comforting embrace enveloped her. Even if the part about Arya was a lie.

“I’m sorry, it should have been different, but the gods had other plans, Lya. I hope that returning to the North will bring you and the children comfort,” Benjen remarked, his eyes reflecting a sense of nostalgia. “Your memory is held dear by all, and Mother’s impatience has reached its peak; she yearns to be reunited with her daughter and grandchildren,” he chuckled softly, using his sleeve to wipe away her tears.

“To think my nephew has formed a bond with the Black Dread,” Benjen mused, his disbelief evident. “When I read your letter, I thought it was a jest; it was a five-year-old flying on such a fearsome creature. But regardless, I look forward to meeting them in due course. It shall do Aemon good to find a respite in the North, away from the burdens of court and politics. I hope the same can be true for the girls,” he added with a warm smile.

“Come, dear sister, let us share a meal and discuss the joys and tribulations of our children,” he suggested.

“Yes, brother, I suppose we should get away from all the politics. You’ll be able to meet Visenya and Arya as well. They should be in my chambers unless they have run off with their friends,” she said and as they walked together toward her chambers.

Benjen Stark 101 A.C. (Seventh Moon)

Halls of Harrenhal

After leaving Lyanna’s chambers, he wandered through the vast halls and corridors of Harrenhal. As he wanders the halls having no destination in mind, his thoughts drift towards Lyanna. ‘Lyanna’s fire had dimmed, and she is still deep in grief over her husband’s death.’

He had only briefly met Baelon during the tournament and the wedding planning, and they hadn’t had enough time to get to know each other. He had met Baelon’s two oldest sons, and it seemed that Viserys was a good man. However, he had made it clear back at Winterfell that he would support Rhaenys for the Iron Throne, given her strong will and Valyrian appearance, even with the Baratheons’ black hair. He had no qualms about a woman ruling, as many Northern women were more than capable, as evidenced by his mother and wife. His sister had given up her claim for him, as she had been their father’s heir for eleven years. After his birth, his father even petitioned for the crown so she could stay his heir. Only after her marriage to Baelon did he become heir. A change his sister had never regretted, as she had birthed three wonderful children and held a deep love for Baelon, even if it had now regrettably ended with Baelon’s death.

The other reason he had argued was that Rhaenys’ eldest child, Laena, was betrothed to his nephew, which meant the boy would become a future king-consort. It would mark the first time a Stark-blooded king or queen would sit on a throne in the South, at least to his knowledge. And a child of theirs would sit on the Throne. So, amidst the lords and knights of summer, he would vote for Rhaenys Targaryen at this Great Council.’

Stepping outside to breathe fresh air, he was startled by the two enormous shadows cast over Harrenhal. Vhagar, whose wingspan was around 120 meters, was impressive enough, but the Black Dread was a colossal beast, easily double Vhagar’s size. To his amazement, he spotted a small boy with silver-gold hair perched atop Balerion. It could only be his nephew Aemon.

“By the old gods,” he exclaimed in awe. He wasn’t the only one gaping at the two circling dragons. A voice from behind interrupted his reverie.

“Well, Lord Stark, what do you think? Ready to host the Black Dread.” Looking over his shoulder, Benjen spotted Prince Viserys walking up beside him.

“Your Grace, a pleasure,” he replied. “I suppose I have to be, yet I doubt I have much of a choice, do I?”

“No, you don’t, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s not the only one. Vhagar has been keeping close to the boy since my father’s passing,” Viserys sighed. “Every time my brother takes to the sky, Vhagar joins him. So don’t be surprised if she also joins you in the North.”

“As long as we don’t see a third one,” he quipped, though he wondered what other surprises the dragons might have in store.

“Well, we will never know. Vhagar may lay eggs in the North, and Visenya and Arya might gain dragons. And ever since Arya’s birth, Grey Ghost has been spotted coming out of hiding. So don’t be surprised if the dragon travels North to her to claim her as his bond. It feels similar to Aemon’s and Balerion’s bond, yet I suspect their bond is even closer,” Viserys added.

“Shall we go and welcome my brother? I’m sure he’d like to meet his other uncle. My Step-uncle, I suppose. And when we’re alone, call me Viserys. We’re family, after all,” the prince suggested. They might not be related by blood, but the bonds forged in other ways were just as strong, if not stronger.

As they left the castle, they found the fields outside Harrenhal filled with tents and pavilions. However, a space to the castle’s right was reserved for the dragons, and four of them were already there. Benjen didn’t know their names except for the unmistakable bronze fury. The other three were smaller. Being so close to these massive creatures made him more nervous than he cared to admit.

“Viserys, are all these dragons here with riders?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Yes, they all have riders. The brown one is mine, and her name is Goynogar. It means ‘earth dragon’ in High Valyrian,” Viserys explained, but their conversation was interrupted by the resounding roars of Vhagar and Balerion as they landed, shaking the very ground. Balerion lowered his head and shoulder to allow his nephew to dismount. The boy bore Targaryen features, but his Stark grey eyes stood out.

Aemon approached Balerion’s snout and began petting the dragon as if it were a hound, murmuring something under his breath. Viserys stifled a laugh as the prince watched Benjen’s bewildered reaction to Aemon with the giant dragon. “Oh, I know, he’s done that plenty of times, leaving people with open mouths. His bond with Balerion is unlike any other, stronger than any other rider’s bond, much to Daemon’s annoyance,” Viserys chuckled.

Suddenly, a gasp escaped Viserys as he watched Aemon walk over to Vhagar and repeat the same affectionate gestures. “I can’t believe it; even Vhagar seems to accept him. Usually, riderless dragons can’t be approached like that, but I suppose Vhagar sees my father in my brother or wants his attention. Then again, she wouldn’t be foolish enough to attack him, as it would likely end in her demise,” Viserys mused.

“I can see that. Balerion is the largest creature I’ve ever seen,” He admitted, still in awe of the dragon. Their size cloaked the entire area in shadow. He had immense respect for his nephew, who somehow commanded respect and affection of such fearsome creatures.

After a few minutes of watching his nephew with the dragons, Aemon walked over to them. Studying the boy more closely, he realized just how much of both parents lived in him. He had Lyanna’s storm-gray eyes and the silver-gold hair of the Targaryens. Baelon’s high cheekbones framed his face, but his chin and nose were unmistakably his father’s. The ears were all Lyanna’s; Arya had the same ears as them, though she had also had the rest of her looks from her mother. That made him wonder what Visenya looked like. She hadn’t been there when he had met Arya. A smile tugged at his lips at the sight of his nephew.

“Valonqar, Kepus,” Aemon said in Valyrian, embracing him. “It means ‘Elder Brother’ and ‘Uncle,’” the boy explained, his Stark grey eyes filled with warmth. “It’s good to meet you finally, Uncle. It’s been a long time coming.”

Benjen returned the embrace and said, “The feeling is mutual, nephew. I wish it were under happier circumstances.” The boy’s mood seemed to brighten momentarily, but then he grew somber. “What’s troubling you, Aemon? You looked happy for a moment there.”

“My father’s death caused us to be here, and it reminded me of what I had hoped to show him, what I’ve learned, how I was a lord, and show him my children,” Aemon said, his voice filled with sorrow, and tears began to well up.

He hugged the boy tightly and said, “Oh, Aemon, you’ll find peace with the pain in time. The only thing you can do is accept that he’s gone and make sure you keep his memory alive. That’s what I do for your grandfather, Rickard.” He gently stroked the boy’s head, offering whatever comfort he could. However, as Benjen held the boy, he wondered what Aemon meant when he said, ‘what I’ve learned’.

Aemon Targaryen (101 A.C., Seventh Moon)

He sat on his bed in his room, reflecting on the day’s events. Meeting his uncle was nice, except he had broken down in front of him. No matter what he did, it seemed history wasn’t changing. The only things that were different were him, his mother, his sisters, and Balerion. He had been with his father for most days as had become his page, looking for possibilities of poisons to be served to him. He even warged from time to time into rats, cats, and other creatures to keep an eye on him. Yet nothing and the gods didn’t seem fit to change the fate of Baelon Targaryen.

But he would keep to his vow and do his duty to his family. Laena was already part of that duty, his betrothed and someone he had grown to like, and she had been with him when his father passed. The pretty purple eyes looked at him kindly and comforted him in his grief.

Rhaenyra, his younger niece of two years, was starting to become a young beauty; no wonder the realm called her the realm’s delight. He only hoped his sweet, good-sister would live. Rhaenyra needed her mother as long as possible. Aemma was only nine and ten namedays, and already she has been through three pregnancies. With only one making it to birth so far, he hoped the one she had now in her belly would give them the peace of having a son or another daughter and bring the family some much-needed happiness.

The Great Council of 101 A.C. The famous event in the history books. His mother had told him his uncle would declare for Rhaenys so one day Stark blood through him would sit the Throne to represent the North. It was funny that almost 200 years later and it would have been so if Sansa had married Joffrey. He growled involuntarily as he thought back on that rotten soul.

But no, he knew deep down that Rhaenys wouldn’t be chosen. While the North would support her, almost all the lords of the South were against naming a woman heir. It only happened when there weren’t any other direct descendants. It was ridiculous; he never thought it was a cock that would make a good heir. His mother was heir for a time before she married his father. The vote today would decide the heir and set the precedent for all the heirs to come, and if history were to be followed, his older brother would be the heir.

His thoughts were interrupted when a knock came at the door. “Come in,” he said, not bothering to move from his position.

His sworn shield, Ser Harrold Westerling, walked inside. Harrold had been a good friend and kingsguard to him, and was like an uncle to him. Aemon had enjoyed training with him when his father couldn’t. “The King asked for you, my Prince.” Ser Harrold said, looking at him with a face of compassion.

“Of course, Ser Harrold, let’s go.” He said, and they made their way to the king’s chambers.

“Ser Ryam, we’re here to see the King. He summoned me.” He said to an old knight guarding the king’s chambers. Ser Ryam opened the door, allowing him to enter. Ser Harrold gave him a nod as he waited outside.

“Aemon, please come to sit by the bed. I must talk to you,” Jaehaerys said. The older man looked as frail as he had ever been. The loss of his children and wife, as well as ruling the realm had taken a great toll on his grandfather’s health.

“Of course, Grandfather,” he said, holding his grandfather’s hand as he sat down next to him.

 “Aemon, I know you are young, but you have always been beyond your years. You have always taken your responsibilities seriously. It something to be proud of, my boy.” His grandfather said, and his heart swelled with pride at his words.

“When Viserys tried to bond with Balerion and failed, I was sure Balerion would pass away. But after your birth, the old dragon flew again, recovered from his wounds, and even grew large. And your bond with him. It is simply amazing. Not even Aegon had that with Black Dread, nor I with my Bronze Fury. There is something only the heir and the king know. A prophecy, a dream, is the true reason Aegon conquered all of Westeros. Not what has been written in history books. It’s a duty carried by our family since Aegon’s time.”

‘What? Aegon had conquered Westeros based on prophecy. Not this again,’ he thought frantically. ‘What had Melisandre said again? “Prophecies are fickle things; you can read their signs all you want, but in the end, you can still be wrong about their truth.” She was right about that; she had done so many things in the name of prophecy. Burning a young girl, turning an honorable man into a burning fanatic.’ He grew angry as he remembered the red witch’s fanatic words.

“Aemon, pick up the dagger,” his grandfather asked, gesturing to the dagger sitting in the nearby brazier. His blood ran cold when he saw the dragger lying in the brazier. It was the very same dammed dagger that had slit his throat all those years ago. It still brought back memories of those blue eyes that had taken over his little brother.

“Read it, please. What is described on?” Jaehaerys requested as Aemon picked up the dagger to read the words on the blade.

“From my blood will come the prince that was promised, and his will be the song of ice and fire,” he said, visibly gulping as he read the Valyrian glyphs aloud.

“You are that song, or your line will be my boy. It will lead us through the dark that is to come. Aegon dreamed this as Daenys dreamed of the Doom. He dreamed of the end of men. It is to begin with a terrible winter. A gusting wind will come with it, and Aegon saw absolute darkness riding on those winds; and whatever is inside those winds will destroy the world of the living.” The old king said, half out of breath. It made more sense now why he had sent so many faith-militant rebels to the wall.

The prophecy was probably lost in the dance. Rhaenyra was the heir and probably never passed on the prophecy to her son Aegon, or she did, and it was lost with either Baelor or Daeron. It also reminded him of something his mother had said about Rhaegar. Rhaegar thought the child in her belly was the prophecy of Ice and fire that he and his mother would bring forth that child. But, well, everything went wrong with rebellion, didn’t it? The prophecy was once again lost after the death of his mother and father, after Rhaegar had discovered it. He was the child of Ice and Fire, the gods sent back to prevent the dragon’s dying out, and was he also to protect the Song of Ice and Fire? He wondered as he looked at the dagger.

“If our world is to survive, all of Westeros must stand united against it. A Targaryen must be seated on the Iron Throne. Promise you will keep the prophecy and the realm and unite Aemon. If I could, I would name you my heir, Aemon. Yet the realm wouldn’t accept a third born to pass over two of his older brothers, and I don’t trust Daemon not to do something foolish. The realm would tear itself apart. Our house would tear itself apart because the only thing that can bring down our house is itself. Promise me, Aemon, Promise me.” His grandfather said with a cough of exhaustion.

“Yes, grandfather, I promise. I will make sure the realm is united,” Aemon solemnly promised him and kissed his grandfather’s head. His grandfather smiled, sighed deeply in relief, and fell into a deep sleep.

After that, Aemon returned to his room, and his mind pondered over what his grandfather had revealed. His house knew what was coming, almost three hundred years before the White Walkers came. Yet war and failures of man had shattered the warning.

He sighed as he lay down on his bed. He was tired; today had been too emotional. He wanted nothing else but to sleep, and with his thoughts still racing, he closed his eyes.

He awoke.

But something was wrong.

His limbs felt like they were submerged in mud, thick, cold, and clinging. His breath came shallow as though the very air resisted him. Then came the sounds: sharp, brutal, and rhythmic. The crack of wood splitting. The wet twacks of axes biting into living trees. The cruel snap of leather across flesh.

“Work, you lazy cunts! Work or die! King Harren has no shortage of river scum!” The voice was coarse, thick with Ironborn venom and laced with the authority of unchecked cruelty.

Aemon sat up, blinking against the harsh daylight. He wasn’t in his bed.

He was on the forest floor, except it was no longer a forest anymore. The ground was littered with pale stumps, the corpses of weirwood trees. All around him, chained men labored under the lash. They swung axes at a sacred grove of weirwoods, their white bark now desecrated by deep wounds. One tree in particular bled freely, red sap trickling down like tears of blood.

Aemon’s stomach turned as he watched the sap being collected, scraped into buckets, and poured into troughs where it was mixed with rock dust, mortar, and what looked like ash. A thick, dark paste.

“They’re using the sap in the mortar,” he muttered in disbelief. “They’re mixing blood into the stone…”

He had heard the tales. “Harren the Black used blood in the mortar of Harrenhal,” they said. “Human blood. Sacrifice. Witchcraft.” Aemon never put much stock in them. The Ironborn were hated by almost everyone in Westeros, and people always change narratives to fit their ends. But this was beyond the pale. This was the blood of the scared trees, mingled into stonework.

‘As mockery, ’ Aemon thought with venom. ‘A direct insult to the Old Gods.’

He looked up the hill, and his breath caught.

There, towering above the ruined grove, stood the main keep of Harrenhal. The Ten Towers were not yet there. Yet even the keep itself was huge. He recognized the cracked and melted thing, and he now slept in.

“They built Harrenhal on a weirwood grove,” he said softly in realization. “Of course it’s haunted, the gods would never take that laying down.”

He began walking, feet moving without thought, his eyes scanning the chaos around him. Smoke curled from tar pits. Black ravens circled overhead. The workers groaned. The trees screamed, though no one seemed to hear.

He then walked into the main hall, and then he saw him.

A figure sitting atop a huge throne of scorched white wood and hacked branches and roots, a throne made of weirwood. He wore a crown of black iron, twisted and cruel, like something forged in a storm. His armor was blackened steel. On the sigil of house Hoare was on his armor, a raven, ship, tree, and grape featured prominently. His skin was pale, unnaturally pale, being almost a milky white. Yet his hair was black as coal, and his eyes a sick yellow.

“Harren the Black,” Aemon murmured, both awe and loathing in his voice.

‘Why am I seeing this? Why now? Was it a warning? A memory not his own? Or something more. A vision sent by powers older than dragons?’ He mused as he looked around the great hall.

The wind howled through the ruins of the grove, whispering voices he couldn’t understand. He felt something cold coil around his spine.

And then everything began to shake.

“The Old Gods ruled here, and yet they chose wicked gods, false ones: the Drowned God, Storm God, and the Seven. Remember what we told you, boy?” voices whispered.

Aemon shot up from his bed and snapped awake. His breath came in ragged bursts. Sweat clung to his skin. The morning light spilled through the slats of his window, soft and golden, but it did nothing to warm him.

Chapter Text

Chapter 18: The Grey and The Great Council

Ages in the year (101 A.C.)

• Aemon Targaryen Stark: 9 years old (Born in 92 A.C.)
• Daemon Targaryen: 21 years old (Born in 80 A.C.)
• Alicent Hightower: 12 years old (Born in 89 A.C.)
• Lyanna Stark Targaryen: 25 years old (Born in 76 A.C.)
• Arya Targaryen: 4 years old (Born in 97 A.C.)
• Rhaenyra Targaryen: 7 years old (Born in 94 A.C.)
• Aemma Targaryen Aryn: 22 years old (Born in 79 A.C.)
• Laena Velaryon: 9 years old (Born in 92 A.C.)
• Laenor Velaryon: 7 years old (Born in 94 A.C.)
• Corlys Velaryon: 40 years old (Born in 63 A.C.)
• Rhaenys Targaryen Velaryon: 29 years old (Born in 74 A.C.)
• Visenya Targaryen Stark: 7 years old (Born in 94 A.C.)
• Rickon Stark: 7 years old (Born in 94 A.C.)
• Bennard Stark: 6 moons old (Born in 100 A.C.)
• Benjen Stark: 23 years old (Born in 78 A.C.)
• Lysa Lock: 26 years old (Born in 75 A.C.)
• Otto Hightower: 33 years old (Born in 68 A.C.)
• Harrold Westerling: 33 years old (Born in 68 A.C.)
• Vaegon Targaryen: 38 years old (Born in 63 A.C.)
• Viserys Targaryen: 24 years old (Born in 77 A.C.)
• Raym Redwyne: 59 years old (Born in 42 A.C.)
• Balerion (the dragon): 225 years old (Born in 124 B.C.)
• Vhagar (the dragon): 153 years old (Born in 52 B.C.)

Arya Stark (101 A.C Seventh Moon)

Harrenhal

Darkness.
That was all she saw. Endless and swallowing. Then, a light. A lone torch hissing in some forgotten hallway ahead.

“Arya.” The voice slithered like wind through a crypt.

She looked down. She was older than she had been before her death. Lines on her face, a heaviness in her bones. She blinked. ‘A dream,’ she thought. ‘This must be a dream.’

“Arya,” the voice said again.

She moved forward; feet bare against cold stone. The torch flickered at the end of the hall, casting long shadows against the carved stone.

She stopped.

Before her stood a statue, her father’s. Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North. She was in the crypts of Winterfell now. She knew them well.

“Guilty,” hissed the voice. She turned around, heart pounding.

And there he was, not the stone imitation anymore, but the man. Her father. Whole. Flesh and blood. His grey eyes fixed upon her, cold as winter.

“Father,” she breathed, stepping toward him.

He raised a hand, halting her. His voice was iron. “Daughter.”

He stared at her like a judge in a hall of kings. “Justice and vengeance,” he said, “are not the same thing. Though many fools dress one in the other’s cloak.”

He paused, studying her. “Who killed me?”

“Cersei. Joffrey,” she said without hesitation.

“And so,” he said, voice low, “you left your kin, the North… for justice. So, the lioness would face judgment?”

“Yes,” she said.

The ground groaned beneath her. The crypt shuddered, stones whispering of old grief. Her father’s expression darkened. “Lies,” he stated fiercely.

Arya stiffened. “No. I went to stop her.”

“Lies,” he said again, harsher now. “You went for your list. To feed your thirst for revenge. Just as you did at the Twins, Walder Frey was guilty. Some of his sons were. Yet a banquet of corpses is what was left there now. Were they all guilty?”

He paused, staring at her in silence. She could not meet his eyes.

He stepped closer. Shadows danced across his face.
“You spared the women there. But the boys? Boys no older than Jon and Robb, did you know they were guilty? Or did you let them drink death with the rest?”

Arya said nothing.

“You say Cersei was guilty, which is true. You say the Freys were. And some of them, they were. And some of the soldiers, too. Some committed crimes, yet did they all want to do it? Not all who bear a name bear the crime. Did every Lannister kill me? Or Elia and her children? Did every Frey draw a blade at the Red Wedding?”

“No,” Arya whispered.

Her father’s voice softened, not with warmth, but with sorrow.
“You are of the North. Blood of the Wolf. You survived, and I will never fault you for that. Yet you became what we fought against. You became guilty of slaying innocents.”

He stepped closer and looked at her.

“I know. Jon told me as much,” she said, defeated.

“Daughter, you are strong. Sometimes, one must battle evil ruthlessly. And I know that sometimes honor isn’t always an option. That was my failure. You brought justice ruthlessly to Walder Frey yet lost yourself in the quest for it. Know this: you must never become what you fought to destroy. Otherwise, what is the point in fighting against it?”

Her father stated, “I love you, Arya. You are the she-wolf. Guard the pack. Protect what remains. Let justice guide you, not wrath.”

He gave her a hug, and the hug felt so real, as did all of this. She closed her eyes and let the feeling wash over her.

Then, softly, he asked, “What is it we say?”

She opened her eyes.

“The lone wolf dies,” Arya said, voice hoarse, “but the pack survives.”

At that, Arya gasped and almost jumped out of her bed as she woke. She looked around dazed and noticed it was early morning and that she was back in Harrenhal, the damned castle. She hated the place that still plagued her memory and the damned soldiers who had done all kinds of suffering to the prisoners there. Her own hate and her cruelty all began here, born from the hatred and brutality of her captors.

Arya sighed as she sat up in bed, blinking against the dim light that streamed through a crack in the wall. Visenya was still fast asleep beside her, cocooned in blankets. But then something felt… strange. There was a tugging at her mind, a sensation she hadn’t felt since the second time she’d parted from Nymeria.

She closed her eyes, and warmth bloomed in her chest; hot, burning, and alive, something that felt close by. Her eyes flew open as realization struck.

“Could it be… Grey Ghost?” she whispered, her eyes widening. Without a second thought, she leaped from her bed and ran to her sister’s side.

“Neya! Wake up, dragon!” she cried, breathless with excitement.

Visenya groaned and opened her violet eyes, squinting at Arya. “Arya… what is it?”

“Dragon! Grey Ghost!” Arya exclaimed, practically bouncing in place.

Visenya frowned, rubbing sleep from her eyes as she slowly sat up. “What do you mean?”

“I feel him,” Arya said, her voice dropping to a reverent whisper. “Like Aem’s feels Belly. He’s close. I know it.”

Visenya blinked at her, then smiled faintly. “Alright. Let’s go find Aemon. He will know what to do if you really feel your dragon.”

But Arya caught the wistfulness in her sister’s voice, one she recognized from training sessions in the House of Black and White.

‘I’m sorry, Neya. You should have a dragon, too,’ she thought and reached for her sister’s hand.

The girls dressed quickly and stepped into the corridor where their night guards waited, Clement Crabb and Othar Norrey.

“Morning!” the girls chirped in unison.

“You’re up early,” Othar remarked with a tired grin.

“We’re going to see Aemon,” Visenya said, holding Arya’s hand.

“Come, then. Though I doubt your brother will be happy that you wake him this early in the morning,” Clement said with a chuckle as he closed and locked the door behind them.

Soon, they reached Aemon’s chamber. As always, Ser Harrold stood guard alongside Alden.

“Ah, Princesses. Good morning. What brings you here so early?” Harrold asked warmly.

“Dragons!” Arya cried, her voice full of childish glee.

Harrold and Alden chuckled.

“Very well, Princess,” Harrold said, knocking gently. “Prince Aemon, your sisters wish to see you.”

Moments later, the door creaked open to reveal Aemon, hair tousled from sleep, looking much like Visenya had minutes before.

“Arya, Neya… what are you doing here? The sun has barely risen,” Aemon muttered.

“Dragon coming,” Arya exclaimed happily, like a toddler would.

Aemon frowned, rubbing his face. “What do you mean, ‘dragon coming’?”

Visenya chuckled. “She means she feels Grey Ghost. Like you feel Balerion.”

“Truly?” Aemon studied Arya’s face carefully. “Hmm. Father suspected it. Grey Ghost has become less elusive ever since your birth, little sister.”

Aemon added the last part somberly. It had been something she’d noticed ever since she had been reborn. Aemon had truly loved Baelon as a father and Lyanna as a mother. Yet for Arya, that could never be. Her parents would always be Catelyn and Eddard Stark.

“So… can we go outside? I know he’s close,” she asked again.

Aemon sighed and nodded. “Very well. Let me change and we’ll go.”

He turned and disappeared into his chamber. Arya and Visenya exchanged excited looks.

“Let’s go meet your dragon if you’re so sure,” Aemon said when he returned, now dressed, his expression half-amused, half-curious.

With the sun barely cresting the horizon they made their way toward the dragons. No matter how many times she saw them they still took Arya’s breath away, just as it had the first time she laid eyes on Drogon and Rhaegal.

Balerion loomed like a living mountain, black as pitch, his vast wings folded against his sides. His eyes glowed red like smoldering coals, and even at rest, his size would equal some small keeps. Beside him, Vhagar sprawled like a beached leviathan, her scales a tarnished bronze-green streaked with blue, like hints of copper.

Viserys’s Dragon, Goynogar, was smaller and leaner, with smooth brown scales and long, slender limbs, coiled like a whip ready to strike. Nearby, Meleys the Red Queen lay in elegant repose, her deep crimson scales gleaming like embers in the early light, curled beside Seasmoke, the pale silver-grey dragon with blue flecks.

Further off, the bulky Vermithor dozed beneath fallen rubble, bronze scales dulled with age but still fearsome, steam rising from his nostrils. And finally, Caraxes, the slender red Dragon of Prince Daemon, snake-like with a wolfish face, slept curled like a serpent.

Arya closed her eyes again and felt it, Grey Ghost. Her gaze was pulled toward the lake and the Isle of Faces. She knew he was near.

Visenya stared at the dragons with longing. Arya didn’t blame her. She was named for the first Visenya, and the great she-dragon of that name had been riderless since Baelon’s death.

Arya saw the way Aemon looked at them both, but mostly at Visenya.

“Neya,” he said gently, “I don’t know when, but I know you’ll have a dragon someday. Maybe… if the gods will it, Vhagar. She’s still mourning Father. They were together for nearly thirty years. But in time, she might accept you.”

Visenya beamed and threw her arms around him, murmuring something Arya couldn’t hear.

But she saw the silence settle between them like dust.

Aemon didn’t say it, but Arya knew: Jaehaerys had forbidden the girls from claiming dragons. Aemma, Laena, Gael… even Visenya and Arya herself. She knew why because if they married into another house and brought a dragon with them, that power could shift. It could weaken the Targaryens.

Even the Velaryons, with their close ties to House Targaryen, had never been allowed to claim one, at least not until later. Now, Corlys Velaryon was prouder than ever, his family holding two dragons, even if one was only seven years old.

She also knew that to bond with Grey Ghost, she might have to marry into the Targaryen line. Who, she didn’t know, as there wasn’t anyone to marry. Perhaps no one. Perhaps never, so long as Jaehaerys lived.

Although she doubted she wanted to marry anyway. She never found someone that truly allowed her to be both a warrior and a lady. Which she was, and now she was even a princess.  Gendry had made her feel free to let loose before a battle against the Night King that could have killed them all.

Yet his reaction after the battle had shown her they weren’t in the same headspace at the time. Perhaps if time allowed, she could have settled and she knew Gendry would have let her continue her unladylike pursuits. She smiled faintly, thinking of her blue-eyed stag.

Arya also knew that Viserys softened his approach to dragon claiming when he reigned. Four Velaryons were allowed to claim dragons during his rule, along with his younger children and Daemon’s daughters with Laena.

It would be something to think about when the time came.

Then she saw it, a gray fleck across the lake.

“I told you,” she exclaimed, planting her hands on her hips and grinning at Visenya and Aemon. “He’s here.”

Aemon gave her a look, half-smiling, half-wary. “Very well, little sister. Do you remember the words we practiced?”

Arya nodded, her eyes fixed on the approaching dragon.

Grey Ghost was slender and larger than Syrax, but not by much. The morning sun caught his pale scales, turning them almost silver, shimmering like mist. His wings were white as snow, cutting through the air in wide, silent arcs.

‘My house’s colors,’ she thought with a grin.

Then Balerion stirred. His wings rustled like trees in a storm. He raised his head and loosed a mighty roar to show his supremacy. To show how he was in control. The ground seemed to shiver beneath Arya’s boots and probably woke everyone who was still asleep.

Grey Ghost answered, not a challenge but a softer roar. A sound of recognition. Submission.

He wheeled once, then descended slowly, cautious as he approached the lake’s edge.

“Go, sister. Bond with him,” Aemon said with a grin.

Arya looked at Visenya, who gave her a nod and an encouraging smile. Behind them, Harrold and the others gave her uneasy looks. But Arya didn’t waver. They didn’t understand what a bond like this meant. She was the blood of the Kings of Winter and now the blood of the dragon. And she would bond with Grey Ghost.

She turned and walked forward.

Grey Ghost landed at the lake’s edge and began walking toward her.

“Grey Ghost, lykiri!” Arya commanded as loudly as she could with her small voice.

She saw his eyes for the first time, pearly white.

She felt it again, the bond, strong and burning.

“Dohaeras!” she challenged.

Grey Ghost hissed… and came closer.

“Grey Ghost, lykiri, sȳr!” (Calm, now!) she cried out. The dragon sniffed her hand, then pressed his snout to it.

The connection surged through her, real, true. A beginning.

Behind her, she heard Aemon and Visenya clap, followed by others.

“Kirimvose, raqiros.” (Thank you, friend.) She stated softly toward the dragon.

Aemon Targaryen (101 A.C., Seventh Moon)

He sat between his sisters as the family gathered at the table to break their fast. The air was thick with tension. A quiet unease settled over them like morning mist, unspoken words clinging to each breath.

King Jaehaerys sat at the head, his expression lined with fatigue and concern. His gaze lingered sharply on Arya and Aemon, irritation flickering behind his eyes.

“So, tell me, Aemon,” the old king began, his voice low but edged with authority. “You’re the only one here who’s lived through what Arya now has. You know why I never wanted this for your sisters. And yet you let her go to him. You let her bond with that dragon.”

Aemon met his grandfather’s gaze without flinching. “It wasn’t something I could stop,” he replied calmly. “Just as I bonded with Balerion, the bond comes to you. You don’t choose it. If the connection comes, it comes. Grey Ghost would have followed Arya until she claimed him, no matter what we did.”

He glanced at Arya, who was quietly spooning extra honey into her porridge.

“Balerion flew again after I was born,” Aemon continued. “The same way Grey Ghost came out of hiding. Something stirred in him, something old and instinctive. He would have found Arya, eventually.” Probably, it was the Stark blood that had changed the way Grey Ghost and Balerion behaved, yet Balerion was something even greater.

“Father told me more than once, Balerion used to follow me, even as a babe.” He added with a sad smile.

Jaehaerys sighed and nodded. “Still, this complicates things. You know my reasons. We must consider the consequences of your sister claiming a dragon.”

His mother spoke up then, her voice gentle but firm. “Good-father, my daughter is of your house and she has only claimed her birthright. I know your reasons well, yet what’s done cannot be undone. Perhaps it is a blessing. Who knows what danger a dragon might pose if denied the rider they’ve bonded with?”

Arya looked up and smiled gratefully at his mother. As she spoke in her defense.

“Grey Ghost is happy now,” Arya added in her little child’s voice. “He was lonely. Not anymore. He’s scared of Belly, though, so I told him Belly is safe. Belly protect Valgar.”

“It’s Valonqar, you welp.” Daemon snarled.

“Daemon, enough! Break your fast somewhere else,” Jaehaerys commanded.

The rest of the family stared at Daemon angrily as he left. “I apologize for my husband. The man was awakened a bit too early this morning,” Rhae Royce noted as she gave him a smug look. ‘Sorry,’ Aemon mouthed.

She smiled back at him. “No need for it. Lady Rhae, my grandson, must accept things as they are.” Jaehaerys noted with a grateful smile.

After the incident, Jaehaerys looked back toward Arya, rubbed his temple, and sighed again. “You all make your points. Still, she’s young yet. It will be years before she comes of age, and by then, I will likely no longer be the one sitting on this throne. That is a decision that will fall to my successor.” He looked meaningfully at Rhaenys and Viserys. “Perhaps by then, a match will be found that tempers all this.”

At those words, Arya reached under the table and gripped Aemon’s hand. He gave it a comforting squeeze and leaned in to whisper, “It’ll be fine, little sister.”

Soon enough, the fast continued, and it was quiet. On the morrow, the vote would be held, and tension was thick in the air. Yet he still looked at the family he had now, and he was happy.

When the meal ended, Aemon rose and made his way to Rhaenys, who was just pushing back her chair.

“Cousin, may we speak in private?” he asked quietly.

Rhaenys regarded him for a moment, then nodded. “Of course. Walk with me. We can go to my chambers.”

The corridors of Harrenhal were quiet, servants flitting past like shadows. Soon, they reached her room and settled into a pair of carved oak chairs beside a tall window.

“So, Aemon,” she said with a smile. “What is it you wish to speak about?”

He hesitated only a moment. “What comes after the vote. I was wondering… do you and Lord Corlys still intend to uphold the betrothal to Laena?” He hoped they did, as he wanted them to. He always enjoyed his time with Laena and seemed like a good partner to spend his life with and help prepare the realm for what was to come.

Rhaenys studied him, her eyes thoughtful. “We do,” she said at last. “You are a fine match for our daughter. If I am named heir, Laena will be queen one day. I can think of no one better suited to stand beside her as King-consort. You are kind and steadfast, and you ride the Black Dread. That alone speaks volumes.”

She reached for his hand.

“And if I lose the vote, you remain third in line, behind only Viserys and Daemon. You’ll have Seadragon Point one day, and your blood is that of two ancient houses on both sides. More than all that, I’ve seen you with Laena. The way you speak to her, the way she listens to you, and you listen to her. It reminds me of Corlys and me. Or Aemma and Viserys.”

Aemon flushed slightly, a smile tugging at his lips. “Thank you. I will accept whatever decision is made tomorrow. You and my brother are the best candidates we have. I love you both, and I’ll serve either of your reigns with all that I have.”

Rhaenys rose and pulled him into a hug. “I know you will,” she said softly. “You may be the most dutiful person I know, Aemon.”

The following day - The Vote

Aemon sat at the high table beside his family as dawn broke over Harrenhal. The air was heavy with anticipation. Today would decide the future of the realm.

One by one, those who wished to stake a claim to the Iron Throne were invited to step forward. The hall was packed with lords, ladies, and courtiers from across the Seven Kingdoms. All eyes were on the line of claimants standing before the dais. At the front stood his brother, Viserys, resplendent in black, red and gold. Just behind him was Rhaenys, calm and regal in her bearing.

Aemon offered them both a warm smile of support.

“Let the first to make their claim step forward,” Grand Maester Runcister announced.

Viserys stepped forward, his expression poised but solemn. “I, Viserys Targaryen, firstborn son of Prince Baelon Targaryen, who was himself heir to the Iron Throne, do hereby make my claim. Let the gods and the people of Westeros decide if I am to sit on the throne.”

The scribes recorded his name on the scroll of contenders. Viserys gave a respectful nod and stepped aside.

Then Rhaenys moved forward. “I am Rhaenys Targaryen, the only child of Prince Aemon Targaryen, eldest son of His Grace King Jaehaerys, and heir to the throne until his death. By my birthright, I stake my claim. Let all assembled here cast their votes according to their conscience and their wisdom.”

Aemon watched her with pride. She stood proud and tall, and for a moment, he thought that if Westeros were only a little wiser, she might truly be its heir. From the seats below, Laena and Laenor applauded their mother with vigor.

Next came a man with silver-blond hair and a Valyrian look.

“I am Daegar Selaerys, trueborn son of Princess Saera Targaryen, and Triarch Baerion Selaerys.” he declared. “My mother bears the blood of House Targaryen, and my father descends from the old blood of old Volantis descent of Valyria. By the strength of that blood, I make my claim.”

There were murmurs among the assembled nobles. Though his name had appeared in whispers, few took the claim seriously. Still, the scribes wrote it down.

Following him were two more of Saera’s sons, though both were bastards. Their claims, while voiced, were met with silence and little more.

Later still, a supposed bastard son of Maegor stepped forward, but his petition was summarily dismissed. Maegor’s well-known sterility made the claim impossible.

To the outrage of some, a man claiming to be a bastard son of King Jaehaerys himself came forward. But his claim, too, was swiftly struck down by the king himself.

“Your claim insults my queen send the man away. Let him be grateful that I will let him off without future actions.” Jaehaerys said coldly, rising from his seat. The man was escorted from the hall under heavy guard.

By midday, the final claims had been voiced. Only two serious contenders remained: Viserys and Rhaenys. All others were discarded or dismissed.

The lords were then given their chance to vote. One by one, they stepped forward to place their parchments into a sealed box, lords paramount and minor vassals alike, casting judgment on the future of the realm.

As the sun dipped lower toward the horizon, the hall grew tense. Aemon waited with his family in the side chamber, quiet save for the occasional murmur or creak of wood.

At last, a maester entered and bowed deeply. “Your Graces,” he intoned solemnly, “the votes have been tallied.”

King Jaehaerys rose. “Very well. Assemble the lords and ladies. Let the realm hear the decision.”

An hour later, the great hall was once more filled to the rafters. The last golden light of day slanted through the broken ceiling of Harrenhal’s great hall.

Two maesters stepped forward, carrying a sealed box.

All fell silent as the box was placed before the throne. King Jaehaerys broke the wax seal, withdrew the scroll, and stood.

“It is declared,” the king said in a clear voice that echoed through the vast chamber, “by the lords paramount and vassals of the Seven Kingdoms, that Prince Viserys Targaryen shall be named Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne.”

A cheer rippled through the crowd, some restrained, others jubilant.

Aemon turned toward his brother and smiled warmly. He rose to his feet and bowed his head with respect to his future king and to his future good-mother. She was disappointed yet gave him a small smile.

Let it all end differently, Aemon prayed silently as he gazed upward toward the broken ceiling of Harrenhal’s great hall.

Chapter Text

Chapter 19: Rise of a New Dusk

Rhaenyra Targaryen (101 A.C., Seventh Moon)

Harrenhal

Rhaenyra’s head was pressed gently against Syrax’s snout, the golden scales of her dragon warm beneath her cheek. The courtyard of Harrenhal lay quiet in the early dusk, but her heart was not. She was losing so much; Visenya, Aemon, Alicent, and Gwayne were all leaving. Soon, she would be on Dragonstone with Laena and other ladies her mother had promised would be keeping her company, but it wasn’t the same.

Neya was like a sister. And Aemon… Aemon was something else. She didn’t quite know what he was, not truly, but he was someone she cared for deeply.

“Rhaenyra! There you are, I’ve been looking for you!”

A voice, full of warmth and relief, cut through her thoughts. She turned and saw Aemon approaching with a smile on his face, his silver-gold hair catching the fading sunlight.

Syrax gave a soft, affectionate cry, sensing the boy’s presence.

“Aemon,” Rhaenyra said with a smile.

“Hey,” he said, slightly breathless. “I’ve been trying to find you. I want us to fly together one more time. Before you leave on the morrow.”

Syrax nudged her forward with a low, rumbling hum.

“It seems my Yellow Lady has given me her blessing,” Rhaenyra laughed softly.

“When I’m back, we’ll fly together again. On our own dragons,” Aemon promised.

Syrax was nearly ready for flight, but not yet. Not for real. Rhaenyra nodded and embraced him tightly.

“Come,” Aemon said, taking her hand.

They walked together toward where the great shadow of Balerion rested beside Vhagar, the dragon of their grandfather. The two ancient beasts slumbered like mountains.

“Balerion suscitate (Balerion, wake up),” Aemon called gently as he approached. Calm, casual, unafraid, he laid a hand on the massive black snout.

Balerion rumbled, a deep sound like the cracking of stone, and raised his colossal head.

“Sȳz tubis, uēpa raqiros. Kesi sagon flying lēda Rhaenyra va mōrī jēda gō is. (Good day, old friend. We’ll be flying with Rhaenyra one last time before she goes.)”

The Black Dread stretched with a groan of muscle and bone, tail curling out like a bridge for them to climb. The ropes were still too large for them to use, but Balerion knew how to help them mount. If they had finer riding gear, he might have lifted them with his teeth like kittens.

Aemon led the way, steadying Rhaenyra as they made their slow ascent.

At last, they were seated in the great saddle, Aemon strapping her in with practiced care.

“Ready?” he asked.

She nodded, heart pounding.

“Sōvēs.” Aemon cried out excitedly.

With a single word, Balerion stirred to life. The dragon rose, lifting them into the air just by standing twenty feet above the earth without even unfurling his wings. Around them, the other dragons rumbled and shifted, displeased at the disturbance.

Then Balerion began to move. Each step was a small earthquake. As he neared the edge of the lake, he spread his vast wings. The air trembled. Leaves danced from the trees. The waters below rippled from the gale.

With a thunderous crack, the wings clapped once, and they were airborne.

The world fell away. Harrenhal beneath them was shrinking fast, its blackened towers piercing the sky like broken teeth. Below, the waters of God’s Eye shimmered like hammered silver, scattered with tiny boats and the swirling patterns of birds taking flight at the sound of the dragon’s roar. The Isle of Faces itself was a red spot in the glimmering waters.

Balerion soared eastward at first, gaining height. Rhaenyra gasped, clinging to Aemon as the wind rushed past them.

“Kessa dōrī keligon sentire mirabile.” (It will never stop feeling amazing.) Aemon laughed, lifting his arms and letting the wind carry his voice.

“Ziry dōrī kessa.” (It never will.) She hugged him tightly from behind.

They circled over the lake once, then turned back toward Harrenhal.

The wind was cold and clean. For a moment, nothing else mattered. Not Dragonstone, not the court, not the future. Only this flight and the boy she flew with.

Eventually, Balerion began his descent. The air thickened. The waters of the Gods Eye gleamed closer. Soon, they glided over the castle once more before Balerion angled his wings and dropped toward the field outside the keep.

The great dragon landed with a jarring thud, his talons sinking into the earth. Dust and loose grass spun around them.

As Balerion settled with a final rumble, they unstrapped themselves from the saddle. The leather creaked, and the warmth of the dragon’s back gave way to the cooler evening air. Rhaenyra slid down first, landing lightly on the torn earth. Aemon followed close behind.

She turned at once and threw her arms around him. “Thank you for this, Aemon. You—and Balerion.”

At the sound of his name, the old dragon gave a soft, gravelly growl. Not threatening, but acknowledging. Rhaenyra smiled and looked up at him with gratitude shining in her eyes.

They stepped back together, side by side, gazing up at the Black Dread as he folded his wings like a great cloak of shadow. Then she looked at Aemon again, her voice softer now.

“Don’t forget us here.”

He didn’t hesitate to pull her into a hug. “Never, Nyra. You are my family,” he said, brushing a lock of wind-tossed hair from her cheek. “And I love you.”

Her breath caught, his words lingering in the air between them like the warmth of a fire. Then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her brow, tender, certain, and fleeting.

She closed her eyes and sank into his embrace, holding him tightly, unwilling to let go just yet. The wind rustled the grass around them, and the lake glimmered quietly beyond the trees.

A Few days later

Laena Velaryon (101 A.C., Seventh Moon)

Harrenhal

The past few moons had brought many changes. Not long ago, it had seemed there was a chance her mother might become the next Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and perhaps one day, Laena herself would follow. But the realm had chosen another path. Now, it would be her future goodbrother who would wear the Crown instead of her.

“Lord Stark, I wish to thank you for the support you showed me during the vote,” her mother said to Lord Benjen, who was preparing to depart for Winterfell. “Your loyalty will not be forgotten.”

“Princess, I only voted for what I believed was right,” Benjen replied. “In the North, we judge on merit, not what lies between one’s legs, and we will soon be bound by blood in the future. Still, the decision is made, and we are but one Kingdom.” Benjen paused.

“Princess, I have no doubt we’ll meet again when my nephew weds your daughter,” he said as he offered Laena a smile. She blushed and returned the smile, glancing toward Aemon who was busy with his horse. He seemed to be explaining something to his sisters, showing them how everything worked.

“Indeed, we will, my lord. Have a safe journey,” Rhaenys said as Benjen turned to go. Then she stepped away, leaving Laena still watching Aemon. She would miss him and Visenya too. Along with Alicent, Gwayne, and Rhaenyra, they had all become good friends.

“Mother, may I stay a little longer with Aemon and Visenya?” she asked quickly before her mother had gone too far.

“Go on,” Rhaenys said with a small smile. “Spend some extra time with them while you still can.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

Laena didn’t wait another moment. She lifted the hem of her gown and hurried across the courtyard where the dragons had once cast long shadows. The air still smelled faintly of smoke and horses. Aemon looked up from where he was tightening the saddle straps on his mare. Visenya was crouched beside him, her hands full of oats, trying to coax the horse into taking them. Arya stood nearby, tugging at the hem of her too-long cloak, eyes wide and bright with curiosity.

“Laena,” Aemon said, brushing dust from his hands as she neared. “We already said our goodbyes.”

“I know,” she said, slightly breathless. “But I’m going to miss you all so much. It’ll be a long while before we’re together again.”

“We’ll miss you too,” Visenya said, standing now. Her silver hair was half-tucked behind her ears, her eyes glimmering with sadness she was trying not to show. She clasped Laena’s hand tightly.

Arya, not one to stay still, bounded forward and latched onto Laena’s waist with a giggle. “But you’re going to Dragonstone!” she chirped. “Maybe you’ll find your dragon there!”

Laena looked down at her, surprised as always by how small Arya seemed—and yet how bold. She offered her a fond smile and brushed back a strand of Arya’s silver-black hair. “Maybe I will,” she said softly. “One day, I’ll fly too.”

She had been jealous at first when Arya bonded with Grey Ghost, but that feeling had faded. Now it was something else, a quiet yearning, a promise to herself. She could already imagine the wind rushing past her ears, the roar of wings, the freedom of the sky.

“You will,” Aemon said firmly. He stepped forward and hugged her again, his arms tight around her shoulders. “You’ll have a dragon, Laena. And one day, we’ll fly together. Just like we used to dream.”

Laena closed her eyes against his shoulder. He always knew the right thing to say. “And you’ll write to me from the North, won’t you? Tell me everything you see?”

He pulled back and nodded, his eyes earnest. “I’ll write every detail. I promise. It’s our future home, after all.”

Without thinking, he leaned in and kissed her cheek. Laena’s face turned warm, but she didn’t look away.

Then Arya gasped theatrically. “Group hug!” she cried, spreading her arms and nearly stumbling over her boots in her excitement.

Laena laughed. “Come here, little dragon.”

Visenya smiled and knelt down, drawing Arya into her arms. Aemon wrapped one arm around Laena and the other around his little sister, and the four of them clung to one another in the middle of the courtyard.

For a moment, it was just them, children caught between yesterday and tomorrow, hearts full of goodbyes and dreams too big for their years.

“I don’t want it to be goodbye,” Visenya whispered.

“It’s not,” Aemon said. “It’s just ‘until later.’”

Arya nodded solemnly as if understanding something far bigger than her four years should allow. “Until later,” she echoed.

Viserys Targaryen (101 A.C. Eight Moon)

Dragonstone

Viserys Targaryen stood at the edge of the gangplank, the salt wind biting at his face as the ship rocked gently into the harbor. In the distance, Dragonstone’s jagged silhouette loomed, a dark figure against the waning sun. The sky above was streaked with gold and ash, casting a faint glow over the island’s black stone.

His cloak fluttered in the wind as he extended a hand to Aemma, helping her disembark. She was pale from the long voyage, her steps slow and cautious on the slick wood, but there was determination in her eyes. She would not complain, not now, not when they had finally come home.

Behind her, Rhaenyra followed, silent, her small form framed by the ship’s railing. Her hair, like spun gold, shone in the dying light, and her violet eyes flicked from the castle to the sky above. A shadow passed over them, followed by a thunderous roar.

Viserys looked up.

Goynogar soared above them in a wide arc, his deep brown scales flecked with green and his cry echoing against the cliffs. Beside him, Syrax, smaller and more agile, cut through the sky with her yellow scales flashing, her wings slicing the air in tight spirals.

Viserys smiled at the dragons, then turned his gaze to his daughter, whose eyes lingered on the creatures above with a tinge of sadness.

“Soon enough, we’ll all fly together in the sky,” he said, offering a reassuring smile as he kissed her brow. “I know you miss your friends. Soon, Laena will join you, along with the other companions your mother arranged to be here. You’ll have company and friends.”

Rhaenyra nodded, though Viserys saw the doubt in her eyes as she walked toward the carriage with Ser Steffon.

“She’ll be fine, Viserys. She just needs time to adjust,” Aemma said softly. “Perhaps we can request Gael to visit. She’s just had a new babe. I’m sure she’d like a break from Claw Isle.”

Viserys considered it for a moment, then smiled. “Indeed, it might be good to see my aunt again. She always knows how to lighten the mood.”

As they walked toward the carriage, Viserys’s gaze wandered back to Dragonstone. This place was his now.

Not as a visiting prince but as an heir.

He had always believed he would wear the Crown in his later years, in his fifties, when his father’s silver hair had turned white, and his face was lined with time. But that was not to be. His father was gone, and now he stood as the heir.

As for when he would rule, he didn’t know. The past moons had caught up with his grandfather faster than Viserys had expected. The Old King still reigned, but his strength was fading, his mind dulled by grief and time. Perhaps in five years, or maybe one, the Seven Kingdoms will look towards Viserys.

‘And when they do, will I be ready?’ he thought as he stepped inside the carriage.

Corlys Velaryon (101 A.C., Eighth Moon)
Driftmark – High Tide – Hall of Nine

The Hall of Nine was his, every triumph, every voyage, every battle; each memory of his adventures were etched into its stone walls and the artifacts that lined its corridors. Yet as Corlys Velaryon sat before the hearth, the hall spoke not of glory. It reminded him of what had been lost and what still might be reclaimed.

Beside him, his wife Rhaenys, striking in beauty, regal in bearing, and strong in spirit, studied his face. A faint frown touched her brow before her soft voice broke the silence.

“Husband, what weighs so heavily on your mind?”

He sighed and leaned back in his chair, fingers absently running past her soft fingers. His gaze met hers, deep violet eyes filled with unspoken thoughts.

“Succession,” he said, his voice low, as a wave of quiet anger edged his words. “Once again, you have been passed over, just as you were when your father died.”

Rhaenys took his hands gently in her hands, the same hands he had longed for on every voyage across distant seas. “My grandfather chose Baelon, and the realm chose Viserys,” she said softly. “My path to the throne is closed.”

Corlys shook his head slowly. “I don’t believe it’s the end, not truly. There is still a chance for us to leave our mark on history. Our daughter is betrothed to the most powerful dragonlord alive. Both Viserys and Daemon have no sons. The princess remains unmarried. There is still a path. Our children still could gain us what we are owed.”

Rhaenys gave a faint smile, one touched with both affection and caution. “Corlys,” she said, “I know your heart. You seek a place in history to have your name spoken of for generations. You seek what is supposed to be yours. But the path you speak of is perilous. Ambition, unchecked, can lead to ruin. You will need to be restrained. I have always let you be your own man and followed you. Yet I want my children to be happy, and I will not put them at unnecessary risk.”

He nodded, her words settling over him like the tide. She was right. And yet...

“I do want that for them. I know Laena will be happy with Aemon. They are well-matched. As for Laenor, he is of salt and sea, like me; he needs to be able to move, not sit still, whether on a ship or in life. I believe they can both become what we need them to be, not just for my legacy but for yours as well. For us to be recognized for what we should have been. And I believe they will be happy along that path.”

Rhaenys gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “I know my words won’t change the course you’ve set,” she said. “I know you love our children. All I ask is that you always place them first.”

“I will,” Corlys promised. “We are all on this path together, as a family. And Aemon… Aemon will be part of that family. I don’t know why or how yet, but I feel it. Through him, somehow, our house will rise.”

Otto Hightower (101 A.C. Eighth Moon)

Kingslanding - Tower of the Hand

Another letter finished. Then another. Letters upon letters.

Otto Hightower sat alone in the solar of the Tower of the Hand, the flickering candlelight catching the sheen of freshly sealed red wax. A raven would carry this one north to House Templeton. Another to House Wayn. Others to Houses Lychester, Crakehall, and even to the aging Lord Tully of Riverrun. Dozens more would follow, scattering like seeds across the realm.

He had begun this quiet campaign during his tenure as Master of Laws, missives wrapped in piety and principle. Appeals for donations. Proposals to strengthen the bond between the Crown and the Faith. A more faithful king, he argued, would be more inclined to set aside the profane customs of House Targaryen and their dragonlord ways.

He had promised these lords possible influence at court, advancement for their sons, and, above all, a king who would uphold Andal virtue. If their chosen candidate succeeded, the realm would move closer to the Seven and further from the sinful ways of Old Valyria.

That dream would never have been possible under Baelon. The man was Fire and Blood incarnate, and worse, his wife was a heathen of the ancient Stark line. No, Baelon had to go. He had been the last of Jaehaerys’ sons raised directly learned under the old king’s hand that could claim the throne. Vaegon had become a maester and, even better, had been shipped North. To wither and die.

Whispers at court told varied tales of Baelon’s end. Some said sickness. Others spoke of a burst belly. Otto knew better. Men died in many ways, and not all left signs the maesters could name. It did not matter, Baelon was dead and gone and, more importantly, out of Otto’s way.

With his death came new opportunities.

Prince Aemon had departed for the North, but it was not only him. The Princess Lyanna, long silent and distant, had journeyed there as well, bringing with her both of her daughters.

‘Let them remain in that barren, frozen land,’ Otto thought. They weren’t a threat in the North, with their heathen ways. As he knew, if more of the Targaryen royal family believed in the shadow of the Old Gods, the true faith would have less sway in the realm.

He sealed another letter with practiced precision when a knock came at the door.

A moment later, his daughter entered. Otto’s face softened into a small, measured smile.

“Ah, daughter,” he said smoothly, “how fares His Grace?”

Alicent stepped closer, her expression composed yet touched with quiet concern. “He grows weaker, Father. He often mistakes me for one of his lost daughters. But he enjoys it when I read to him from the histories.”

A faint smile played on her lips, and Otto did not miss it.

Alicent was already becoming a beauty, soft-featured, poised, and attentive. He saw in her not just charm but potential. The court had eyes, and she would turn them all in time. Her presence was already soothing to the king, her voice a comfort in his slow decline. And soon, Otto thought, it might be more.

“You have done well,” he said, brushing her cheek with a rare gentleness. “Tell me at once if his condition changes, for better or worse. You play your role with grace, my dear. In time, you may rise even higher.”

Alicent met his gaze, her eyes clear with understanding. She knew what he asked of her, what might be expected. She nodded, her expression solemn with purpose as she left the chamber.

Otto leaned back in his chair, folding his hands, his mind turning now to other pieces on the board. Viserys, if properly guided, could still be bent to his will. And Daemon—wild, unpredictable Daemon, could perhaps be turned into a useful blade, if not a loyal one.

There were whispers, after all, that the prince’s marriage to Lady Rhea Royce had never been consummated. If Daemon could be drawn to their cause, or at the very least swayed, then perhaps a more fitting bride could be offered. A Hightower bride. His daughter.

Alicent, wife to the king’s brother. A prince, second in line to the Iron Throne. And if Viserys proved too willful or to set in his Targaryen ways, then Daemon could become the next piece to secure.

Chapter Text

Chapter 20 : Winterfell receives dragons

Rickon Stark (101 A.C. Ninth Moon)

Winterfell 

He couldn’t have felt happier; his father was returning to Winterfell, along with his cousins and aunt. His father had written that three dragons, the Black Dread, Grey Ghost, and Vhagar, were coming with them. To a six-year-old, this was the most exciting news imaginable. He waited outside with his family in the courtyard. On his right, his mother held little Bennard, his brother, in her arms, who was just shy of his second nameday. The rest of Winterfell’s people surrounded the courtyard.

“Our lord and the royal party are arriving,” Yolen, a Winterfell guard he’d known all his life, announced as twenty household guards of House Stark game rode in, leading the way, followed by his father, who bore the same long face and grey eyes, though his beard appeared longer.

Twenty Targaryen Household guards in the red and black of their house came next. Then came the two Kingsguards, both in pure white, except for the heraldry of their respective houses. One was a Westerling, as he remembered from his studies; that must be Ser Harrold Westerling. The other had a crab on his badge, which he couldn’t recall. The royal carriage followed them, with another ten Targaryen household guards trailing behind. He watched it all in awe, but his eyes were still eagerly waiting for the dragons, which had yet to be seen.

His father dismounted and opened the carriage door. Following tradition, he knelt with the rest of his family, as his mother and grandmother had mercilessly drilled into him. Princess Lyanna walked outside the carriage carrying a little babe. “Princess Lyanna Stark Targaryen, Princess Visenya Targaryen, and Princess Arya Targaryen,” his father announced clearly and proudly.

But where was the older cousin he had heard about?

“Rise, please, all of you,” Lyanna said gently. Her voice was soft but carried a calm authority, just as his father had once described it. “Thank you for that, brother. Please introduce me to your family.”

She had a kind, noble face framed by long raven-dark hair that shimmered in the sunlight. Her eyes, deep and dark, held a flicker of sorrow, grief that must have followed the death of her husband. Referring to Baelon Targaryen as his uncle still felt strange. A prince of the realm, rider of the second largest dragon, and yet he was also simply her husband, part of their family.

“Husband, welcome to Winterfell,” his mother said, stepping forward to kiss his father on the cheek.

“Daughter!” his grandmother exclaimed with uncharacteristic joy as she wrapped Lyanna in a warm embrace.

“Mother, it’s good to see you again,” Lyanna whispered, her voice thick with emotion. Tears welled in her eyes as she stepped aside and gestured behind her. “Here are your granddaughters.”

Two young girls emerged, hand in hand. One was about Rickon’s height, with thick black hair and striking purple eyes. She looked like a smaller version of their aunt.

“Come here, little ones. Come meet your grandmother,” the old lady said as she knelt, opening her arms. The girls didn’t hesitate. They ran into her embrace.

“You look even more like your mother now at this age,” she told the taller girl warmly. “You were so small the last time I saw you, and your purple eyes… they remind me even more of your father now.”

The girl beamed. “Papa said the same thing.” She paused before she asked. “You saw me before?”

His grandmother smiled. “Indeed, as did your grandfather. You were but a babe then. Barley walking.” At that, his grandmother kissed the girl’s forehead before turning to the littlest one. “And you’re a beauty. You look just like your mother did at your age.”

“Well, my husband was a handsome man,” Lyanna said with a bittersweet smile.

“I’m so sorry for my good-son’s passing, my love,” his grandmother said gently, reaching for Lyanna’s hand.

“Well,” his father interjected, “if Mother can stop clinging to you for just a minute, I think the rest of us would like a chance to say hello.”

“Of course, brother,” Lyanna chuckled, brushing a tear from her cheek.

“Goodsister,” his mother said warmly, kissing Lyanna on the cheek. “This is Bennard, my youngest.”

She held up the chubby boy in her arms.

“He looks like you, Lysa,” Lyanna said with a smile. “That reddish-brown hair, but his eyes, those are definitely his father’s.” She tickled Bennard’s belly, earning a giggle.

“And this one,” his father said proudly, placing a firm hand on Rickon’s shoulder, “is Rickon, my eldest. My heir.”

Rickon straightened instinctively. “Princess, it’s an honor to meet you all.”

“None of that, nephew,” Lyanna said with a laugh, ruffling his hair. “I’m your aunt. Call me Lyanna or Aunt, not Princess.”

He nodded, a little shy now. “Yes, Aunt.”

“You look so much like my father,” she said warmly. “But there’s your mother in you, too, and you have your father’s eyes.”

Rickon blushed and looked at his boots.

Suddenly, he heard a giggle. He looked up just in time to see the two girls standing before him, grinning.

“He doesn’t look like Rhaenyra at all,” said the littlest one with a mischievous smile.

“Arya!” the older girl groaned, nudging her gently. “That’s not how you start a conversation.” She looked back at Rickon with a sheepish smile. “Sorry about her. We’ve been stuck in the carriage all day. She gets a little silly when she gets bored.”

“Hey! You said you were bored, too!” Arya shot back with mock outrage.

“Girls,” Lyanna interrupted, shaking her head, “introduce yourselves before you confuse your cousin anymore.”

The taller one stepped forward, offered a slight curtsy, and said, “I’m Visenya. This troublemaker is my little sister, Arya.”

“I’m not little!” Arya said immediately, sticking her tongue out at her sister, then turning to Rickon. “Nice to meet you. You look a lot like our brother, yet with boring hair.”

Rickon blinked. “Thanks?”

Visenya smirked. “You’ll get used to her.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “I think I already like you both.”

“You better,” Arya said matter-of-factly, “we came a long way just to meet you.”

“Where is my nephew?” his mother asked asked, interrupting the conversation.

“He should be here any minute.” His aunt stated. Then, the loudest roars he had ever heard echoed across the courtyard. Everyone in the courtyard, except those from the Targaryen party, knelt in shock and awe as two giant shadows and a smaller one flew overhead.

“By the old gods, sister, please don’t tell me you let your son is on one of those things,” his mother said, her eyes fixed on the two massive dragons and the smaller one. Balerion appeared as black as coal, with golden eyes, and because of his size, Rickon was confident the giant dragon couldn’t fit inside Winterfell’s courtyard, which was quite spacious. The other larger dragon was bronze with blue and green scales, yet still smaller than the black dread. He wasn’t sure which dragon it was, either Vermithor or Vhagar, as they both were described as being that large and having a bronze look. Since Vermithor was the king’s dragon, this one must be Vhagar, which had once been his uncle’s dragon and Queen Visenya’s. The smallest of the three was pale grey with silver markings, and he didn’t know the name of that dragon.

“Well, then, I won’t,” Lyanna replied with a laugh, Rickon involuntarily laughed too. As he received a sided glace from his mother, of don’t you think of getting on to one of those things.

“Come, we shall meet our prince,” his mother said, visibly gulping as she looked at the dragons. Rickon felt like a mix of dread and excitement was bubbling inside him.

They all walked out of the courtyard into the fields in front of Winterfell, which had been freshly cut as the last harvest before winter had just been hauled in.

As the three dragons landed, the ground trembled beneath them. Then a boy of his age, or maybe a bit older, with curling silver-golden hair, Valyrian cheekbones, and a build reminiscent of his grandfather, stepped off the ropes of Balerion. His eyes were Stark grey, but a hint of purple could be seen when the light hit them; it seemed like a mix of both Stark and Targaryen in him.

They all stood there watching in wonder, his cousin petting the two giant dragons as if they were hounds. ‘The third dragon, however, he left alone. The dragons could devour his cousin in a single bite, and it wouldn’t even be a substantial meal but a mere snack,’ he wondered as he shook his head.

Approaching, he knelt along with everyone else as their Prince spoke. “Please, rise, all of you. We are kin, and there’s no need to kneel for family,” his cousin said with a strong, authoritative voice, an unusual trait for someone his age. He hoped he could emulate that authority when he grew older.

“Grandmother, it is a pleasure to see you again, and aunt, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Aemon said with a bright smile. His grandmother walked over to his cousin, and they embraced. “ Last time, you were still a boy. Now, you’ve grown so much, and you start to look like my Rickard,” his grandmother said with teary eyes.

“Thank you, grandmother. I missed you, sorry for grandfather,” his cousin replied. “Me too my boy, me too.” His grandmother noted before they parted.

“Aunt, I’ve always wanted to travel to the lands of the mountain clans. I’ve heard many good things. King’s Landing could use some of that Northern humor my mother always brings,” his cousin said with a chuckle.

“The North has long awaited its Northern Prince to come home. You are a welcome addition to us all, nephew,” his mother said, and his cousin kissed her on the cheek.

“Who is this little one?” Aemon asked, looking at his brother. “This little one is Bennard Stark.” Upon hearing the name, he noticed a small frown briefly across his cousin’s face. “He has a lot of Lock in him, I see, but also his father,” his cousin said with a smile.

“Well, he’s a Stark nephew, just like you,” his mother said with a smile. Then he locked eyes with his cousin, those familiar Stark grey eyes that held a weariness one wouldn’t expect in a boy his age.

“You must be Rickon. I’m Aemon. I hope we’ll have many adventures. If you’d like, I’ll even take you dragon riding, cousin,” his cousin said, extending his hand. He couldn’t contain his excitement. He embraced his cousin, knowing that this was a definite yes.

“That’s a yes, I take it,” his cousin chuckled, and his words were met with laughter from the rest of the family.

Aemon Targaryen (101 A.C. Nineth Moon)

Winterfell – Crypts.

Later during the day.

‘It was strange meeting the Starks and arriving back at Winterfell. It did feel like a second homecoming, and he did receive a far better reception. The last time he came with royalty, all his bannermen acted like ungrateful cunts, and Sansa was a cold and manipulative woman who had, done nothing to keep control of the lords. Or to understand the strategic importance of the arrival of Daenerys’s armies. Not that Sansa understood those matters, as the battle of bastards clearly showed him that.

He remembered what she said after the war council was done. “So you have met the enemy, drawn up your battle plans.” She had said in a tone he had already did not like. He had said, “ Aye, for what they’re worth.” Because he didn’t know Ramsey, he formulated a battle plan based on the forces he had. So there was a chance for them to win. Then, knowing Ramsey as a new Warden, he couldn’t play defensive-minded. He had shown the North his metal by crushing his force into the dirt. But then his dear cousin or sister back started talking again.

“You and your trusted advisors have known him for the space of a single conversation, and you plan how to defeat a man you don’t know.” Well, that was good. Most commanders never meet opposing commanders, and some have never fought a battle. You move the board and try to make the winning move based on what you learned growing up or from past experiences. Sansa then talked about how she knew him. “I lived with him. I know the way his mind works. I know how he likes to hurt people. Did it ever once occur to you that I might have some insight?” She questioned him, and he remembered sitting there and thinking, ‘Why didn’t you tell me that during the war council?’

But he asked what he should do differently and how to return their little brother, and then she answered with something that shocked him the most. “We never get him back. Rickon is Ned Stark’s trueborn son. It is a greater treat that you are a bastard or me a girl. Which means he won’t live long.” He yelled then. He came here to bring his little brother back. “We can’t give up on our brother.” “Please listen to me. He wants you to make a mistake.” He just stared at her.

Was she stupid? He remembered thinking: Every battle commander wants their adversary to make a mistake, so he said. “Of course he does. What should I do differently?” He asked so they could make a different plan. But Sansa only said. “I don’t know anything about battles; just don’t do what he wants you to do.”  “Aye, that’s good advice.” He told the women, who gave him nothing but complaints and bad news. It all came down that night. He felt unhappy. He felt like a failure; he fought for her, but she only complained, and Rickon, poor Rickon, that chance was also gone. So when he shows his little brother run across that battlefield, a primal urge to save him, he doesn’t care about his own life anymore. He just wanted his little brother saved.

Perhaps if the Knight of Vale had attacked earlier, or he had made a plan around them being in and luring Ramsey into a trap. Possibly, Rickon had lived. Not that it mattered. They were all gone now. Expect Arya, who had returned and had slowly changed into a less cold person, and understanding her mistakes, as had he,’ He thought back as he looked at the stone that bore his grandfather’s name. It was the same as his old one.

But a different man. This Rickard had resembled the one he had seen when he played in Winterfell as a child, but now, he was here again, with no statues of his mother, uncles, cousins, or grandfather. Rickard Stark had inherited the Lordship of Edric Stark, his nephew. He never sired children, as Edric died at the young age of six and ten. His uncle and mother’s older brother also passed before their time, passing away in infancy. It seems House Stark had much the same premature deaths as House Targaryen. He wondered if the measter of Winterfell could be trusted.

“You look a lot like him, Aemon,” his uncle said. “It still felt strange to him. The first time he had seen Benjen as the Lord of Winterfell, it felt like a step back in time to his past life. The only noticeable difference was that Benjen looked taller and more muscular than the Uncle Benjen of the Night’s Watch.” He thought the two of them had a familiarity with each other.

“I know mother said much the same. Grandfather enjoyed the fact I had his eyes.” He replied with a sad chuckle. “You do, father spoke of it proudly, and quote that boy is wolf as well as dragon. When he comes North, he will be like a fish in water, and I can’t deny he was wrong in his words. You seem to take this place and North if you have already seen it.” Benjen noted.

Aemon tensed at that. “Yes, it feels like home. The books and the tales of mother, they painted a vivid picture of the North and Winterfell, and the North will be my true home for most of myself.”

“Yes, it will be your home. Father was quite proud of the rebuilding of Seadragon Point and building a navy.” Benjen noted fondly.

“It will be quite the change. It’s been a long time since our western shores truly held a strong naval presence, ever since Brandon the burner. The Mormonts and Dustins have some ships, but mostly are for trade and transport. With the building of the navy, it will give protection against future reavers.” Benjen added it had been something they discussed before on their way here, and his uncle had then been impressed with his knowledge and his ideas.

“It will cause quite a change, and it will be a beacon of strength for house Stark and Targaryen. It will be something not seen for some time.” He stated, and Benjen gave an interested look.

“I know. I have seen the sketches and ideas you sent to us. Part of your plans have been built. Others, I wonder how you plan on building those things. Yet you are still youn Aemogn. You will learn not all things can be done.”

“Oh, uncle, I know all too well if I could, my father would still be alive.” He noted with a sigh.

He heard a sigh from Benjen as he placed a hand on his shoulder. “Ïndeed, nephew, now come, let’s have you prepare for the feast. My mother and wife certainly have prepared.”

Flashback. 

Harrenhal, a few moments after that damn dream.

He had gone to Balerion the moment he awoke from that damned dream.

Seeing Harren the Black, the desecration of the weirwoods, their sacred groves cut down to make way for a tyrant’s abomination, and sap of the trees mixed into the mortar. Had left him reeling. It was a mockery, a deliberate insult to the Pact and the faith of first men and children.

“Aemon,” Balerion said through their bond, his voice like distant thunder, “what troubles you? You seem distressed.”

“Dreams,” Aemon muttered bitterly. “Fucking dreams. I saw what stood here before all… this. A forest of weirwoods, like the one on the Isle of Faces. And the Ironborn cut it all down to build the pride of Harren the Black. It’s ironic, I’m speaking to the very dragon who burned that pride to ash.”

Balerion exhaled a plume of smoke, his molten eyes fixed on Aemon with ancient understanding.

“Indeed,” the Black Dread rumbled. “I felt the rage of something old the first time I came to this place. This castle was built on bones and blood of sacred woods and slaughtered men. Near its end, even Valyria felt like this, dark, heavy with the purpose it once had. Not the realm of greatness the elders once spoke of, when dragonlords fought for purpose rather than power. But time corrodes all intentions. Even the noble ones. Power is always dangerous. It corrupts best and pushes forward the worse.”

It was one of the many wonders Aemon had discovered through his bond with Balerion, the lore of Valyria, its glories, its craft, and the shadows that had devoured it in the end. Knowledge he would soon need. The knowledge he would use.

“A sad truth,” Aemon said softly. “I wonder what this place looked like at the beginning… before conquest brought fire and Ironborn tore the heart from the land. What house held these lands then, I wonder?”

He gazed toward the broken ruins of Harrenhal.

“But why was I sent that dream?” he murmured. “At the end, just before I woke, voices whispered the names of false, wicked gods. The Drowned God. The Storm God. Even the Seven… they hissed their names at me.”

“The Old Gods, our gods, are true forces of life in this world. At least, from what I now understand of their deeper meaning, as for what I know and you told me.” Balerion mused. “The Great Other created these false gods to weaken our gods’ hold on the mortal plane so that the message of the ancient powers and the threat of the Great Other could be eroded. The Seven, for example, see the First Men and their tales as nothing more than fables, and sadly, even their own descendants have fallen under that spell. I think the gods want you to revive them. To bring the True Gods forward again. To cast aside these wicked ones, the ones spread by the Great Other.”

“If so,” Aemon said, “I will need far more power than I have now to rebuild that ancient strength. Perhaps even organize it. As much as I love the silent nature of the gods and each person’s own path to their worship… we’ll need people. Guardians for the weirwoods, like the green men that live on the Isle of Faces. Shepherds to tend the trees and to spread their tale, what they are, and what they do to the land.”

He looked toward the horizon.

“As much as I hate this castle, God’s Eye and the lands around Harrenhal are bountiful. Every castle in the North holds weirwoods or at least a hearttree, and those lands are fertile, though the cold limits how much we can harvest. But our forests still hold weirwoods, and they’re stronger and more plentiful than the ones in the south. The Kingswood, for all its abundance, is grand… but it pales in comparison to the Wolfswood, or even the woods beyond the Wall.”

Aemon smiled faintly, his voice lifting with a spark of enthusiasm.

“Even King’s Landing has a young Hearttree, and its effect on the nature of the garden that surrounds it is already noticeable.”

“Well then, Aemon,” Balerion rumbled. “You know what must be done. Restore the old power and set aside the new. Sometimes, fire is the only way to clear a forest so that new sprouts may rise.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 21 : Roles and Fire and Steel

Arya Targaryen (101 A.C. Eleventh Moon)

Aemon’s chamber.

Arya sat on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped loosely in her lap as she waited for her brother. The room was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the hearth fire and the distant rustles of leaves from the wolfswood.

Her mind wandered as she looked around Jon’s chamber. 'Aemon,’ she sighed as she corrected the name in her mind. Even after nearly four years of living this new life the strangeness of it hadn’t fully worn off.

Aemon, that was his name now. Aemon Targaryen.

She still caught herself thinking of him as Jon, sometimes even saying it aloud by accident when they were alone. And each time he would frown, that quiet tension rising within his shoulders. He never scolded her, not exactly, but the message was always there. Jon Snow belonged to the past, a life buried beneath ashes, blood and grief. Aemon was the name he was given at his birth, and he had now claimed it as his own like a sword fits in a scabbard.

They didn’t speak often of the lives they’d lived before. They did not want to think about the fates of their brothers, and Sansa often brought bitterness to both their mouths when thinking of the woman she had become. The memories still felt like open wounds, no matter how much they tried to bandage them, and thinking of their fates often felt like salt being rubbed in. The rare moments they spoke of their past lives were moments she both treasured and dreaded, filled with happy memories tainted by sorrow.

Lyanna had told her stories she’d never known; stories of their father, of the man he was before war and duty took him. Those tales had been honey upon a world she thought lost to her forever.

Her bond with her new older sister Visenya, had been a bright flame in this new world. At first, Arya had thought the girl would be like the other ladies of the court she had known, delicate and distant. But Visenya was a true mix of both her and Jon. Visenya was both brash at times and practiced the sword with Aemon. Yet her sister could also be a princess of the realm, doing her duty and acting like was expected of her. She seemed more mature than her age of seven would imply, and Arya tried to follow her example. Even if it killed her to do it, but acting like a toddler had been boring too and she had somehow managed.

Thankfully, ever since she had bonded with Grey Ghost, she had felt more content and free, like she once had, when she still dreamed of wolfdreams with Nymeria. Now, when she warged into Grey Ghost, it felt like tasting again the freedom she had long missed.

Lost in her thoughts, she barely noticed as the door opened with a quiet creak and Aemon stepped into the chamber. He had shed his cloak before entering, and the smell of sweat and burned charcoal clung faintly to him. Her brother had finally begun learning the ways of the forge, a smith’s craft, with all it entailed. It had taken two moons of arguing with Lyanna and their uncle before he’d been allowed.

“A prince of the realm will not work a forge,” their uncle had said more than once, stiff with disapproval. But in the end, Aemon won the battle.

He paused when he saw her, framed in the fire’s glow, small hands curled in her lap and her legs not quite reaching the edge of the bed.

“Arya,” he said softly, voice low and careful as if testing the mood. “I thought we agreed I’d come and get you.”

She didn’t rise, only turned her eyes to meet his. Eyes too sharp for her little face, eyes that held too many years.

“I know,” she replied simply. “But you were late again, so I came to you.”

Aemon exhaled through his nose a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

“I was in the forge,” he said. Then Aemon began to ramble about how great it was to do.“It’s truly fascinating Arya. Shaping the ores until they become swords or tools. Then there is the heat the content heat. I don’t really feel the heat. It’s… nice, actually. I don’t even when the metals glow or the coals are close to my skin.”

“I know. I smell you,” she replied with a grin. “You’re taking a bath after we’re done.”

“Hm,” he hummed, settling down beside her. “And? Have you given more thought to what we discussed last time?”

She nodded, her voice growing more focused. “It’s a good idea. Something I’d enjoy doing, I can be stealthy yet high in status enough for people to know the work they do will be rewarded well. Especially if we start it at Seadragon Point. The harbor’s already growing in importance, and information flows with the ships. A brothel where tales can be overheard and passed on would be useful. I know I can handle the administration, yet in the future, we also need someone to handle that side.”

Aemon considered her words, his expression thoughtful. “Mother wasn’t too pleased,” he said, “but she understands. It’s the way things work. Knowledge and control, if we use it wisely, we can steer the realm in the right direction. Although that will only be a small part of it.”

He leaned back slightly, rubbing the heel of his hand over one brow. “I just hope our goodsister’s child is born healthy. A boy, perhaps. Aemma needs rest. Peace. If the babe is not a boy, I’ll write to Viserys. He needs to stop and give her time to recover. His remarrying, that’s what led to the Dance or at least part of it. But now he has me, another possible heir. He could name me if he needs to. That is, if Daemon doesn’t grow up. The man seems to love family, yet he despises outsiders. And use being outsiders and family both makes us the thing he loathes the most.”

She nodded along as she listened. It was true; Daemon was a true and utter cunt. An arrogant prince, who truly only cared for his Valyrian heritage, Viserys, and by extension Rhaenyra.

Aemon’s voice softened, “My children are already arranged to marry within the line, Jaehaerys was quite insistent on it. He couldn’t let me succeed, he and I couldn’t bring myself to usurp Viserys or Rhaenys either, just as much as I never could do the same to Robb. So, he has ensured at least that my blood will sit on the throne, even if it is a grandchild.”

Arya’s gaze dimmed for a moment, more somber. “I know it’s probably a foolish hope, but I hope that Aemma’s child is a boy. She deserves a break, and Aemma is a wonderful mother,” she said. “I saw her pain once up close… not long after I was born. She held me in her arms and wept. She had just lost another babe. She spoke of him of the little boy with blue eyes and hair like Viserys.”

“I can’t even imagine the pain. Carrying child after child, and only one to live to survive infancy. It is probably similar how Rhaella felt during her marriage to Aerys.” Aemon noted sadly.

She bit her lip, and Aemon looked at her thoughtfully. “Arya, what is it?” He asked. She sighed he knew her far to well.

 “One of the things that truly scares me is becoming a mother and childbirth.” She replied with a sigh. It was one of her greatest fears and insecurities, could she be a mother and birth a child? In her last life, she had barely survived after Waif had stabbed her in the stomach. After that moment, she never had her moonblood again, and the possibility of children had left her thoughts entirely. It had been part of the reason why she said no to Gendry when he had asked her to marry him, she knew she could never give him any children.

“Arya, it’s something I fear too, the times you and Visenya were born.  I was so scared to lose my mother, yet when I asked if she regretted having me, and that she died because of it. She said she would give birth to me a hundred times over, even if she knew she was to die.

“I fear what will become of Laena when she gets pregnant, and what will happen during the time she goes into labor. Unfortunately, that fear of uncertainty is part of life.

“As well, Arya, I think if you ever become a mother, you will be wonderful. I remember a time of a caring girl, who loved her family, and I know you will give all the love to your child if you are so blessed. If you are worried about marrying, I will burn your betrothed’s keep down if you disapprove of the match.” Aemon said as he enveloped her in a hug.

“Thank you, brother, and we make the best of it. As long as we are together as a pack as family.” She added as she clung to him.

“Indeed, the Stark-Targaryen Pack,” Aemon noted, and both chucked lightly.

Aemon Targaryen (101 A.C. Twelfth Moon)

Winterfell Forge
The clang of iron echoed beneath the stone towers, steady and sharp as the cry of a raven.

The Winterfell smithy was carved into the side of the outer bailey wall, open to the air but sheltered beneath heavy timber beams blackened by smoke. Small patches of summer snow piled up just beyond the forge’s awning, slowly melting from the flames’ heat. Cold bit at the edges of the stone yard. But inside the forge, it was heat, sweat, and steel.

Aemon Targaryen grinned as he looked toward the forge, using the bellows. He enjoyed this type of work. It was a straight line short of focus, where he didn’t need to wrangle different angles or discuss things with other people. Here he could do his work, and work toward what needed to be done, a hammer, sword, or something else entirely..  Only the forge and the metals that he was working with were on his mind.

He wore a simple leather apron over black wool; sleeves rolled high, with thick leather gloves to protect his hands from the heat, even if he didn’t need them. His boots were old, the soles scuffed and soot-stained, and his gloves bore the dark smears of coal. He looked like any apprentice if one ignored the curly golden-sliver hair curling damply against his head, signaling his Valyrian heritage despite his northern features.

And if one ignored that, the fact that he did not sweat in the heat would signal him as distinctly unique among the cold winds of the North.

He turned the billet in the coals with iron tongs, watching the metal glow a yellow-orange. The master smith, Jorick, a great bear of a man with arms like logs and a beard like a raven’s nest, stood across the fire, arms folded over his chest and watching.

“Hot enough,” Jorick muttered just loud enough for Aemon to hear him.

Aemon nodded, pulled the billet free, and placed it on the anvil. He shifted it slightly, picked up the hammer, and began.

Clang.
Clang.
Clang.

Each strike was crisp and deliberate. He wasn’t very strong, not yet like the other boys, but his aim was sure and his rhythm unbroken. He worked with the kind of patience and determination that made a good smith, Jorick had said.

After a few hours of heating and hammering at metal, until an axehead began to take shape. It was a small, bearded blade; short and practical, and suited for a belt or a saddlebag. He flattened the cheeks, angled the beard and struck to taper the edge.

Around him, two younger lads worked a different anvil, one red-faced and puffing, the other wiping sweat from his brow with a sleeve. The fire baked the air around them.

Aemon just worked on, unbothered by the heat plaguing the others.

His face was calm and focused. His hands moved quickly but never rushed. When the steel began to cool, he set it gently back into the fire, adjusted the bellows and then stepped aside to sharpen another piece at the grindstone.

Jorick passed behind him, muttering as he did. “Not a word since sunrise. I’ve trained mute bastards with more chatter.”

“I’m here to learn,” Aemon said simply, working the grindstone with slow, steady turns.

“You’re a bloody prince. Princes in the tales are always peacocks,” Jorick said with a nod.

“I might be a prince,” Aemon replied, “but I’m also a Northman. And here in the forge, I’m just an apprentice.”

That made the old smith let out a low chuckle. “No, not even here. Don’t think folk don’t notice. You’re the dragon’s whelp, whether you wear a leather apron or fine courtly clothes.”

“Hmm, a prince will always be a prince, I suppose. But I want to learn.” Aemon replied. “I have plans for these skills, and even the people look at me with surprise. I know it will be worth it if I put in the work”

Jorick grunted. “Well, you know what you’re doing, lad. Though you still need to work on your strength and stamina. But you’ve got the basics down, and quickly too. You knew some of what you needed to do before I taught you. Raw talent, that’s what it is.” He nodded at words as he returned to the billet.

The billet was ready again. Aemon lifted it from the coals and returned it to the anvil.

He worked the shape cleaner now, smoothing the blade’s curve, trimming the beard, flattening the back spike. A proper woodsman’s axe. Or a weapon, if it came to that.

“Hold there,” Jorick said after a while. “Let it cool. Quench next.”

Aemon nodded. He lifted the finished piece, still glowing faintly, and lowered it into the oil. Smoke hissed and curled around them. The sharp scent of scorched metal and burnt oil filled the forge.

Out of the smoke came a crisp, clean piece of steel. Thankfully, no cracks or warping blemishes the blade.

He had made pieces before, most of them flawed. Some cracked at the edge. Others bent wrong or cooled too fast. But this one was just right.

Jorick stepped closer, squinting through the smoke. “Well done. I think this is the first piece you’ve made without any true imperfections.”

He nodded in approval, then looked Aemon over and shook his head. “Every time I think you ought to be sweating buckets, lad. But you’re not. You just keep at it. I’ve seen you in this heat and you don’t care.”

“I’m warm,” Aemon said. “But I don’t mind it.”

Jorick stared for a long moment. “You’re a strange one. Must be that dragonblood of yours.”

Aemon didn’t answer. He pulled the axe head free from the quench and set it aside to cool.

Nearby, the four other apprentices paused their work to glance at the finished blade.

“Well done, my prince. A fine piece,” said Jarem, and the others nodded in agreement.

“You all know,” Aemon said with a tired sigh, “when I’m in the forge, I’m just Aemon.”

Jorick turned away. “Tomorrow, we haft it. If it cuts clean, it’s yours.”

Aemon gave a small nod. “Thank you.”

He allowed himself a grin as he looked at the blade. It was small, but it was well-forged, his first true piece, made entirely by his own hand.

“Boys,” Jorick called out across the forge, “clean up your work. We’ll continue on the morrow.”

After nearly an hour of scrubbing tools, sweeping coals, and brushing down anvils, the sun had begun to set over the grey stones of Winterfell. The air outside was freezing, but the forge still pulsed with warmth.

As the work wound down, Jorick brought out a small cask and poured each of them a tin cup of ale. “Enjoy, lads.”

They all drank eagerly. During the day, they drank only water, but the cold ale now was a rich, bracing treat after a long day of labor. They sat for a while, chatting in low voices as the forge cooled.

After a little talk with the other lads, Aemon rose, stretched his back, and excused himself. He headed straight to the bathhouse.

He needed one.

Winterfell Forge, The Next Morning

The forge was cold at dawn, the coals still black and sleeping, but Aemon arrived before the others as he always did. He lit the fires himself, slow and steady, just as Jorick had taught him, and fed the flames until the hearth glowed bright.

By the time the other lads arrived, yawning and rubbing their eyes, the forge was already warm. Jorick came last, carrying a length of ashwood and a small box of iron wedges.

“Right,” the smith grunted. “Let’s haft this blade.”

Aemon fetched the axe head he had left to cool. It still gleamed faintly in the morning light, making his work shine.

They shaped the haft together, Aemon cutting and shaving the wood, Jorick occasionally offering a grunt of advice. When it fit snug and true, they slotted the head on and hammered in the iron wedge.

“She’s ready,” Jorick said.

Aemon turned the axe in his hands. It felt right, the balance of the axe was correct, and he tried a swing. ‘Yes, just right,’ he thought with a grin.

Outside, snow drifted lazily in the courtyard. A chopping block had already been set up by the forge door, with a stack of old logs piled beside it. Jorick pointed to it with his chin.

“Well, let’s see what you’ve made.”

Aemon stepped forward. He tested the swing once in the air, then brought it down clean into the wood.

CRACK. The log was nearly split in two, clean and smooth.  The axe stopped about halfway down the wood, and Aemon pulled the axe out of the wood and went for another swing. CRACK. The second cut split the wood in two.

Jorick placed down another log. “One more, and the axe is truly ready.”

He struck true, and the axe split the log in one clean stroke.

“Wow,” one of the other boys muttered. “That thing bites hard.”

Just then, they heard boots crunching over fresh snow. A young voice called out, “Aemon!”

Rickon Stark came bounding through the yard, cheeks flushed from the cold. He was bundled in a heavy black cloak trimmed with white fur, his hair a dark tangle beneath his hood. At seven, he was already wiry and sharp-eyed, like a young wolf.

“Oh, are you testing the axe?” his cousin exclaimed.

Aemon turned, lowering the weapon. “Indeed. We hafted the axe just this morning, and it works like a charm.”

Rickon came up to the chopping block, eyes fixed on the blade. “Is that the one you forged yourself? Let me see!”

Aemon handed it over carefully. “Be careful. It’s sharp.”

Rickon took it with both hands, nearly overbalancing from the weight. “It’s heavy.”

“It’s not a toy,” Aemon said, gently steadying his cousin’s grip. “But when you’re stronger, I’ll make one for you that you can use.”

Rickon beamed. “I want one just like this. Maybe with some of the old runes we saw like the ones the First Men carved.”

“Maybe. But engraving is one thing I’ve yet to learn.” He gave Jorick a small grin.

“Indeed, my lord,” Jorick cut in with a grunt. “The dragon-whelp hasn’t yet learned that trade, but he shows promise.” The big man added a wink in Rickon’s direction.

Rickon blinked up at the smith with a small smile, then handed the axe back to Aemon, a little reluctantly.

“Three clean cuts,” Jorick said, rubbing his beard as he turned to Aemon. “Good balance, clean edges. I’d say it’s yours, lad. You’ve earned it.”

Aemon gave a quiet nod. “Thank you.”

“You’ll want to sharpen it after each use. And oil the haft,” Jorick added, then glanced down at Rickon. “You’ve got your own lessons, my lord?”

At that, Rickon’s cheeks burned bright red. “I do, just the maester was going on about some boring houses down in Dorne,” he said, clearly unhappy.

Aemon grinned at his cousin. “Hmm. Doesn’t excuse skipping your lessons. Still, let’s have it this way, if you go now, I’ll take you on a ride on Balerion.”

Rickon lit up and jumped at him, throwing his arms around Aemon in a hug.

“Careful,” Aemon murmured, chuckling as he embraced Rickon back.

Soon enough, they watched as the boy ran off toward the keep, eager to finish his studies.

“Hmm,” Jorick said, watching him go. “That lad’ll be a good lord one day. Lord Benjen was similar at that age.”

“I think so too,” Aemon replied quietly.

Later that day.

Aemon and Rickon had just dismounted from Balerion’s back when Aemon saw her, his mother, waiting in the field. Her face was shadowed with sorrow.

“Aunt Lyanna!” Rickon called out brightly, still flushed with excitement. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? Flying! Did you and Uncle Baelon ever fly together on Vhagar?”

Her lips twitched into a faint, distant smile. “We did. Once, all five of us flew together.” But her voice was quiet, her gaze distant. Then her tone shifted. “I’m sorry, but I have something to tell you both.”

Aemon stilled at her words. “What is it, Mother?”

He saw it in her eyes before she spoke, something heavy.

She turned to him gently. “Your cousin, Princess Aemma, has given birth… but the boy did not live.”

Her voice was low and sorrowful. The wind around them seemed to be still them as if holding its breath.

Aemon lowered his head and closed his eyes. “I see.”

Another loss for the family, and hope dying out with the child gone, another heir gone. He thought as he inhaled deeply.

Chapter Text

Chapter 22: Southern Plays

Laena Velaryon (101 Tenth Moon)

Dragonstone – Aegon’s Garden

Laena read the letter from Aemon again as she thought wistfully of him.

To my dearest friend Laena Velaryon,

It’s been two moons now since I arrived at Winterfell and I think I’ve started to feel at home here, strange as that may sound. The cold doesn’t bother me much anymore. In fact, I rather like it. It’s sharp and fresh, and the wind feels clean in my lungs. Balerion though, is not as fond of it. He grumbles and cracks his wings when the snow clings to his scales like wet wool. I think he misses the salt air.

The North itself is vast with many plains and forests, and the woods and trees seem larger. The Weirwoods and Heartrees feel ancient compared to those in the south, except for the Heartree we saw in Harrenhal. That one is quite similar in size to the one in Winterfell.

As for Winterfell, it might be the largest castle I have been to save for Harrenhall, although calling that ruin a castle is debatable. The castle is surrounded by two high walls with a moat in between them. The castle has many other fortifications, but I suppose you would rather not bore you with them. I still look forward to your face when you see the place for yourself, it truely is a magnificent castle.

I think you would be facinated by the hot springs that pump hot water around the castle, keeping it relatively warm even during winter, or so Mother and the rest of the Starks tell me. They are wonderful place to bathe as well, especially for us dragons.

I wish you could see it for yourself. Not just the castles and the land, but the people and the stars here, they shine brighter, I swear it. But even with all that wonder, I cannot help but think something is missing. I miss you. And Laenor. And Rhaenyra. And Alicent, and yes, even Gwayne, though I wouldn’t say so to his face.

I miss you all more than I can say. I hope you’re well, and I’ll keep writing as often as I can. When I close my eyes, I can still hear your laugh. Tell me everything that you have done since our departure. I want to know it all.

Until then,
Your dearest friend,
Aemon Targaryen

Laena sighed, her gaze lingering on the letter in her hands. The words on the page had long since imprinted themselves into her mind, but still, she read them again. Aemon’s handwriting was firm and clean, his voice so clear in her head it was as if he were speaking beside her.

The North.

It would be the place she’d likely spend most of her life, and yet it still felt like a faraway dream; cold, gray, and wild. When Aemon wrote of it, though, he made it sound like something out of a song, just as Southerners always did when speaking of the North. Mysterious, ancient, and brimming with wonders.

She was so caught up in his words that she didn’t hear Rhaenyra’s approach. “Rereading Aemon’s letter again?”

Laena looked up, startled. Rhaenyra stood at the edge of the garden path, her sworn shield trailing behind her.

“Nyra, hey,” Laena said with a smile, folding the letter gently in her lap. “And yes. I am.”

Rhaenyra dropped onto the bench beside her with the easy grace of someone who belonged everywhere she went.

“I was reading mine again too,” she admitted. “He sounds happy. They all do. Visenya wrote to me as well. She told me all about Winterfell, about the great hall, the hot springs, and some of the Northern lords and ladies. She seems to be having a grand time.” Rhaenyra’s voice softened a little. “At least she’ll be joining us in the south once she turns ten, though that’s still two years away.”

Laena smiled faintly, setting the letter aside. “What do you think of your new ladies?”

Rhaenyra didn’t answer at once. She glanced across the garden, lips pursed in thought.

“I’m… mixed,” she said at last. “Lady Alinor Lannister and Lady Randa Lychester are both so serious. So proper. So... lady-like.”

Then she coughed into her hand, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Am I not lady-like enough? Aren’t Alicent or Visenya?” she asked, feigning outrage.

“You are, in your own way. But they… they’re just so boring. All they want to do is embroider, gossip about boys, and listen to harp songs.” Rhaenyra responded quickly, grinning.

“As for Alicent, she can be playful when she wants to be. And you, Laena Velaryon, I know you have been practicing swordplay when no one’s watching or when you’re with Aemon,” Rhaenyra added as she gave her a fake serious look.

Laena blushed and looked down, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “Only sometimes, and it’s great fun when it turns into a game.”

Those had been some of her happiest moments. She and Aemon race through the gardens of Dragonstone and Kingslanding or different places they had chosen, laughing, playing Catch Me, Save the Princess or some other play.

“I don’t love swordplay,” Rhaenyra confessed. “But I will admit I like archery. And reading about old battles or dragonlords. Alinor and Randa look like they swallowed a sour lemon anytime I mention it.”

“Maybe it’s because they’re older than us,” Laena added thoughtfully. “Alinor is three and ten, and Randa is twelve.”

“So is Alicent,” Rhaenyra countered. “But she’s not half so stiff. She is a little too much into the gods sometimes, but she can still laugh. Still play.”

Laena gave a small nod, then offered, “At least Mandy Strong is fun.”

Rhaenyra’s face lit up. “Yes! Especially when she made up Ghost in My Castle. That game is always a delight.”

They both laughed, leaning into the memory.

Alicent Hightower (101 A.C. Twelfth Moon)

 King’s Landing, King’s Chambers

“Your Grace, what would you like to read today?” Alicent asked softly, her hands folded neatly before her.

The aged King Jaehaerys lifted his head to meet his eyes with hers, giving a weary smile that didn’t quite match the sadness behind them. The lines around his mouth had deepened in recent days, and a shadow hung over his countenance like a persistent fog.

“Something of the North, my dear,” he said, his voice hoarse and brittle. “I wish to know more of the land where my favorite grandchild now lives.”

Alicent offered him a warm smile, though the sorrow in his tone tugged at her heart. “If you wish, Your Grace. I shall go to the library and ask the maester for a book.”

She dipped into a low curtsy, her green skirts sweeping the floor, and turned to go. As she moved toward the doors of the King’s solar, she felt the weight of his grief pressing at her back like a cold wind.

The King’s mood had not lifted since the raven came from Dragonstone. Princess Aemma had given birth to a stillborn boy. The babe had been born too small and pale. He had the unmistakable silver hair of Viserys, yet he had never drawn breath. Aemma had survived the birth, but the birth had been difficult.

Alicent’s thoughts drifted to Rhaenyra. Her friend had been so excited at the thought of a younger sibling. She hadn’t cared whether it would be a brother or a sister, only that the child would live. Alicent could still hear her voice, bright with hope, speaking of lullabies and lessons she’d planned to teach the baby when they were still taking lessons together.

She wished she could comfort her.

But Rhaenyra still had Laena and her new ladies. She was not without companionship. Still, Alicent couldn’t help but miss her, miss all her old friends. Letters came, of course, but ink and parchment were cold things and did little to ease the loneliness.

Spending time with the King had become another kind of peace. Reading to him most days had not only won her his trust but taught her more than the Septa ever had. The Septa’s lessons were narrow and focused on virtue, duty, the Faith, tales of maidens and heroes, and the names of great houses. But the histories she read to the spook of ancient kings, of old battles, political intrigue, and much more. She had come to crave them.

The soft clang of the chamber door closing behind her drew her back to the present. In the hallway outside, a pair of guards stood at attention.

“Good morrow, my lady,” said Ser Addam Tarth with a courteous nod.

“Ser Addam, Ser Simon,” Alicent replied with practiced grace, acknowledging both men with a gentle smile as she passed. They bowed slightly in return.

The corridors of the Red Keep were quieter than usual. A hush had fallen over the castle since the news from Dragonstone, and even the bustling court seemed to move with solemnity.

King Jaehaerys had called Aemon his favorite grandchild. The boy, the only son of Baelon and Lyanna, had been sent to the North with his mother and younger siblings to the agreed-upon foster, but also to begin learning how to rule his land in Seadragon Point when he became ten.

Alicent might have missed him the most of all the friends she made in King's Landing. He felt closest to her age; she loved Rhaenyra, yet she was still four and a half years younger than her. Aemon often acted older and seemed kind, yet with a determined mind that reminded her of her father. She smiled as she tried to picture him; his grey eyes, almost silver or the color of Valyrian steel, were from the First Men.

His unique eyes had made her curious about the First Men and their culture, prompting her to read about the North and to reread his letters.

Turning another corner, she descended a short flight of steps and passed through an arched doorway, entering the more shadowed, cool parts of the castle. The scent of parchment and old wood began to fill the air. Her pace quickened slightly.

And then, at last, she pushed open the carved oak door that led into the library.

Otto Hightower (101 A.C. Twelfth Moon)

Kingslanding – Tower of the Hand

Otto Hightower smiled faintly as Lord Beesbury finished detailing the increased donations Faith was receiving from the royal treasury after a few moons of removing the ridiculous gifts to smallfolk and increasing payments to the upkeep of the sewage system.

“The Seven who are one smile upon the gifts, Lord Beesbury,” Otto said smoothly, taking a sip of watered wine as he leaned back in his high-backed chair. “And the crown’s continued generosity will not be forgotten by the faith.”

Nor by the Faith. Nor by its followers. Nor by those whose loyalties could be gently nudged with gold and faithfulness.

It had been ten moons since Jaehaerys named him Hand, and in that time, Prince Viserys had been named Prince of Dragonstone, the King’s chosen heir after the Great Council at Harrenhal. A useful choice. Predictable. Malleable. A man of peace and one who seemed to trust his counsel.

He also had made some headway with Prince Daemon. Still, the matter of succession lingered in his mind like a dagger’s edge.

The King had only a daughter and two younger brothers. While Princess Rhaenyra had her father’s favor, the crown’s succession currently held a strong precedent that the male would inherit before a daughter. It had been so after King Jaehaerys named Baelon over Rhaenys after Aemon’s death and had been even further back with Jaehaerys his own succession over the daughters of Aegon the Uncrowned, as well as his own elder sister Rhaena. 

Brothers came before daughters. Such was the tradition set. Daemon was the heir and would remain so unless Aemma Arryn bore a living son, which after the tragedy at Dragonstone, seemed less likely with every passing moon.

And if Daemon remained heir...

Otto’s fingers tapped idly against the arm of his chair as he considered the possibilities once more. A thought he mused came to him. It wasn’t a secret that Daemon’s marriage to Lady Rhea Royce was an unhappy one and an unconsummated one at that. So, it could not even be called a true marriage in the eyes of the Faith.

After Harrenhall, Daemon had not returned to the Vale. Instead, he had switched between traveling to Essos and visiting Dragonstone and King’s Landing. In the city, people had already started to expect his presence, and by all accounts, it was a welcome one.

If the match could be set aside, Alicent would soon flower into womanhood. They could play on that. His daughter was becoming more beautiful by the day, and she was both modest and clever. Much more importantly, however, she already held the King’s trust. If she were to be joined to Daemon...

His attention shifted back to the Small Council chamber as the newest voice among them began to speak.

“Speaking of the Faith, my lords,” said Lord Carlton Marbrand, “the sept at Maidenpool has sent a request to raise arms against a group calling themselves the Band of the Leaf.”

Lord Marbrand, newly appointed to the council, sat with an upright bearing and clear conviction. He was a man of principle, devoted to the Faith, and a true vassal to the Lannisters, man through and through. Otto had placed him on the council to reward the Western lord for their support for Viserys and his own plans. They were demanding more influence, but the move had also brought him a useful voice, pious, firm, and loyal.

“The Band of the Leaf?” Otto echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“Indeed, Lord Hand,” Marbrand said. “A group of outlaws has taken refuge in the lands near Maidenpool. They’ve attacked minor septs and looted shrines. Some say they’ve even desecrated altars. The local septon pleads for the right to take up arms and hunt them down.”

Before Otto could respond, the Master of Ships interjected. Lord Corlys Velaryon had returned to court only a moon past, and his presence had subtly altered the balance of the council. More than once, he had challenged Otto.

“This surely cannot be permitted,” Corlys said, his tone calm but firm. “Since the reign of Maegor, the Faith’s right to bear arms has been revoked. That law still stands. If brigands are plaguing the lands, then surely Lord Mooton of Maidenpool can handle the matter.”

“You speak truly, my lord,” Otto said smoothly, always careful to acknowledge the Sea Snake’s standing. “Yet if a septon appeals directly to the crown, is it not our duty to at least consider intervention?”

Corlys gave a slow nod, though his expression was tight with reluctance. “If this truly is a matter for the crown, then I suggest the Master of Laws be dispatched with a small force to investigate. Should he find the threat legitimate, then let him act accordingly, with leave from us.”

Otto inclined his head, considering. Corlys, as ever, made good sense, though grudgingly. “Very well. Lord Marbrand, I will assign ten of my own household men and ten from the City Watch. Bring ten of your own household and ride to Maidenpool. Investigate the claims and restore order if needed.”

He paused. “Before you depart, I will provide a sealed writ authorizing you to act on behalf of the crown.”

Lord Marbrand bowed his head. “As you command, Lord Hand. If there is injustice, I will see it ended.”

The council moved on to lesser matters, grain shipments being delayed from Reach, causing increased prices of bread in the city, repairs to the Dragonpit’s roof, and the allocation of coins for the upcoming feast day of the Mother. All the while, Otto’s mind schemed about the future ahead.

Chapter Text

Chapter 23 : Gifts for Dragons

Aemon Targaryen (102 A.C. Second Moon)

Winterfell – Aemon’s chambers.

A loud knocking roused Aemon from sleep.

He groaned and rubbed his eyes, still heavy with sleep, the chill of the morning creeping even into the warm walls of Winterfell. As he looked around, he saw the hearth fire had long since gone out, and the chill was even more explained as he looked outside the window. Snow was falling, the beginning of winter, the past half year, as autumn had begun to show in the North, and during their journey to Winterfell, some summersnows had fallen. His mother’s words were always true: winter is coming. The snow cast his room in a gray, pale light. Slowly, he threw off the thick fur blankets and padded barefoot across the stone floor. The floor was warm, heated stones of Winterfell, never falling their purpose.

As he unlocked the heavy wooden door, he barely had time to blink before a sudden whirlwind of motion knocked him back. “Aemon!”

Two small figures launched themselves at him, a flurry of Visenya’s raven hair and Arya’s brown, mixed with their infectious laughter. Visenya and Arya tackled him with all the might their little arms could muster, clinging to his waist and shoulders like cubs to a bear.

“Happy nameday!” they shouted together, their voices high and bright, echoing off the stone walls.

Aemon staggered back a step, more from surprise than force, a groggy grin tugging at his lips. “Bye, Old Gods, save me,” he mumbled, still half-asleep, though the warmth of their embrace had awoken him. He groaned theatrically as they peppered his face with kisses, one on each cheek and another right on the tip of his nose.

Visenya’s braid slapped against his shoulder as she clung to him. Arya clung to his leg, just as she used to when she was smaller, though, at nearly five, she was growing faster than Aemon could keep track of. As he looks down upon Arya, he is transported back to the past, when she, together with Robb and Sansa, until she began following her mother, surprised him for his nameday. Later, Bran and Rickon also came along, even if Sansa no longer did.

“You’re ten now!” Visenya said proudly, breaking him out of his musing. As if it were some great accomplishment of hers as well. “That means you’re finally really old.”

“I’m not that old,” Aemon muttered through a smile. Although I’m thirty-two for true, he thought as he ruffled her hair. “Thank you, both of you.”

A soft laugh came from the doorway. “It seems your sisters have already awoken  you, my boy.”

Aemon looked up and saw her as his mother.

She stood framed in the hall’s light, tall and stately in a deep gray mantle trimmed with silver fox. Her black hair was braided back from her face. Her eyes, sharp and kind, softened as she looked at him.

“Mother,” he said with a bright smile. These moments, with her and his siblings. There was something he still treasured even now.

He crossed the chamber in a few strides as his mother knelt, and he hugged her in a tight embrace, burying his face in her shoulder for a moment.

“Happy nameday,” she said warmly, kissing the top of his head. “Ten years... I still remember the day you were born.” She chuckled at the memory. “You were so small and loud, gods, you wailed like a dragonling.”

He laughed into her shoulder and whispered, “I remember that.”

“I know,” she whispered fondly, cupping his cheek.

Then, gently, she turned to the girls. “Come, little wolves. Let your brother dress. We’ll all have a nice breakfast together in the hall. I’m certain your uncle has something prepared.”

Visenya pouted. “I wanted to give him a present now.”

“We will give his gifts during breakfast with the rest of the family and staff.” their mother replied, ushering them gently toward the door.

“But I want to sit beside him!” Arya insisted, giving him a cheeky grin. She is still taking advantage of being a small child. He thought as he shook his head.

“You shall,” Aemon promised, kneeling to kiss her brow. “Right beside me.”

That satisfied her. The girls gave him one last round of hugs and reluctantly skipped out of the room.

By the time Aemon finished dressing in a warm, black wool tunic stitched with red thread, with a Targaryen sigil upon his chest. He wore the same color for his britches, and stitched with grey direwolves this time.

As Aemon stepped out of his chamber, he found Ser Harrold waiting in the corridor, ever dutiful in his white cloak and polished mail.

“Good morning, Aemon. Happy nameday,” the knight greeted him with a respectful incline of his head.

Aemon smiled. “Thank you, Harrold. And good morning to you as well.”
Harrold gave him a nod, and together they left for the mainhall. He continued down the winding staircases of the inner keep. The warm stones were familiar beneath his boots, worn smooth by generations of lords and kin who had walked these same halls. Along the way, he passed old tapestries faded with old tales of the Starks and even a few of the Conquest itself.

When he reached the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall, they were shut tight. He paused, noting the soft murmur of voices behind them. Something was afoot.

He pushed the doors open.

The moment they creaked inward, the voices within fell silent, just for a beat.

Then, in a burst of cheer, the gathered voices cried out, “Happy nameday!”

The warmth of the hall washed over him, banishing the last traces of sleep. Fires crackled in the hearth, casting a golden glow over the stone walls and long tables. Banners of House Stark and House Targaryen hung on the sides of the hall, the proud direwolf and the three dragons united.

Aemon stood there, blinking in surprise before a wide smile spread across his face.

His mother sat near the high table with Visenya and Arya, both of whom were already half-standing on their benches, waving at him excitedly. His grandmother sat beside his aunt, Lysa, who cradled baby Bennard in her arms. The infant looked startled by the sudden noise, eyes wide, then gave a high-pitched giggle that made everyone nearby laugh.

To their right sat Rickon, who gave him a bright smile.

At the center of the high table sat Lord Benjen Stark, his uncle and guardian. Beside him, a seat stood empty, clearly left for Aemon.

As he stepped further into the room, his family rose to meet him. One by one, they came forward.

His grandmother gave him a kiss on each cheek, and he returned a bright smile. “Ten years. You’re growing into your name, my sweet boy.”

“Thank you, grandmother.” He said as he hugged her tightly.

Lysa pressed a kiss to his forehead and placed Bennard’s tiny hand in his for a moment. “ This little one has a good sense of timing.” 

“Indeed, he does,” He chuckled as he tickled Bennard softly. As he moved on toward Rickon. They embraced each other with a brotherly firmness. “I will miss you when you depart. But don’t worry. I will look after your sisters for you.” Rickon noted.

“On that, I have no doubt, cousin.” He added, with a grin.

As Aemon glanced down the length of the Great Hall, his gaze drifted past the high table to the lower ones, where the rest of the morning gathering had taken their seats. At one table sat his sworn swords, Ser Jeffery, Dollard, Maldor, and Ser Harrold, who had joined them, the four men clustered together in easy camaraderie. They were already deep in conversation, though Harrold looked up and met Aemon’s eyes, offering a warm, quiet smile.

Beyond them, the other tables were filled with familiar faces: servants and handmaids of the Targaryen household. Further down sat a few of his fellow apprentices, near them sat his old master, Jorrick.

These were the people who had surrounded him day after day. They had watched him grow, sparred with him, served him, taught him, and protected him. They had seen him succeed, fail, laugh, bleed, and rise again.

Aemon smiled softly.

Tonight, the Great Hall would be filled with lords and ladies from across the realm. Nobles from the North, and even some from the South, had traveled to Winterfell to witness his nameday and bring their gifts to the Northern prince who rode a dragon. That celebration would be a formal affair, grand and full of expectation.

But that was for tonight.

This morning was different. This morning was for those who knew him not as “Your Grace” or “Prince Aemon” but simply as Aemon. The boy who trained in the yard until his arms ached. The boy who snuck honeycakes from the kitchens for his sisters. The boy who stayed up too late reading by firelight, forgetting how quickly dawn came.

As he took his seat beside his mother, Arya and Visenya giggled and suddenly darted off, vanishing toward the side doors.

He watched them go with growing amusement.

They were up to something.

And lately, Aemon had found himself smiling more and more where Arya was concerned. Winterfell had given her something back, something she had lost in the chaos that swept Westeros. She had only been ten when it all began, and too much of her childhood had been stolen by the chaos of his father’s death. But here, among the familiar stones and silent snows, she laughed again.

A tray of lemoncakes sat before him, still warm. He picked one up and took a bite. The taste, sharp and sweet, made him close his eyes and sigh with quiet pleasure.

They were just as he remembered; they were plentiful in Red Keep and Dragonstone, but in the North, they were a delicacy.

He had shared the fondness for Lemoncakes with Sansa before she began following in her mother’s footsteps. Yet that was a different time under a different name.

“I hope you’re enjoying them. Your mother mentioned your preference,” Uncle Benjen noted from beside him.

“I am, Uncle. Thank you,” Aemon replied, still smiling faintly.

Benjen gave a satisfied nod just as the side door creaked open. Visenya and Arya came bolting through, laughter in their voices and footsteps, with Clement following close behind, struggling to keep a serious face.

They hurried toward the high table, arms full with what appeared to be a folded cloak.

“Brother,” Visenya declared, her voice high with excitement, “since you’ll soon ride west and take your seat among the lords of the realm, we thought you should have something to wear that shows the pride of both our houses.”

Clement helped them unfurl the cloak. It was made of fine grey wool, the top lined with thick black fur. As they turned it around, the hall gasped and murmured.

Embroidered on the back was a white direwolf with red eyes. Its wings are like a dragon’s, the same as the long tail curled into the folds of the fabric.

Aemon stared at the beast, transfixed. It was Ghost. Ghost… I missed you, my friend.

The eyes stared back at him, crimson threads gleaming in the firelight.

He smiled broadly. “A wonderful gift. Did you both come up with the design or did you stitch it too?” he asked, turning to them with a teasing grin aimed at Arya. The hall chuckled, and he caught his mother giving Visenya and Arya a knowing look, her expression soft and proud.

“I did part of the stitching,” Visenya said with pride, “and Arya helped me. She’s a good apprentice.”

Then, quite suddenly, she kissed Arya on the forehead. Arya flushed bright red and looked down shyly. Praise was rare for her. Encouragement, even more so, especially after years under the cold eyes of septa Mordane, who offered more scorn than softness.

“Well, it’s excellent work,” Aemon said firmly. “Come here and give your brother a hug.”

Clement carefully took the cloak from them as both girls ran forward and threw their arms around him. The hall laughed and clapped as the prince was momentarily smothered in silken hair and giggling affection.

“It was my idea to make the wolf white,” Arya whispered as she hugged him tighter. “I don’t know why… I just thought it fit you.” He smiled at her knowing grin.

Aemon’s arms were closed around her. “Thank you,” he whispered back.

The rest of the morning passed with a steady rhythm of warmth and celebration. Aemon received more gifts. Each one was accepted with quiet gratitude, though few stirred him as deeply as the one brought forth by his fellow smiths and his sisters.

They approached as a group. Jorrick walked among them, carrying the bundle with care. Wrapped in thick cloth and bound with a simple leather cord, the gift was unassuming at first glance, but when unveiled, it revealed a smith’s hammer, beautifully forged.

The head was polished to a clean shine, with detailed engravings winding along the sides, dragons and wolves intertwined in curling patterns, representing both sides of his blood. The handle was wrapped in dark leather, its texture rough and honest. Near the base, stamped into the steel, the sigil of House Targaryen.

Aemon turned the hammer in his hands, feeling the weight of it. It wasn’t just the steel or the craftsmanship. It was what it meant. The time they had spent on it. The pride behind the gesture.

Outside Winterfell

Aemon had returned briefly to his chambers after the morning feast, receiving warm congratulations along the way for his nameday. But his thoughts were already elsewhere, he had promised Rickon and his sisters a ride, and the skies were calling.

He changed quickly into his riding leathers. This set was thicker than the ones he wore in the South, specially commissioned after he had arrived in Winterfell. He remembered the freezing flight on Rhaegal that first day back in the North, and he had known then he’d need something more suited to northern skies.

Soon enough, he stepped out into the snow-covered yard. Arya, Visenya, and Rickon were already waiting for him near the dragons. Not far behind them stood a sizeable gathering, lords and ladies who had traveled to Winterfell for the nameday celebration. It seemed they had gathered to witness the dragons take flight. Few could resist the pull of such a sight.

Balerion loomed nearby, black wings tucked close against his sides. As Aemon approached, the great dragon lowered his head, nostrils flaring with familiar warmth.

“Well, congratulations, young hatchling.” The great dragon rumbled at him.

Aemon reached out and rubbed his snout, his gloved fingers brushing the warm, ridged scales.

“We have something for you,” Balerion continued, his thoughts echoing with gravity. “For the future of your house. Keep them safe. I know you will hatch them when the time comes.”

At that moment, Vhagar shifted her massive bulk aside, revealing a small mound between her legs, one of dirt and dragon droppings. Her bright yellow eyes fixed on Aemon, calm and knowing.

“You don’t mean,” Aemon began, breath catching.

“Indeed,” Balerion replied. Dragon eggs. “For your future. For ours.”

Aemon turned to glance at his siblings. Arya was already walking toward Grey Ghost with excitement in her step. Rickon and Visenya waited further back, their expressions curious. Beyond them, the lords and ladies looked on, unaware of what was unfolding.

“Wait a moment more,” he called to them. “It seems the dragons have given me a gift.”

He approached the mound slowly, reverently. Using a branch to remove some of the dirt and the droppings, he revealed three eggs resting within. Aemon had to steady him self not to puke, the stench of the mount was almost unbearable.

The first was blood red, veined with streaks of deep violet.
The second shimmered in a mix of sea green and soft blue, like frozen waters.
The third was black as coal, with golden highlights that glimmered faintly in the winter sun.

Aemon took a breath, overcome with wonder. His hand hovered over them before gently brushing across their warm, hardened shells. “Thank you,” he said through his bond. “I will take care of them.”

Then Vhagar began to rumble, a deep growl echoing from her throat, low and thunderous.

“Dohaeras, Vhagar.” Aemon’s eyes widened as he heard the words and saw who had spoken them.

Visenya stood before the great dragon, her posture tall, her voice steady. She had approached Vhagar without hesitation.

Aemon felt a jolt of conflict twist in his chest—part of him wanted to step in, to protect her if things went wrong. But another part, the wiser part, knew she had to face this herself. If she truly wished to claim the dragon, she had to do it on her own.

“Lykir,” Visenya commanded again, louder this time, unflinching.

Rickon and the others stood frozen, their eyes wide as they watched the girl confront the ancient she-dragon.

Aemon raised his voice. “Command her, Visenya! Claim your birthright—if that is what you desire!”

Vhagar’s mouth opened slightly, and Aemon saw the telltale glow deep within—faint, but growing. A warning. A test.

“Do I need to step in?” Balerion asked, his presence tense.

“No,” Aemon replied firmly. “It’s her decision. If I interrupt now, she may never claim one again.”

Visenya’s voice rang out once more, clear and calm despite the tension thick in the air.
“Dohaeras, Vhagar.”

Vhagar’s glow faded. Her mouth closed. Then, with a great sigh that stirred snow across the ground, the mighty dragon lowered her head until her snout rested before the girl.

Aemon exhaled in relief. His heart pounded in his chest.

“Now make the bond, sister!” he called.

Visenya stepped forward, eyes bright with awe, and placed her hand gently on the dragon’s massive snout. A stillness passed through the field, and then something shifted, quiet and unseen but felt by all.

“Ride her,” Aemon said, smiling now. “And we will join you.”

As Visenya climbed onto Vhagar’s back, her small figure was dwarfed by the massive saddle, which still sat on Vhagar’s back. Yet she moved with purpose, her hands steady, her eyes forward. The bond had been made, the dragon had accepted her, and now came the flight to make it true.

After he gathered the eggs in his cloak, he turned to Arya and Rickon, helping each into the second and third seats strapped behind his own on Balerion’s saddle. Arya’s and Rickon’s eyes were wide with excitement, their hands gripping the harness with eager energy.

Once they were secured, Aemon pulled the thick leather straps over his chest and gave a tug to test their hold.

Then he leaned forward, laying a hand against Balerion’s warm black scales.
“Fly after her.”

With a thunderous beat of wings, Balerion rose. Snow swirled beneath them as the air was swept clean by his ascent. The ground shrank rapidly, Winterfell becoming a pattern of gray stone and white roofs below. The cheers of the gathered lords and ladies echoed up faintly, swallowed by wind and sky.

Above, Visenya had already taken flight.

Vhagar moved with the might that a dragon like her commanded. Except for maybe the Vermithor and the Cannibal could maybe match her might. Even if Balerion was still mightier than Vhagar, or any other thing that he had ever been known. Except for maybe the Night King, the gods, and the horrors, Balerion told him that now reside in Valyria.

“She’s doing amazing, just like the first Visenya, if not with the sliverhair.” Arya gasped behind him.

Aemon smiled. “Indeed”

The sky was theirs. For a time, the North lay beneath them, vast, wild, and quiet. The dragons wheeled above the forests and fields, their shadows racing across the snows below. Even Grey Ghost joined them at a distance, smaller and swifter, responding to Arya’s quiet thrill as he swept through a spiral beneath them.

Eventually, they began to descend. Balerion dropped lower, circling the godswood once, then coming to a thunderous landing in the open fields beside Winterfell. Rickon let out a breathless laugh as they touched down, and Arya was already unstrapping herself before the saddle had even stilled.

Vhagar landed moments later, her great wings folding in with a gust of wind that sent snow flying. Visenya climbed down from her saddle, her cheeks flushed from the cold and the thrill of flight.

But before her boots had fully hit the ground, he saw their mother was there. Even from Balerion, he could see that her face was one of worry and anger. His sister would be in for it.

After they all had dismounted and given the dragons their thanks. Aemon had secured the eggs, and they walked over to Visenya.

“Visenya Targaryen,” she said, voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. “You acted without permission. You approached a dragon older than the Wall without so much as a word.”

Aemon saw his sister freeze, shoulders tight.

But then Lyanna strode forward and cupped her daughter’s face in her hands.

“And yet... You stood tall. You stood tall, and you proved your blood and your courage.” She leaned in and kissed Visenya’s brow.

“I am proud of you. Reckless, but brave.” Visenya blinked, not quite believing it. Much like herself, when she was the knight of the laughing tree. Aemon thought as he looked at them. Visenya looks so much like their mother, although his sister still had the valyrian cheekbones, and the purple eyes.

Then Arya broke the quiet with a gleeful whoop and ran to her sister, throwing her arms around her from behind.

“That was incredible, Visenya! Just like the first Visenya.”

“Thanks,” Visenya said softly, still catching her breath. “I was ready. I felt it when I saw Aemon with the dragons. I looked at Vhagar, and… I felt something. A connection. Why it happened now, I don’t know. Maybe…” Her voice caught, and tears welled in her eyes. “Maybe she wasn’t ready yet to let Father go.”

Aemon stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her in a quiet embrace.

“Father would be proud of you,” he said. “As am I. And he’d be grateful you took care of his old lady.”

As if in agreement, Vhagar rumbled a deep, resonant growl that echoed beneath the stone walls.

Chapter Text

Chapter 24: Prince of Seadragon Point

Aemon Targaryen (102 A.C. third moon)

Deepwood Mott

As Aemon rode into the courtyard with Harrold by his side. He saw Garred Glover standing there. Hmm, his son has his looks. He remembered the lad when he came with Lord Karstark. To his nameday, and he wondered then if father and son were alike.

As he dismounted and walked toward the Glover family. He stopped as Garred Glover began to speak.

“My Prince, it is an honor to host you and your dragon in my humble domain. May the old gods be with you. To the dragonwolf, the prince of the North,” Garred Glover shouted, pulled his sword, and then went to one knee.

“Thank you, my lord. We accept bread and salt,” He proclaimed. After a short while, the salt and bread were produced, and Aemon, his antorach, all took part in it.

“My prince, may I show you to your chambers?” A girl, perhaps two years his senior, asked. As a step forward, the proud clover sigil was displayed on her chest.

“Of course. May I have your name, my lady?” He questioned the girl. “Of course, my prince. I am Giliane Glover, the eldest daughter of Lord Glover. If it pleases you, my prince.”

“Well met, my lady. I’ll follow where you lead,” he said with a smile, making the girl blush. “If that’s your will, please follow.” The girl added with a slight bow.

Deepwood Motte was a proper wooden keep made possible by the Wolfswood. Aemon thought as they walked through the halls of Deepwood Motte.

“This is it, Your Grace. I hope the room pleases you,” she said with a smile when she opened the door. “It’s lovely, my lady. Thank you. Deepwood Motte smells wonderfully like the pine of the Wolfswood,” Aemon replied, giving her a warm smile.

“It does, my prince, although I only notice it when I return. Now, I don’t anymore. It’s a pity; it’s a nice smell indeed,” she replied with a grin, her eyes twinkling. Giliane Glover had stunning brown eyes, large and expressive, that seemed to sparkle with warmth. Her curly brown hair cascaded down her shoulders in soft, natural waves, framing her face with an effortless grace. Anyone would happily call her their wife, but he already had one lady, one with silver curls and amethyst eyes. He thought as he stared into her eyes.

“True, the North generally smells much better than the South does. Oh, and don’t get me started on King’s Landing itself,” he said, breaking the silence, and shook his head as he thought back to Kingslanding and its smells.

“Well, it’s good to hear the North is well-liked by the Prince of the North and our humbled Glovers as well,” she said, smiling. “Well, I’ll leave you to settle in, my prince. The feast will start in three hours,” she said, bowed, and left the chambers.

“Ser Harrold, please join me,” he said, and the old knight entered. “My prince, you asked for me,” Harrold said, bowing his head.

“How do you find the North, Ser? We have been here together for a few moons now,” he asked.

“Hmm, the air is cold and fresh, and it reminds me of my old home, the Crag. The Northern ale is good, but I prefer a good Summer Sea wine. Most lords are more honorable and less slippery than those in the South. This is one of the many reasons I chose to become a Kingsguard. I never wanted to deal with that as a lord. I’m sure my father wanted his second son to marry for land and title, but I only wanted to be a knight. When I heard of the chance to become a Kingsguard, I took it with all readiness. It was the greatest honor of my life; the second was serving you. You have made your father and family proud with how you have conducted yourself,” Harold said genuinely.

“Thank you for saying so, Ser. Having you here has been a great comfort. You are like family. With my father gone, you have been like a father to me. So, thank you for all your lessons and support,” he said, opening the man’s eyes well.

“Aemon, thank you. It’s been an honor to train you and to be seen as family. I will always do my duty to you and your family until I draw my final breath, whether in sleep or defense of you, Aemon,” Harrold said, his voice edged with emotion.

The great hall of Deepwood Motte

As he escorted Lady Gilliane Glover into the Great Hall of Deepwood Motte, he was reminded again of how much his life had truly changed.

In Winterfell, on his nameday, he had been reminded that it had never truly happened when he was still the bastard son of Eddard Stark. He had never been the guest of honor. The lords of the realm had not traveled north to see him, nor brought him gifts. No, those were only meant for his trueborn siblings.

Now, as he walked into the hall beside Giliane Glover, he was keenly aware of the ghosts of his past family. He still remembered clearly the opening feast when Robbert asked his uncle to be Hand; he had sat with the squires, not at the high table.

“My prince?” Giliane asked, confused.

He blinked, realizing she had spoken.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he said gently. “I was lost in thought.”

“As you say, My Prince. I was just asking what you thought of the hall.” Diana asked. “Hmm, it’s wonderful, truly different than Dragonstone or Kingslanding. Yet it feels natural, part of nature.” He noted.

“Mmm, indeed it does,” Giliane replied with a small smile as they reached the high table. Aemon took his seat to Lord Glover’s left, with Diana beside him. On the lord’s right sat Ela Glover, heavily pregnant and solemn. She had not come to greet him. Still, she met his gaze and offered a faint nod, which he returned.

Once all were seated, Lord Gared rose, his voice strong and warm.

“Friends, family, and our honored prince, welcome! May this be a merry evening. Let us toast to friendship and bonds everlasting!”

“To friendship, and the North!” he cried, and the hall echoed the words in a hearty cheer.

Aemon stood after him. “Thank you, Lord Glover, for your hospitality and the feast you’ve prepared in my honor. May House Targaryen and House Glover be bound in friendship for all our days.”

He raised his cup, and the hall lifted theirs with him, Lord Gared beaming in approval.

As the evening wore on and the food and drink flowed freely, Aemon found himself in conversation with Lord Gared.

“I hope, my prince,” said the older man, “that we can build a true partnership. After all, we’ll soon be neighbors.”

“I hope for nothing less, my lord,” Aemon replied. “I intend to petition the King for a new road, stretching from Winterfell to Seadragon Point. Trade routes in the west have languished too long. A port means little if there’s no way to distribute goods inland. House Glover’s hold over the Wolfswood gives you timber and furs, both prized in the south and even across the sea in Essos and Dorne. It could be a boon to your people.”

Lord Gared’s eyes widened. “Hmm, it would, and the road is a remarkable idea, my prince. Ever since the burning of the Deepyard by your ancestor, Brandon the Burner, trade in the western North has struggled. The Ryswells and Dustins maintain small ports, but they’re made for riverboats and shallow seas. My father always hoped that increased trade could be restored in the west, with the building of a true port in Seadragon Point, in line with that vision.”

“But will the crown truly invest in a road?” Gloved waited for a moment before he added, lowering his voice. “I know half the funds to rebuild the port at Seadragon Point are coming from the crown. But a road…?”

“True,” Aemon nodded. “But I have my grandfather’s and brother’s trust. If it is not granted from the royal purse, then perhaps the North must find the means ourselves. It will benefit us all.”

“Indeed, it would. It would connect us all, even into the future,” Lord Gared agreed. He studied Aemon thoughtfully. “If I may say so, you’ve surprised me, my prince. I’ve heard you worked in the  forge in Winterfell, and yet, you speak with the mind for rulership, even at so young an age.”

Aemon inclined his head. “I’ve always believed in striving to better oneself and the realm. I may be a lord now, or soon enough, but I was born a prince. When I first understood what it meant to rule Seadragon Point, and where it lay, I was only six, I think.” He mused. “But even then, I knew I wanted to become the best version of myself… and make the land reflect that as well. I never looked back.” He added.

Lord Garred smiled, his eyes creasing at the corners. “Well said, my prince. It has truly worked out for you. I only hope my own boy might grow to be half as wise when his time comes.”

“Harl shows promise,” Aemon said with a small nod. “He was dutiful, if a bit eager, when I met him during my nameday feast at Winterfell. But eagerness is no bad thing when tempered with good guidance. He will do well as Lord of Deepwood Motte.”

The old lord gave a satisfied grin. “You honor me with your words, Prince Aemon. And my son, too. He’ll be pleased to hear your praise.”

As the feast wore on and the music played, Aemon rose from the high table and stepped down into the hall. The air was thick with laughter and the scent of roast meat and ale. He danced first with a daughter of House Forrester, her cheeks flushed and her smile shy. She moved with grace, and Aemon offered her gentle conversation as they turned.

Afterward, he shared a dance with Lady Gilliane. She had been eager, perhaps more than most, to dance with him, and as the eldest child of his host, it was more than expected. Gilliane was a fine dancer, bold in her movements and confident in a way that made many turn their heads. The lady light thought him, in ways not part of the dance.

If he weren’t ten and wasn’t betrothed to Laena, he might have had hope for more. But he kept it respectful, and only saw a future friend in Gilliane.

But as the night deepened and the torches flickered low, Aemon felt the weariness set into his bones. He made his rounds, offering parting words to Lord Garred and Gilliane Glover, nodding respectfully to Ela, who sat quietly with one hand resting protectively on her swollen belly.

At last, he climbed the stairs to the guest chambers, Harrold following close behind. When he reached his room and closed the heavy wooden door behind him, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Quickly, he changed into his sleeping clothes and slipped beneath the furs. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting soft light on the stone walls. Wrapped in warmth, with the scent of pine still clinging to his cloak, Aemon let his thoughts drift.

Sleep came quickly.

Skies Above Seadragon Point (102 A.C. Fourth Moon)

The cold western wind off the sea, thick with the scent of salt and storm, blew through Aemon’s nose as he soared above the waters of Seadragon Point. Balerion’s wings beat the sky in a steady rhythm.

Below them, the shaping of a city began to emerge. Three harbors carved into the coastline framed the settlement’s promise. The one that hosted most warships was nestled beneath the shadow of the rising mount, as Aemon looked better at least a fleet of twenty warships, the banners of the three-headed dragon fluttering in the wind. The sight stirred something fierce and proud in Aemon’s chest. Beyond the warships, the most fortified part was the main harbor, surrounded by a granite wall. Trading vessels clustered in the calmer waters, while merchant ships from Reach and the Westerlands brought food and other supplies. Their presence marked the first signs of increased commerce, a vital thread of connection that would help sustain the North through the long winters to come.

Behind the main harbor, the town clung to the shore like a rough-hewn shell. A palisade surrounded its homes and workshops, and outside that wooden barrier, stacks of quarried stone waited in tidy rows. Masons and builders moved among them, laying the groundwork for what would one day be a true stronghold. Here, he would raise a keep of stone and fire, and with it, walls worthy of a Targaryen fortress.

The foundations had already been set into the rocky hill above the keep’s harbor. He had requested to wait for the building of the keep, which he would one day name Dragonholt. The rising momentum of Targaryen power above Seadragon Point, like the red keep and the dragonpit did in Kingslanding.

As Aemon caze shifted. A small wooden hall had been hastily built in the town’s center, enough to house him for now. It was no true keep, more a smallholdfast, but it was his.

Here, far from the politics of the capital, far from the whispers of the maesters and the expectations of the court, he was free to build as he saw fit. Free to explore. Free to experiment.

Stone by stone, he intended to recreate the old ways. Valyrian masonry, smooth, seamless, fire-fused, had not been seen since the Doom. But with Balerion, and the right materials, perhaps it could live again. Let the maesters scoff. Let them whisper of madness and fire. He would not let their cautious minds stifle what Valyria once knew.

Still, he would have to test the loyalty of the maester sent to Seadragon Point, and his own uncle Vaegon, who had also traveled to keep him guided after his grandfather had requested it. He didn’t know Vaegon; he had seen the man briefly during his time in Kingslanding, and the history books spoke only of his bookish nature and that he had no appetite for women.

Trust came slowly, especially when too many of his kin had suffered under silent hands and subtle cures. His mother had spoken to him of Rhaegar’s suspicions, how his previous father believed something was amiss. Too many Targaryens had perished in childbirth or from strange ailments. His grandmother, Rhaella, had endured miscarriage after miscarriage. Even the good Queen Alysanne, beloved by all, lost many babes.

And then there was Summerhall. The disaster had claimed so many of his blood, a fiery end to a dream that was meant to restore their house to its ancient glory. The return of dragons was something Westeros had never wanted. Power rested within the dragons, and House Targaryen alone had held that power for generations. Even during the reign of Viserys, that grip had begun to slip. Now, with Arya, Laenor, and Rhaenys all riding dragons, the balance was shifting once more. Not everyone welcomed that change.

Aemon’s thoughts darkened as he considered the maesters again, particularly the one assigned to Sea Dragonholt. He trusted few of them. And after Baelon’s death, his suspicions only grew deeper. His father…

The thought of him, of the man who had raised him and died so suddenly, brought a rush of boiling anger. Balerion felt it through their bond and roared, his great black wings rippling with the sound.

“We will make them pay,” Balerion said through their bond, a pulse of rage and purpose behind the message.

Aemon exhaled slowly, centering himself as he brought Balerion into a slow, circling descent above the town. Below, the light of the setting sun danced off sails in the harbor and rooftops clustered beneath the palisade. The wind whipped around him, but he felt steady.

He glanced toward the open land outside the palisade, eyeing the space. “There’s not room enough for both of you in there,” he said aloud in High Valyrian, directing his voice to Balerion.

The great black dragon let out a low rumble in reply, and with a graceful sweep of wings, he descended toward the open field beyond the walls. As Baleron landed with a thunderous impact, sending snow and wind rippling through the outer edge of the settlement.

The people of Seadragon Point had gathered to watch. Many of them had never seen a dragon before, let alone two. Some did, as many had arrived from Kingslanding, leaving the slums of Flea Bottom for a better life. They all stood frozen in awe and fear, staring up at the beast of legend.

A lone voice broke the silence. “All hail Prince Aemon, Lord of Sea Dragon Point!” a man called out as he stepped forward and dropped to one knee. As Aemon glanced at them, he noticed the man’s surgoat, and his looks were large with ig arms, and blond hair, and hazel-green eyes.

Waldrick Manderly, his castellan. That his grandfathers and father had decided to name. He wondered if the man could be trusted, yet so far, he would give the man the benefit of the doubt. Seadragon Point looks prosperous and is making progress so far. Aemon thought.

The gathered crowd followed, kneeling in reverence and wonder.

Aemon dismounted and approached them, his golden-silver hair caught in the breeze, his black and red cloak swirling around his shoulders.

“Rise,” he said, his voice steady and strong. “Thank you all for joining me. My people of the western shore of Westeros, I am glad these past years have been fruitful. You have built, endured, and made this place your home. In an hour’s time, my retinue from Winterfell will arrive. Soon, the rest of Westeros will hear of this place, not just a settlement, but a stronghold. A city.

Together, we will make Sea Dragon Point a bastion of strength for the North and for House Targaryen.”

The crowd erupted into cheers, voices lifted in celebration and hope.

And Aemon stood before them, the wind at his back, then Balerion roared, and breathed flame high into the air.

Chapter Text

Chapter 25: Stone Singing

Aemon Targaryen (102 A.C. Fifth Moon)

Seadragon Point – Maester’s Chambers

Fuck, he thought, as Vaegon began again about the lords of the Reach and the importance of the region.

His uncle was sworn member of the Citadel, and someone Aemon could work with, but the man treated him like a child. Sadly, he was. In the eyes of the world, he was still ten namedays old. Yet he could see the cracks in his uncle’s composure whenever he answered Aemon’s questions.

“Tell me,” Vaegon asked, tapping the page of the book with a stick named the tales and of the Reach, “which house drove the Manderlys from the Reach?”

“House Peake,” Aemon replied.

Vaegon nodded. “Indeed. And why were the Manderlys made to flee?”

Aemon scratched the back of his head. The answer hovered just out of reach. “Mmm… something to do with a succession war for the Gardener throne?”

“Close enough,” said Vaegon. “It’s what began the long-standing rivalry between House Peake and House Manderly. House Gardener, at the time, had no sons, only two daughters to inherited the Gardener Thrones. Both the Peakes and the Manderlys married one of the daughters, and each claimed that their wife, or more probably more precisely, their were the rightful heirs. It’s unclear whether the dispute centered on the daughters themselves or their offspring, but what is known is that the Manderlys won the conflict.”

Aemon leaned forward. “Which daughter was older?”

Vaegon gave a dry smile. “Both Peake and Manderly claimed their wife was the elder. The truth, if it was ever written down, has been lost to time.”

Aemon frowned. “So no one knows?”

“No,” Vaegon said. “But the feud endured. The real reason the Manderlys were exiled was their rising power around 2,000 years ago. The exact moment isn’t clear. Still, the Peakes found the right moment and the right excuse to drive them out. Whether by open war or quiet knives, the records are vague. But there was conflict. That much we can be certain of. We eventually ended with them arriving at your ancestors’ lands.”

Vaegon gave him a hard look. “Still, I suppose I should be grateful you remember the feud at all. You remembered they were exiled, and that’s a start. Keeping the Manderlys close will matter especially once your lands start drawing trade away from theirs.”

He folded his hands, fixing Aemon with another look. “I’ve spoken to your castellan over these past three moons. Loyal. Steady. He’ll do well. Now sigils and house words. Tell me the heraldry of Houses Peake, Manderly, and Gardener.”

Aemon groaned at the question. But knowing his castellan was loyal and doing well was welcome news. “Hmm… House Gardener, a green hand on white. Their words are ‘Strong grow our roots.’”

“Good. Now the Peakes,” Vaegon prompted.

“Three black castles on orange. The words… ‘We do not…’” Aemon began, hesitating.

“‘We do not fade’ are their words. Which we can see in their actions, if we look over their history,” Vaegon added.

On that you have no doubt, Aemon thought, glancing at their sigil. The Peakes only still held Starpike in their time and the other castles that were taken after they joined the Blackfyres too many times.

“Well, what of the Manderlys?” Vaegon said, drawing him back.

“A white merman with green hair and tail, holding a black trident, on a blue-green field. Their words: ‘The Flow Remembers,’” Aemon replied proudly.

“Good work. Remember, it will help with the pride of lords. If you know something about them, it will please them. They’re prideful, even the smallest houses have their pride,” Vaegon said.

On that, Aemon had no doubt. He remembered even Edd’s smaller lords in the Vale had their pride and stories.

“Well, as are we, Uncle. We have proud ancestry of the line of Aegon the Conqueror, last of the dragonlords. Although now the Velaryons too, with Laenor, are the first house besides ours to have a dragon since the Doom.”

Vaegon gave him a look. “Indeed. And  once in line to inherit the throne had my father not passed over Rhaenys for my older brother. Yet my brother did well to betroth you to Laena Velaryon. It healed the bond and tied us by blood.”

Aemon studied his uncle. His grandfather had spoken of the succession with Vaegon… did he know the King’s plans?

“Uncle… did Grandfather talk about me? I know he wanted you here to help and guide me. Yet he told me something too. He wanted me to succeed him, but the realm would not accept it. I wouldn’t have done it anyway. I won’t usurp my brothers, even if my relationship with Daemon is… frosty.”

Vaegon waited a moment before answering. “He did. And he did want you as his heir. I told him his options. Told him he could do as he wished he is the King. And neither the Conqueror nor he ever set a clear succession law. As it stands, the King’s word is law and he decides the succession. I advised him. And I know he put in a clause: whoever inherits must marry a future child of yours.”

Vaegon paused. “Although currently, Viserys only has a daughter. Still, if the King is wise, he will wait before trying again. It is well known that repeated births weaken a woman. I know; my mother did. She grew weaker after each one. Whether from the grief of losing a child or the strain of bearing them.”

“I told my brother that in a letter. Aemma needs rest. And currently, he has two, three, even if you count Rhaenyra. I know it’s the law of the land that a daughter inherits before a brother, like it was with the Manderlys and the Peakes,” Aemon replied.

“Correct. Sadly, each time a woman tries to ascend, there’s conflict. Reasons are found some say a man is the better ruler, others find different pretexts. Many, bastard or trueborn, try to claim power. I never wished for it. That is why I never claimed a dragon. With a dragon comes power, even if you don’t want it. I’m content with my books, my scrolls… and occasionally educating a family member,” Vaegon said with a sigh, but offered a small smile.

“Thank you, Uncle. I’m grateful you’re here,” Aemon said with a grin.

“Well, pay attention. We’ll be doing sums next,” Vaegon replied with a mocking grin.

Aemon let out a groan and looked at his uncle pleadingly. Vaegon only shook his head. Aemon sighed and let his head hang.

Courtyard

Aemon’s breath came fast as he circled again, wooden sword slick in his small hands. His curls clung to his brow, damp with sweat, but he didn’t dare wipe them. Ser Harrold stood across from him, calm as a statue in mail, sword in hand, eyes sharp beneath a brow creased with focus and affection.

The courtyard at Seadragon Point rang with the rhythmic clack of training blades. Salt hung thick in the air from the sea beyond the cliffs, and gulls shrieked overhead like cackling specters. The stone beneath Aemon’s bare feet was warm from the morning sun, already stained with scuff marks from countless sessions like this.

Aemon panted and darted forward, switching from left to right, trying to slip beneath Ser Harrold’s reach. He probed for an opening—there, a flicker of one, just between elbow and shoulder on Harrold’s right side. A gap. Small, but there.

He slashed.

Too slow. Too short.

Harrold twisted easily, parried, and tapped Aemon’s shoulder with the flat of his blade.
“Well done, my prince. Were you taller, you might’ve gotten a hit in.” He grinned through his beard, but not unkindly.

Aemon stepped back, frustrated. He glanced down at his arms, muscled yet still not having lenght as had been.

“If I were the height, and had the reflexes, I had before...” he muttered, trailing off.

Ser Harrold tilted his head. “Before?”

Aemon blinked, then shook his head. “I had a dream where I was a great swordsman.”

Harrold raised a brow, gave a small smile, but let it pass.

“You’ll grow,” he said, with the certainty of a knight who had seen squires become legends. “I’ve trained lordlings, hedge knight sons, your brothers too, but none like you. You’ve more raw talent than any I’ve ever seen. You just need time. Time to grow taller. Time to sharpen those reflexes. Strength in your arms and upper body won’t be a problem. Neither will endurance, not with all that work you do in the forge, it is already showing. What the forge doesn’t build in muscle strenght, dragonriding will.”

Aemon looked at him, curious. “Dragonriding?”

“Your father told me once it strengthens the legs and core,” Harrold replied.

“My legs used to ache after every ride,” Aemon admitted. “Back too. Sometimes even my belly.”

Harrold chuckled, resting the sword tip on the stone. “Aye. Balerion’s no palfrey, especially with the turns and rolls I see you dragonriders make.”

Aemon laughed. “Indeed, we do. And what you just said, my father told me the same when I was younger.”

“I’ve no doubt he did. That man had a mind like a blade, always sharp in warfare, and a steady presence. He would have been a good king had he been given the chance.” Harrold wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. “He would have,” Aemon replied with a sad smile. They called Rhaenys the queen that never was, but his father and uncle were the kings that never were.

 Harrold gave him a small smile. “He said you took to dragonriding faster than Daemon or Viserys ever did.”

Aemon blinked. “He said that?”

“He did. He was very proud of you. As he would be now and of the man you’re becoming,” Harrold said with a smile.

“Come,” he added, stepping back into stance. “Again. And this time, when you see the opening, don’t just slash. Use your whole body. Step in. Risk it.”

Aemon nodded and raised his sword. He took a breath.

And then he and Harrold began their dance again.

Two Moons Later

His hand shook a little as he looked toward Balerion and the mount, the rubble that would become the foundation of Seadragon Holt. If everything went to plan, soon enough the stone he would see before would look like and be as sturdy as what he had seen on Dragonstone. Bring back the art lost since the Doom.

Aemon looked toward Harrold and his other guards.

“It’s time for you all to step back. What happens now, I do not know,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. They’d had those discussions the night before. Even his uncle had spoken of what he was about to do as a foolish fantasy. That such things had been lost since the Doom.

The castle maester, Dussard, a Northerner in his early thirties, originally from the lands of the Karstarks, had said much the same, though he’d been more willing to believe, given his heritage.

Harrold and the rest of the guards nodded and stepped back, though their faces showed the conflict, torn between obeying his command and wanting to remain at his side.

Aemon breathed deep, then looked toward his truest companion.
“Give the command, my friend.” Balerion’s voice echoed through their bond:

“Soves.” At the command, Balerion rose into the sky. His wings clapped thunderously, and Aemon had to steady himself not to fall as the wind rushed past.

He pulled a small vial from his pocket, his own blood, something needed for what he was about to do. Dipping his finger into the blood, he painted two Valyrian glyphs onto his arms: Earth and Blood.

He looked then toward the Balerion, ready to begin, his wings flapping high, ready to burn. “Dracarys”

At that moment, Balerion’s black flames began to strike the mount before him. Stone and rubble began to glow.

And Aemon sang.

By earth and blood, I sing this song.
Let stone be shaped, and the bound be strong.
Let form arise where none had been.
Let it harden. Let it endure.

By the gift of blood, let the bond be sealed.
Blood remembers what fire makes glow.
Blood is the price, the vow, the chain,
To bind the soul in stone and flame.
What was, what is, and what shall be,
Bone to earth, and fire to me.

Let none forget. Let all who’ve known,
Feel my bond in this blood and stone.
By the fire that’s fed and price well paid,
Let this gift in truth be weighed.

By earth and blood, I sing this song.
Let stone be shaped, and the bound be strong.
Let form arise where none had been.
Let it harden. Let it endure.

By fire, earth, and blood.

As he sang the song, he saw the shape he had sketched before in his mind. He tried to will it into form. Balerion had told him that it was important. That willing the shape into being was part of the act. One’s will determine whether they can perform the song or not. If you could not hold your will, your mind would break, like shattered glass.

But Balerion had said: Your will is strong. Strong enough for the song.

As he continued to sing, his vision began to blur, but he willed himself onward, fighting through the dizziness that threatened to drive him to his knees. He held fast, forcing each word out despite the weight pressing down on him. Then, at last, the final verse left his lips. He drew a deep breath and all went black.

Maester’s Chambers
Aemon awoke with a gasp. Pain exploded in his skull, a headache unlike anything he had ever known. It pulsed through his head like fire beneath the skin. He screamed, his voice raw.
“By the gods, what is this?” he groaned.
“My prince, you must lie still,” a voice urged beside him. “Please, drink. It’s milk of the poppy. It will soften the pain.”

A cup was pressed toward him, but Aemon pushed it away with a shaking hand.
“I will not drink that,” he said through gritted teeth.

He drew a breath and forced himself upright. The worst of the pain had passed, though his head still throbbed dully. He blinked, and the blur of the room resolved into familiar faces, his uncle Vaegon, Ser Harrold, and Maester Dussard. All of them looked drawn, worried.

“What happened?” he croaked, rubbing his temples. “I remember... falling. I felt dizzy.”
Harrold stepped forward. “My prince.” He rarely called him that so formally. That alone told Aemon something was wrong or perhaps, very right.

“You collapsed,” Harrold continued. “Whatever you were doing... it overtook you. But it worked.” His voice caught slightly. “God’s help us, it worked. You did it.”

Aemon’s lips were dry. “Water,” he rasped. “Please.”
Maester Dussard handed him a cup. As Aemon drank deeply, the maester watched him with quiet awe.

“How long was I out?” Aemon asked, lowering the cup with a sigh.

“Two days,” Vaegon said, shaking his head. “Since the moment you fell.”

“Two days,” Aemon repeated, frowning. “Still... it worked. The singing worked.” A faint smile touched his lips. He looked toward the others. “It truly worked.”

“It did,” Maester Dussard confirmed. “When the smoke and heat cleared, and we made sure you were okay, we checked. The foundation of Seadragon Holt was complete. I’ve never seen anything like it, not in all my years. I’ve studied Valyrian structures, seen drawings, old etchings... and this, this is like them. Almost as if the stone remembers. Four hours that’s all it took. But during that time, we feared you were dead.”

“Four hours?” Aemon murmured. “I didn’t feel the time pass. I wasn’t even aware. I just... followed the song.”

He paused, then looked up at the men gathered around him. “I’m sorry for worrying you. But I had to do this. It’s my heritage.” He turned to Vaegon. “Our heritage.”

Vaegon nodded, a quiet smile playing on his lips.

“Help me up,” Aemon said. “I want to see it. I want to see what the stone singing has truly done.”

Maester Dussard stepped forward and helped him stand. Aemon dressed quickly, letting the maester steady him as needed. Though still weak, his steps were sure as he walked down the stone stairs and passed through the gates of his small holdfast.

Aemon stared almost immediately at the mount above the town. It looked like Dragonstone, the same blackness. It truly worked. And at that moment, Balerion flew overhead. “You damn big lizard,” he shouted toward the dragon.

“Good day to you, too,” Balerion said mockingly through the bond.

As he rubbed his eyes, he noticed something odd bandages on both his arms.
“What is this?” he muttered.

“My prince, something happened to you. It caused burns,” the maester said gently.

Aemon frowned at the man. Since he was young, he had never burned, not once.
He unwrapped the cloth. To his surprise, the two runes remained. On his left arm, the Earth rune was still red, though no longer like a fresh burn. On his right, the Blood rune marked his skin. “Well, that’s a surprise,” he said. “I hadn’t expected this.”

“It is remarkable,” Maester Dussard noted, eyes shining with awe. “When we found you, the marks were like high-degree burns, yet now, only scars remain. Still, what you’ve done is truly something.”

“Well, they’re Valyrian glyphs, I suppose. And I’m Valyrian. If I needed these to stone sing, then it was a necessary sacrifice,” he said. And as he looked again at the glyphs, they looked kind of cool. Better than a scar, in his opinion. He thought with a small smile on his lips.

As he walked through the town, he noticed the people staring at him with wide eyes. He couldn’t blame them. What he had done was truly remarkable, and it could only be called magic. And to be honest with himself, it was magic. A form of blood magic.

The moat below was filled with water, yet beyond it stood smooth black stone. On one side, the walls were made of the ordinary stacked stone the town’s builders had used. On the other side, black fused stone.

They crossed the bridge and stepped onto the black, fused stone, onto the foundation of the future gatehouse. What surprised him most was that the lower levels had already been formed. His hand ran across the stone. He blinked, still half dazed that it had actually worked.

“I told you it would,” Balerion noted cockly through the bond.

Aemon glanced at the great dragon, resting on top of the mount. “Well, you could have told me it would leave marks and make me pass out,” he grumbled inwardly, eyes squinting.

“I didn’t know everything,” Balerion replied with a hint of sarcasm. “I was a young dragon when I left Old Valyria. Besides, I thought you’d be fine. What’s one more scar? It’s not like you haven’t had those before. More than four on your chest, I believe alone.”

”
“Well, they looked kind of cool,” he muttered, rubbing his arm. “Next time, maybe we do this step by step instead of all at once. I don’t want to pass out again.” He added as he looked toward the mount.

“My prince?” Maester Dussard’s voice pulled him back.
“Sorry, I was just lost in thought,” Aemon replied, looking up toward the causeway that led to the upper part of the Seadragon holt.

The stone there was the same as the rest. He wondered what the keep would look like when it was finished, something similar to Dragonstone, perhaps, though without all the dragon-styled buildings. It would have a more Northern look. That was necessary, a choice shaped by the harsh winter conditions Seadragon Point would face.

On top of the mount, the foundations of the main keep and the other buildings were the same black fused stone, gleaming dark and solid in the morning light. Aemon smiled and walked toward Balerion.

“Well, still, thank you, my friend. Without you, none of this would’ve been possible,” he said, rubbing the dragon’s great snout.

“You gave me life,” Balerion rumbled through the bond, his voice low and warm. “I wouldn’t be here without you.”

A sound like a purring cat, deep and thunderous, rose from the dragon’s chest, shaking the ground beneath Aemon’s feet. He laughed softly, resting his hand against Balerion’s scaled hide.

The wind carried the salt of the sea and the scent of burned stone. He stood there still, looking out over the sea, his hand resting on Balerion.

“Here it begins,” he whispered to his friend. “A true chance to start changing things.”

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Chapter Text

Chapter 26: Valyrian Secrets

Maester Vaegon Targaryen (103 A.C. fourth moon)

Seadragon Holt

Vaegon’s solar.

Vaegon looked out his window, holding a raven scroll in his hand, one of Dussard’s acolytes had brought him. Gazing at the forge his nephew had built as the sun was setting. Balerion lay beside it. During the day the dragon had occasionally blasted flames into a funnel. It was an odd structure, yet it defined Seadragon Holt. The strangeness of it was a mix of Winterfell and Dragonstone; it truly gave the keep a unique appearance.

The first true snow had begun to fall over a moon ago, yet the sun was still strong enough to melt it. It wasn’t like the summer snows that sometimes arrived in the North; those could bury parts of the land for weeks. This is a mystery of the Citadel even after thousands of years. Although many of the correspondences he received from the Citadel spoke of autumn’s arrival, it meant only one thing: winter was coming. His good-sister’s house words always came true in the end. Yet here in the North, the autumn season meant early snow, and hopefully one more harvest of the winter crops before the ground froze solid.

Still, Vaegon did not worry, Seadragon Point had a harbor that would be able to ship in food for the surrounding lands. Yet Seadragon Point itself had food enough, its surrounding lands were fertile, and Aemon had worked with glassblowers from Myr, whom he had bought, freed, and employed in his service. They had helped design the glass gardens of Seadragon Point, based on the one in Winterfell. Even if they could not use hot springs as a heat source here, Aemon had incorporated an innovation in many of the new buildings at Seadragon Point: pipes that pumped hot water, heated in a furnace, flowing through the walls. That furnace was also part of the keep’s personal smithing forge; well in the city, where possible, the same method was used. The only problem was still the water accessibility, and Aemon was already working on a solution for that one. 

As for the glassmaking did not come without cost. The sand had to be brought from Dorne, a heavy burden on the coffers, and Myrish glassmakers were expensive purchases. Yet it was necessary to ensure Seadragon Point could produce its own glass. The Lordship of Seadragon Point would expand, as would the city itself. It had already become one of the more thriving industries in the southern part of town.

The discovery Aemon and Balerion had made ensured that fuel was now plentiful. The dragon had been expanding the dragoncaves. When Balerion dug, he used his flames to blast at the rocks, cracking and melting them. Then Balerion dug with his strong, giant legs. At some point, Balerion had stumbled upon stonecoal. It was rare to find the grounds; he knew the lands around the Roynar held similar grounds. In addition to the lands of Senori, records showed that it was found their too. They, yet finding a vein in North, laid out the possibility of more. Small pockets around the Greenblood River in Dorne, as well as smaller rivers in Dorne itself. Vaegon often wondered where it came from or how deep the vein went. If it were large, it could sustain them for many centuries, as even smaller pockets were known to last for long periods of time, depending on usage. Aemon had ordered a new mine built, far from the dragon’s excavations. Yet near enough so they would be able to find them.  

Another byproduct of Balerion’s digging was shattered rock and shards. Some stones looked almost like gemstones, and Aemon had sent a merchant south to see if they would sell, and they did. The merchant had returned with quite a fortune. Aemon had named dragongems. Then there were the glass-like shards, and both he, Aemon, and Dussard agreed it was likely dragonglass or at least similar. Aemon had eyed the shard with hope and promise, and Vaegon had wondered what that was about.

Still, Vaegon shook his head more than once at the strangeness of this all. It truly felt like something in the world that he knew something was changing. By all accounts, how Aemon had built the keep shouldn’t have worked. It should have produced only shattered rock and glass shards, like Balerion blasting did. Yet whatever Aemon did in that magical ritual of his had changed the process. The stone fused and allowed itself to be reshaped, creating marvelous works.

Vaegon could watch for hours as his nephew worked. In those moments, he saw his father in the boy. And yet behind Aemon’s study, behind his lessons, was a silent determination.

Vaegon smiled as he walked toward the forge, where his nephew had been since dawn. As he arrived, he saw Ser Harrold Westerling and Ser Jeffery Waters.

“How long has he been inside, Sers?” he asked.

“He’s come out twice, once to get some food and drink, and once to go to the privy,” Ser Jeffery replied, with a chuckle.

“Hmm. Busy like my father. Aemon has his own labors, it seems,” Vaegon noted, shaking his head.

“Indeed, he has. And look what he has brought into the world. Truly blessed by whatever gods have favored him,” Harrold said seriously.

“Indeed. Dreams are powerful things. They saved my family in the past. And as Aemon says, it has brought these creations back, ” Vaegon added, gesturing to what was all around them.

“I have news for him,” showing the scroll. As if summoned, the doors of the forge opened. Out came a soot-covered prince of the realm, his eyes bright with delight.

Aemon Targaryen (103 A.C. fourth moon)

The Valyrian Forge.

A few moments earlier

“Sagon jin naejot, sagon hen vekhat. Sagon daor haji Valyria,” he chanted each time. (By fire and blood, let the iron be fire. By the blessing of Valyria.) Each time, he chanted the words in the forge he had built in the inner holding of Seadragon Holt.

As he said that, he felt something burn and knew it was the damn glyph on his chest, the fire glyph. It was something Balerion had told him was needed, together with his and Balerion’s blood. There was another way that he would never do. The fire and blood glyphs on his flesh, and the sacrifice of his own blood, were enough, and the final tempering in dragonblood.

After the folding of the steel was done, he hammered the steel into the shape of a seax, something he could test. It was something odd, sharpening of Valyrian steel, one needed it glowing hot, unlike normal steel. After tempering the steel, it could not be sharpened again, at least that’s what Baleron had told him. That was the saying, if one used a whetstone on Valyrian steel, one would need a new whetstone. After sharpening, he touched it, and blood flowed from his finger.

“One more time, my friend.” He asked Balerion. Balerion’s flames came through the funnel and sent the blade straight into Balerion’s flame. After it was glowing white with heat, he pulled out the coals and black flames and tempered the blade in the boiling blood of Balerion.

The blade hissed, and a small burst of flames burst to the surface.

“Now or never,” he whispered to himself. He started to pull the blade out of the blood.

“Don’t worry, my friend; you have labored hard these past years and studied all I had to teach. It will work, a newly forged weapon of Valyrian steel,” Balerion reassured him.

“It bloody worked!” Aemon exclaimed, as his heart pounded in his chest. All of Balerion’s teachings in stonesinging, metalwork, dragon care, lore of the Freehold, and writing had paid off. He had always kept it close until the stonesinging from Seadragon Holt. Yet the stonesinging was something only his house could truly do. The knowledge of Valyrian steel, however, was too valuable to let loose into the world. How many men would try to use vile means to make the steel? He thought, as he marveled at the seax.

He looked at the seax more closely; there were no cracks or bends in the blade, only a newly forged Valyrian steel seax. “I did it, Balerion. I didn’t think it would work,” he exclaimed through their bond.

“Did I say it wouldn’t, my friend?” Balerion asked mockingly. He walked out with the seax after he had attached the guard and pommel to the blade, opening the door of the Valyrian smithy.

“My prince, you were in there for numerous hours; we were worried you had passed out from the heat. I would have come in if the sun had gone under,” Ser Harrold said, half relieved, and Ser Jeffery and his uncle nodded in turn.

It was true the sun was setting in the western seas, and he had entered after his fast, only coming out twice for food and to take a piss.

“Well, it was all worth it, Sers. Uncle look,” he said proudly, presenting the seax to Ser Harrold, who looked at him with wide eyes, gaping at the seax. His uncle and Ser Jeffery did much the same.

“By all the gods, it does look like Valyrian steel. May I feel it, Your Grace?” Ser Harrold asked, voice still awestruck.

“Of course, Ser. Try it, please,” he said, handing the blade to him. The guard of the seax was made of silver, shaped into dragon wings. The handle was engraved with dragon scales, and the pommel was made of white ivory, carved into the head of a wolf with small red gemstones for it’s eyes.

“It feels like Valyrian steel, Your Grace. I had the pleasure of testing your father’s sword once. It feels similar. A true work of art, and it honors both sides of your family, it seems,” Ser Harrold said, examining the seax.

“Indeed, Ser. I hoped it would. A smaller blade, more useful in a shield wall.” Ser Harrold’s eyes lit up, and he nodded in approval.

“Nephew, what you have done here is a true miracle. This craft, and what we see around, has been lost since the Doom. Yet the Citadel and many in the realm will not be happy. Or they will envy this newfound power, as we all know the might of Valyrian steel weapons and armor, as well as its value,” Vaegon stated, his eyes fixed on the seax.

Aemon had, in the beginning, doubted Vaegon’s loyalty, whether he was a grey rat or not. Yet during their time together, alongside Harrold and his steward, Vaegon had become one of his most trusted advisors. Even Dussard, if he passed the final test, would be counted among them.

“I know, uncle. And it will not leave Seadragon Holt. This secret shall not leave this place on pain of death,” he stated as he gave them all a stern look. They nodded, and his uncle gave a small smile. “Stay on guard. I will make sure everything inside is cleaned up. Then we will test if we can trust Maester Dussard or if Balerion has a nice snack today,” he said with a grin, heading back inside the Valyrian smithy.

Leaving the blood to boil was one of the necessities for forging. The dragon blood seemed different than other blood; it didn’t dry up when it boiled, only when it cooled and dried, turning into a soft powder. Something he kept in barrels and wondered if it had any other properties.

He picked up the book of lore he had written over the years and closed the smithy, hanging the key around his neck.

“Shall we, Ser Harrold? Wrap this around the blade,” he ordered, giving Harrold a piece of cloth.

They walked across the courtyard toward the keep. Aemon looked around and smiled. Seadragon Holt was truly coming along. Soon enough, it would probably be the second fortress in the North, surpassing the Dreadfort, though not Winterfell. Yet in other things like trade, and population, it would hopefully rival White Harbor in time, he mused as they walked on.

Soon they arrived at the main doors of the keep, where part of his household guard, formed over the year, was waiting. There were other side entrances, but unlike the main door, they had double doors, one of wood and the other of iron, with a portcullis behind it, as well as a secret pathway that his builders were currently digging, so he could arrive at the dragon caves in case of dire need.

He knew what had happened during the Dance. As much as the Dragonpit was a marvel of power for his house, it was quite isolated from the Red Keep. There was no easy passage toward it, as far as he knew. The Rhaenyra of that timeline had been weak in that moment, although after the losses she had suffered, she was probably broken, frozen in fear. If she could have done anything, it was to burn the rabble that killed the dragons. Like Maegor had done with the inhabitants of Sept of Remembrance. Truly, the Faith had broken its oath. Maegor had challenged them to trial by seven, and by that right, he should have been king and recognized by the Faith. Yet Maegor had won, yet the Sept still stood defiant. So Maegor burned them in fire and blood.

The men opened the gates and greeted him. Soon, they stepped into the main hallway that led to the great hall, the dragon drum, and other parts of the keep. Over a moon ago, the entire keep had been finished built. After that, firemasonry had taken place in the keep, decorating the chambers, halls, and hallways. It was done with a liquid like wildfire, yet far more stable, and he named it weldfire. One would use a drop of one’s blood to drop on the stone, then use the liquid to light it and say the words “stone” and “blood.” The stone would then become hot for about an hour and could be molded into different shapes and sizes. One would still need a stone and a blood glyph to work the spell.

He had currently employed three skilled stonemasons to work on it, all of whom had taken a blood oath, or been sworn under weirwood: if they let the secret slip, they would be marked for death, themselves and their families. Yet those three men had done their jobs with skill, had been paid well, and had been promised comfortable apartments in the future servant hold.

As they walked on, they came to the next pair of doors, which let out a dragon’s drum; it was guarded by two more men. “Fargus, Tim, how are you doing today, and how are your wives?” he asked kindly.

“It’s been a fine day, my prince. Marci is currently busy nursing my second boy,” Fargus replied.

“Take good care of them,” he noted with a smile, before turning to Tim.

“As Fargus said, it’s been a fine day. As for Deby, she is well, my prince. We’re currently trying for our first child,” Tim said, a small blush creeping up to his cheeks.

“Very good. We need more strong men like you, or girls,” he added, grinning.

The guards opened the doors, and they walked in. They arrived in a small hall, leading to different parts of the drum tower. Aemon took the left, where the main staircase was. He walked up to the first level. The rest waited, as was custom. They knew that place was his and his alone. This was his private study, and only he had a key to the place. It took up the entire first level. Yet it was one of the most important parts of Seadragon Holt.

Aemon placed the smithing book down in a chest, where he also kept his other books, those he had written himself, as well as the history of what he remembered of the world after the Dance. There was also the damn book that was his life before all this. Arya and his mother had helped with both. It was valuable information, even if that past probably would never come to pass.

As he walked toward the section that held his animals, the ones he was warging with. He went to one of the pens that held his mice. He would need one of them soon to test Dussard. He had done it before, and so far, Dussard had proven loyal to him. But the creation of Valyrian steel was a whole different matter.

He looked toward the larger opening where his own messenger eagles landed and waited. He stroked one of their heads, and it croaked softly. It was a private line of communication between his mother and him. He had raised them himself when he was in Winterfell, and the bond was so strong he could warg into them even from there. He could easily guide them to Seadragon Point. He was also working on seeing if an alternative to ravens could be established, so the Citadel didn’t hold the only means of long-distance messaging. It was one of his long-term plans: to dismantle the Maesters’ grip on knowledge in Westeros.

He sighed and walked out of the chambers, closing the door behind him, the small mouse waiting patiently in his pocket.

As they walked down and back out the doorway, they went left, toward one of the main stairways. The main keep had two, and the drum tower had one for itself. Aemon walked on, still marveling at the stonework, and hoped that, in time, he could give the stones more coloring. As much as he enjoyed the look of the fused stone, some more color other than black was something he wouldn’t turn away from. Yet dyes and paints were expensive, as were skilled workers to apply them, as were other forms of decoration. Still, Balerion’s gemstones had already brought in quite a bit of extra income. So hopefully, in time, he could start decorating the place, even if some of his nameday gifts had helped with it. Targaryen and Stark tapestries were already in the more important place of the holdfast.

They went up two levels and took the left hallway, where they arrived at the doors of the rookery. Vaegon had his personal residence in the drum tower; Maester Dussard and his acolytes had their lodgings in the rookery.

As they opened the doors, the acolytes all stopped their work. Some were cleaning, others scribing something.

“Continue your work,” he ordered, and with a small bow, they all did. One acolyte named Jarrold still muttered, “My prince.”

Soon, they stepped into Maester Dussard’s personal chambers. As they entered, Jeffery closed the door behind them. The maester looked up and greeted them all.

“How can I be of service, my prince?” Dussard questioned.

“Maester Dussard, I have something I wish to share with you. I have made a discovery, a creation, if you will,” Aemon said.

“Truly, my prince? What might that be? Nothing of peril, I hope. You have done great work at the keep and in the land. As I’ve said before, I was more than pleased when I heard I was to be stationed at your keep. I hear you were always a bright young man, stonesinging, firemasonry, weldfire, and how you have so far conducted yourself as Prince and Lord are testaments to that. The Old Gods have blessed you. The dreams, they have a sense of true vision,” Dussard noted eagerly.

Aemon smiled at the man. Dussard was a Northerner, and that was a good sign, considering all he said. Yet how could he be sure it wasn’t all talk, a front of lies?

“Ah, that’s good to hear, Dussard. Ser Harrold, if you please,” he gestured to the knight, who laid the covered seax on the maester’s desk. “Remove the cloth, and you will understand what I mean,” he said to Dussard.

The maester did so and gaped at the seax in shock. While he quietly slipped the mouse into the maester’s chamber. He retrieved the mouse from his pocket and placed it gently on the table. Harrold smiled a knowing smile as he saw the mouse slip behind the closet.

“Your Grace… am I seeing what I think I’m seeing?” he asked, eyes wide with disbelief.

“Yes, Dussard. That is Valyrian steel. I just forged the blade, and I will not have the word spread. Is that clear, Dussard? This isn’t something that can be made on a whim,” Aemon said, his tone authoritative.

The man gulped and nodded. “Of course, my prince. Your will is my command and any lord who rules this land,” Dussard said, his voice shaky.

“Good. It would be wise for you to learn more about this in the coming weeks. I’m planning to make more Valyrian steel. This is just a seax. Tomorrow, I shall begin forging a larger weapon, and hopefully, in time, maybe even armor. I would like you to document your learning. I know that some Qohorik smiths can reforge Valyrian steel, but that is not the same. This is newly forged Valyrian steel, something not seen since the Doom. People would kill for the truth. So I will tell you now: betray me and this secret, and I will bring fire and blood upon you and your family,” he said with a low growl, making the man turn as white as milk.

“I wish you a good day. I shall see you on the morrow, Maester. Don’t be late,” he said, leaving Dussard in his chambers.

Then they walked back to his chambers, on the fifth level of the drum tower.

“Jeffery, wait outside. Harrold, uncle join me, please,” he said.

“So what now?” Vaegon asked.

“I will show you. Don’t panic, uncle. Soon you will discover something people think is a legend,” he noted, with a small smile, as he sat down in a chair. Then he turned to Harrold. “You know what to do.”

“Of course, my prince. I’ll hold the watch,” Harrold replied with a smile.

Then Aemon searched for the warg bond with the mouse. He felt it, and his eyes rolled back. He heard his uncle gasp before he was in the study of Dussard. The mouse climbed up the case, and Aemon saw Dussard. The man was nervously muttering to himself.

“This is the moment of your oath, Dussard. Either you stay loyal to the crown and your prince or remain loyal to the Citadel, the same Citadel that made you vow to end all magic and unnatural things. But you are a Northerner as well; you know of the Wall, the legends of the Long Night, and my gods. I was told they are nothing more than trees in that damn place.

“Yet here I am, in a place of wonder, some blessed by the Old Gods. Prince Aemon has rediscovered the secret of the making of Valyrian steel and other things long thought forgotten.

“When I went to the Citadel to learn more, they wanted me to destroy the world’s dragons and magic, fearing what they didn’t understand. It undermines their power. Damn them and all the gods,” the man muttered.

“Let them be ignorant of a truth they cannot control or understand. I will not. I will stand beside a man who wishes to make steps forward, not stay stuck in the past, fearing change.”

“I will hold to my vow to the crown and to my brilliant prince. I pledge my mind and loyalty to the man who rediscovered the secret on how to make Valyrian steel. That’s better than anything those old men at the Citadel have done,” he said, then burned the letter he had written.

After that, Aemon blacked out the warg connection and returned to his chambers.

So, Rhaegar was right. How many of his family, or family members, might have died because of them? Because of their fear of blood… of their connection to dragons? He wondered if they knew of the connection to magic that the Starks have. The maesters were mostly ignorant of that. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be surprised if the same thing happened to them, he thought. Slightly shaken, and if he could, he would make sure Aemma would survive Baelon’s birth.

“My Prince?” Harrold asked, looking concerned.

“Uncle, Harrold… it seems we have a loyal maester,” he said, with a smirk.

Chapter Text

Chapter 27: Blood and Steel, Passing of the Bronze

Aemon Targaryen (103 A.C., Fourth Moon)

Seadragon Holt, the Valyrian Forge (103 A.C., Fourth Moon)

The forge sang a song of fire and steel.

The blade was nearly complete, its smoky grey surface rippling with the telltale pattern of folded Valyrian steel—layer upon layer, forged and reforged under dragonflame and hammer. Aemon had shaped the final length into a wide-bladed, double-edged sword.

All that remained was the sharpening.

With common steel, one would temper the blade and then grind the edge to razor sharpness. But this was Valyrian steel—its nature anything but common. Tempering changed it. Only the Qohorik smiths—and perhaps a few others—had ever known how to reforge Valyrian steel. Aemon wondered how they had sharpened it, and whether they used the same spells he now did. More likely, they had relied on blood sacrifices to temper the metal.

With his own blood and Balerion’s, Aemon had discovered it was possible to temper the steel without taking a life. Still, he wouldn’t be surprised if the Qohorik had used blood.

Yet he couldn’t help but wonder: was reforged Valyrian steel truly the same as newly forged? Was the tempering process identical? Were the swords reforged from Ice, Widow’s Wail, and Oathkeeper truly Valyrian steel? Were they equal in strength to blades forged whole from the start?

He would never know. Those swords had fought the dead. Still, he remembered the destructive properties of Longclaw, against both the dead and the White Walkers. Brienne had slain a White Walker with one of those blades during the battle—its edge cut through the dead like butter.

Aemon wiped the sweat from his brow—not from the heat, for fire did not harm him, not even in the inferno of the Valyrian Forge—but from the strain of the work. The glyph seared upon his chest pulsed every time he spoke the words, like it drew upon his will, the inner fire that had kept Balerion alive.

He steadied his grip, holding the seax-blade with tongs of blackened dragonglass, and fed it back into the funnel of the forge.

“Balerion,” he said through the bond.

He felt the great dragon stir on the terrace outside the forge. A deep breath, then Balerion exhaled through the sculpted funnel. Black flame roared in, a tempest of heat that wrapped around the blade like a lover’s embrace.

The steel glowed orange-red, then white-hot.

Now.

Aemon went to the grinding stone, made of blackstone. It sharpened weapons better than normal stone, requiring fewer reheats—saving time, and time was something he never had enough of.

He pressed the glowing steel to the stone. The forge filled with hissing and screeching as the edge took form. Sparks flew, bouncing off the leather band around his head. He might be immune to burning, but his hair was not. His smithing days in Winterfell had taught him that.

Aemon worked in silence, sweat soaking his clothes. Inch by inch, the edge came alive—sharper, keener—and he found himself drawn to the rippling patterns in the steel.

After two hours of reheating and sharpening, the blade was done.

He gave the command once more to heat the sword. Speaking the words now was like reciting memory. When it glowed again, he went to the quenching cast.

The blood hissed as the steel entered, steam rising with a coppery smell. Flames licked the surface, and after a moment, he pulled the blade free.

The steel darkened as it cooled, the ripples now more pronounced—like frozen waves of smoke and shadow.

It was time to complete the sword.

The guard was already crafted—a crosspiece of ivory, painted yellow.

Next came the grip: a leather wrap, dyed the color of sun-yellow. He bound it tightly.

Last came the pommel, a silver seashell. He hammered it into place, then smiled.

Finished.

I hope Harrold will like it, Aemon thought with a grin.

He tested it in his hand.

It was light—perhaps lighter than Longclaw, which was a bastard sword. This was a longsword.

Aemon gave it a few cuts through the air. The blade sang, true and clean.

“My first true sword of Valyria,” he murmured, catching his soot-covered reflection in the blade—grey eyes like the steel. Same shape as before, but a different color, he thought.

“It will not be the last thing you make,” Balerion said through the bond.

“I hope not. It’s truly wonderful. Hard work, but it gives me peace of mind.”

He cleaned the forge once more, the blood left to boil softly under the fire. It had been a hassle at first to keep the flame lit alone. At first, Jeffery, Harrold, and Vaegon had kept it fed. He didn’t mind—he had other powder he hadn’t found a use for yet. A project for the future.

He had no doubt dried dragonblood would be useful. Even Balerion’s shit—with its sulfuric properties—was good for the soil. Apparently part of a dragon’s diet. Balerion had told him so.

While digging and finding the stonecoal, Balerion had especially smelled the sulfur in it. On Dragonstone, dragons ate parts of volcanic rock rich in sulfur. Aemon wondered whether the dragons’ decline in the pit had to do with sulfur deprivation.

Even the wild dragons of Dragonstone had stayed healthy—if scrawny—compared to those kept in the pit. He had considered sending word to King’s Landing, but Otto Hightower ruled, and he doubted the man would listen to a letter from an eleven-year-old boy.

After cleaning, Aemon wrapped the sword and picked up his smithing book. He stepped outside and locked the door.

Waiting there were Ser Jeffery and Harrold.

“My prince, I see you’re done for the day,” Harrold said.

“Indeed, sers.” Aemon smiled, showing them the cloth-wrapped piece.

He glanced toward the castle smithy, where his forge-master worked on armor for the first of his Oathguard. Nearby, Martin and Tom—his fellow apprentices from Winterfell—hammered away. They had come south at his invitation. After swearing their oaths, they now served as his assistants.

Mostly still learning, but at times they helped with folding steel and other tasks. They had their own quarters near the smithy and were tasked with keeping the forge fires alive.

“Tom, Martin, come here,” Aemon called.

The two set down their tools and approached, wiping their hands on aprons.

“My prince?” they said in unison.

“Make sure the fire is fed.”

They nodded immediately. Though both were five years older than Aemon, they followed his orders without question.

“Tomorrow, you’ll be working with me,” he added. “We’ll craft some smaller pieces. I’ve steel left.”

“We will not fail you, my prince,” they answered with identical grins.

Aemon returned the smile, then turned to Harrold and Jeffery.

“Come. We need to speak in private.”

They followed him up to the top floor of the Dragon Drum, where his chambers were—one for Laena as well—and a central hall meant as a communal space for their future family.

Inside, Aemon gestured for them to sit. He poured wine—his own diluted with water—and once they had drunk, he spoke.

“You’ve both served me loyally. Harrold, even longer. To honor that, I have something for you.”

He unwrapped the sword. The Valyrian steel shimmered faintly in the dim light.

“My first Valyrian steel sword,” Aemon said, presenting it to Ser Harrold, who accepted it with reverence.

“My prince… this is wondrous,” Harrold said, voice thick with emotion. “Like the seax you made—but this… I’m honored.”

Aemon nodded, then turned to Jeffery.

“And I have something for you as well. It’s not Valyrian steel, but I know your preference lies with axes.”

From a nearby closet filled with pieces from his apprentice days, Aemon pulled a steel axe. The head was engraved with dragons, the pommel carved from ironwood in the shape of a leaf. The handle, too, was steel—one of only two he had made. The other had gone to his uncle.

“I hope this serves you well, Ser Trueleaf,” Aemon said. “Perhaps one day, you’ll wield a Valyrian steel axe too.”

“There’s no need,” Jeffery replied, turning the weapon in his hands. “Serving you is enough. This… I’ll treasure.”

“I hope so.”

After a few test swings, Aemon had them sit again.

“As you know,” he began, “I’ve commissioned armor for my household guards.”

They nodded. When he’d arrived, his men-at-arms wore mismatched armor—some from the South, some from the North, some still in Targaryen livery. He wanted uniformity, though he’d still allow them to display their house sigils.

“Well,” Aemon continued, “if war breaks out, lords summon vassals, and smallfolk are levied. They’re given a few weeks’ training—then sent to die. The survivors are often undisciplined. Even knights can be reckless, chasing glory.”

Jeffery nodded. Harrold grunted.

“I want to change that,” Aemon said, voice firm. “Throughout my family’s history, we’ve had few men-at-arms. Dragons are powerful—but it’s men who hold castles and guard roads.”

“So I’ll build a standing army. In peace, they’ll train, learn formations, and do maintenance work. They’ll be paid. When too old to fight, they’ll train the next generation—or retire with honor.”

“I haven’t worked out all the details—but that’s the vision.”

They were intrigued.

“And who will train them?” Jeffery asked. “Organize them?”

Aemon smiled. “That’s where you come in. If you’re interested.”

“Me?” Jeffery blinked.

“I trust you. You were born a commoner—King’s Landing smallfolk—but you earned your place. The men will relate to you. You’ll inspire them. That’s what this system is about—those who prove themselves can rise.”

“Rise through the ranks?” Harrold asked.

“Yes,” Aemon nodded. “Like squires becoming knights—but structured. Tiers, roles, units. Organized.”

He walked to his desk, opened a leather-bound book.

“Here—it’s what I’ve worked out.”

He showed them diagrams, training regimens, and proposed ranks. They stayed late, even sharing their evening meal there, speaking of what might come.

Alicent Hightower (103 A.C., fifth moon)

Kingslanding

Alicent’s footsteps echoed softly as she ascended the winding stairs of the royal tower in Maegor’s Holdfast. The climb was steep, and by the time she reached the upper level, her breathing had grown shallow. This was where the King’s and Queen’s private chambers were located. Two Kingsguard stood posted outside the king’s door.

“I’m expected, Sers,” she said softly.

The knights nodded and stepped aside, opening the door for her.

“Your Grace, I’m here,” she called gently as she stepped into the room. “We were supposed to continue reading about the First Dornish War. Is that still a good idea, or would you prefer I read something else?”

There was no reply.

Frowning, Alicent walked quietly toward the royal bed. At first, she thought he might be sleeping, but something felt off. His eyes were open, but glassy, unfocused.

“Your Grace?” she said again, leaning in close.

She bent to check for breath. There was none. No sound, no warmth in the air. No rise or fall of his chest.

She gasped as the revelation came to her. King Jaehaerys, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, was gone.

Her voice trembled as she turned toward the door. “Sers, please, come in. It is urgent.”

Ser Raym Redwyne was the first to respond. “My lady, is everything all right?”

“No,” she whispered. “I believe the King has gone to the Father.”

Raym rushed forward, kneeling beside the bed. He gently shook the king’s shoulder, but there was no response. Just stillness.

“It’s true, then,” Raym murmured. “The King is dead. Long live King Viserys.”

He stood, his face pale with grief. “Summon the Small Council. Inform the Hand. The Prince of Dragonstone must be told.”

Then, to Alicent, he said gently, “My lady, it’s best you come as well. You can speak to your father directly.”

A tight knot formed in her throat. She nodded and followed Ser Raym down the corridor and into the stairwell, heart pounding with the weight of what had just occurred. The king was dead. The king, who had been kind, gentle, if occasionally confused, was gone. Sometimes he had mistaken her for his daughter Saera, but even in those moments, there had been warmth in his eyes. And now that warmth had vanished forever.

They crossed the courtyard, heading toward the Tower of the Hand. Her family’s house guards stood watch outside, greeting them with solemn bows. She barely registered it.

At her father’s chambers, Ser Humfrey and Ser Dalmun stood in their usual places.

“Sers,” she said, her voice fragile. “We must speak to the Hand. There is urgent news.”

The guards exchanged glances, their expressions shifting at the sound of her voice. It must have been written on her face.

“As you say, my lady,” Ser Humfrey said as he opened the door. “Lord Hand, your daughter and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard are here to see you.”

Inside, Lord Otto Hightower sat behind his desk, surrounded by letters, scrolls, and open tomes, as always. He rose at once when he saw them enter. “Daughter. Ser Redwyne.”

Ser Raym’s voice was low and grim. “Grave news, Lord Hand. The king has passed.”

Otto inhaled slowly, deeply. Then he nodded. “This is most sorrowful news. King Jaerhaerys will be missed, but his legacy will endure. Long live King Viserys.”

Viserys Targaryen (103 A.C. Fifth moon)

Drum Tower – Viserys’s chambers

Viserys was carefully scraping at one of his carved dragon figures—part of the model city of Valyria he had begun building not long after his arrival. The project had become a quiet source of comfort for him. Between scrolls, ancient texts, and tomes on Valyrian history, he sometimes found the time to work on the miniature structures himself. It was one of the few things that allowed him to forget the burdens of court and lose himself in something peaceful.

A knock sounded on the chamber door.

“My prince,” came Ser Rickard’s voice through the wood, “Maester Jordis is here to see you.”

Viserys sighed and set the figure aside. Rising from his workbench, he crossed the room and opened the door.

Maester Jordis bowed his head lightly and began speaking at once. “My apologies, my Prince. Normally, I would wait until morning before disturbing you, but—this could not wait. I received a raven from the Lord Hand.”

He held out a sealed letter, its golden wax marked with the sigil of the Hand of the King.

“Indeed... a letter from the Hand,” Viserys murmured, accepting the parchment. He broke the seal without hesitation, eyes narrowing slightly as he began to read.

To His Highness, Prince Viserys Targaryen,
Prince of Dragonstone

My Prince,

It is with great sorrow that I write to you, though write I must.

His Grace, King Jaehaerys, your illustrious grandfather, has passed from this world. He died peacefully in his sleep.

I pen this letter scarcely an hour after his passing was confirmed by Grand Maester Ruciter. Preparations for a grand funeral for His Grace have already begun. The goal is to have everything prepared within a week. His Grace deserves no less.

It is now time, my Prince, for you to come to Kingslanding and take up the mantle that awaits you, King of the Seven Kingdoms.

May the Seven guide your every step as you walk this path.

Long live King Viserys, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.

With deepest respect,
Your faithful servant, Otto High Tower Hand of the King.

Time seemed to stop for a moment as Viserys read the letter. 

He was King. His grandfather was gone. King Jaehaerys had passed. Now the realm would look to him for guidance, for strength, for the protection of Aegon’s Dream and the peace of the realm. He thought, still dazed.

He took a slow, steady breath and looked up at Ser Rickard and Maester Jordis.

“The King is dead,” he said softly. “He passed in his sleep, earlier today, by all accounts. I am summoned to the capital, to attend the funeral and to take up the mantle of king.”

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Ser Rickard said, his voice quiet with sympathy. “King Jaehaerys was a good man. But I believe you will rule well.” He gave a small, comforting smile.

“Indeed,” Jordis added in his gentle, grandfatherly voice. “King Jaehaerys is gone, but his family remains. As does his heir. May you reign well, King Viserys, First of His Name.”

Jordis hesitated for a moment, then asked, “Shall I inform the castle, Your Grace?”

“Yes,” Viserys said, nodding. “But let my daughter sleep. My wife and I will tell her in the morning.”

He paused briefly, collecting his thoughts.

“Wake my steward and have him begin preparations for our departure. I want to leave in two days’ time.”

He turned back toward the room, then paused again. “Also, summon my wife to my chambers.”

As the door closed behind him, Viserys walked to the nearest chair and let himself sink into it, shoulders heavy with the weight of a crown he had not yet worn.

 The fire crackled low in the hearth, throwing faint orange light across the stone floor. Viserys sat in silence, elbows on his knees, the letter from the Hand lying beside him, already reread too many times. He had not changed clothes, nor moved much since Maester Jordis and Ser Rickard left. The words still rang in his head. The king is dead, and he was king.

The knock at the door was soft. He lifted his head as it creaked open.

Aemma stood there, robe drawn close, her expression tired but worried. “You sent for me?” she asked gently.

He stood slowly. The motion felt heavy.

“Aemma,” he began, voice low and rougher than he intended. “Our grandfather… he’s gone. Jaehaerys passed in his sleep.”

He saw the shift in her eyes, the shock, and then the sadness that followed. She didn’t ask questions. She simply stepped forward and pulled him into her arms.

Viserys let her hold him. He didn’t care how tightly. He needed to feel something solid, warm, living, because everything else felt like it had turned to dust. Her scent, lavender and the faint trace of ink, was familiar. Steadying.

“They want me in King’s Landing,” he said quietly against her shoulder. “The funeral… the crown. It’s happening in a week.”

“You’ll be a good king,” she whispered.

“I don’t feel like a king,” he muttered. “Not yet.”

He pulled back slightly to look at her, and she saw the sadness too. Aemma didn’t know Jaehaerys well, as she spent most of her youth in the Eyrie. After that, she was busy being a mother to Rhaenyra. Yet he was her grandfather all the same. “How do you feel?” He asked.

“Sadden, for you, for our family. Yet together we will get through it.” She replied, giving a sad smile.

Smut

“Stay with me tonight,” he said, kissing her with hunger, tasting the sweetness of her lips as his hands found her hips.

“I wasn’t planning to leave,” Aemma replied, kissing him back. Her hand slid beneath his clothes, fingers wrapping around his already hard cock. He swallowed, breath catching, as his own hands rose to cup her breasts, full and warm beneath his touch.

“Aemma,” he murmured, voice low and aching, and she moaned in return. Together, they moved to the bed.

Soon, their clothes were gone, strewn carelessly across the floor. He looked into her eyes, those striking blue eyes flecked with purple, and felt a pang of guilt. It had been far too long. He hadn’t touched her like this in over half a year. At Aemon’s urging, apparently, Maester Vaegon and another maester at Seadragon Point had advised against it.

He groaned as he felt her hand close around his cock again, slow and certain.

“Take me, husband,” she whispered, guiding him between her thighs, pressing the head of his cock to the wet, welcoming lips of her cunt.

He groaned again, pushing into her with a shudder. “Oh, Aemma…” Gods, he had missed this, the heat, the wetness, the way her body yielded to his. She was soft and warm beneath him, her arms wrapping around his back, pulling him closer.

He began to move, finding a rhythm quickly. Her cunt gripped him tight, almost too sweet to bear. Aemma moaned beneath him, arching her back as he cupped her breasts, squeezing them, kissing them. Gods, he loved the feel of, and the weight of them in his hands, the way her nipples hardened beneath his tongue.

Soon, far too soon, he felt his pleasure build. And with a final thrust, he spilled inside her, groaning her name. “Aemma,”

He collapsed on top of her, panting. Her hands stroked his back gently, her lips brushing his cheek.

“Vis,” she whispered, kissing him again.

After a few moments, he felt himself soften and rolled off her. “Oh, my wonderful, dear wife.” He mumbled as he kissed her again and pulled her into an embrace. He knew then that this wouldn’t be the only time he would bed her tonight. “I love you,” He murmured, closing his eyes.

Later that night

Viserys stood in the Red Keep, but it was not as he remembered it. The hall had changed, but its decorations were similar; the torches burned with pale blue flame. The shadows shifted with purpose, dancing like spirits. It was a dream, he knew it, but it felt real, more real than any dream before.

He walked barefoot through the hall, following a distant sound. Laughter, the soft gurgle of a babe.

He turned the corner and entered the throne room.

The Iron Throne stood before him, taller and sharper than it had ever been in waking life. Its blades twisted high toward the heavens, as if yearning to pierce the clouds. Sunlight streamed down through the great windows, and on the top of the throne sat a babe.

A babe, swaddled in black and red, cradled in arms he could not see. The child turned his head toward Viserys, and his eyes, eyes he knew similar to his.

Viserys moved forward. “My son…” he exclaimed in joy as he fell to his knees.

The child reached out to him, tiny fingers curled into a fist. A wind picked up, soft at first, then rising into a storm. The torches flickered. The blades of the throne sang.

The babe was no longer there; instead, a man was seated on the Iron Throne.

He had grown to be a man in his thirties, or possibly in his forties, and on his head was the crown of valyrian steel with big red rubies, the crown of Aegon the Conqueror. A sword at his side. The Red Keep shook with the chants of the realm: “The king! The king! The king!”

Around him, he heard the sounds of thundering hooves, splintering shields, and ringing swords. Then he heard roars and felt like all the dragons roared as one.

He saw lords bend the knee. Stark, Baratheon, Arryn, Tyrell, and to his surprise, even the proud Martells of Dorne. All sworn to his boy.

His son. The heir who would unite the realm. Viserys thought.

Then came a cold wind, freezing, endless. The light dimmed. And behind the boy, in the distance, a great shadow rose, swallowing the walls of the hall. Then a figure walked into the hall, its body blue, and eyes like blue stars, a crown of ice upon its brow.

But the boy did not flinch. He stood tall, his blade alight with fire. And Viserys heard the words once more, whispered in the wind, “He is Aegon’s song,”

Viserys jolted awake with a gasp, his body trembling. Aemma lay beside him, her breathing slow, steady in sleep. Moonlight washed over her bare shoulder.

He turned toward her, tears in his eyes. His hand moved to her belly, resting there.

“I will have a boy,” he whispered. “Our son… the dream was clear.” Then kissed her cheek.

Chapter Text

Chapter 28 : Burning Pyre's 

Viserys Targaryen (103 A.C., Fifth Moon)
The Blackwater Bay – Arrival at King’s Landing

The wind carried the scent of salt, and the familiar smell of King’s Landing began to drift across Blackwater Bay. Ahead, the red towers of the Red Keep loomed like a crown over the sprawling chaos of the city below. Viserys remembered his grandfather’s words to him once: “I wish I could rebuild this all over and make it right.”

He smiled faintly at the memory as he stood at the prow, his hand resting on the carved dragon figurehead. He exhaled deeply, the city’s silhouette stirring both weariness and pride in his chest.

A sudden gust hit him, strong enough to ruffle his hair and cloak. Overhead, Goynogar roared, banking in a wide arc toward the Dragonpit. The windblast from the great beast’s wings struck the ship, and Viserys steadied himself with a hand on the railing, gritting his teeth as he welcomed the familiar force of dragonflight.

Footsteps behind him—light and purposeful.

Aemma came to his side and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. He turned his head, and there beside her stood their daughter—his little star.

Rhaenyra clutched the rail with both hands, her violet eyes alight with excitement. Her gaze was fixed on the sky, where her young she-dragon, Syrax, trailed behind Goynogar with nimble grace. The small yellow dragon had a way of gliding through the air with elegance, and her time at Dragonstone had helped her grow. He remembered the first time Syrax had taken his daughter into the sky, and how they had laughed as they soared together.

“She missed flying,” Aemma said softly, glancing at their daughter.

“She always does. She’s a true dragon,” Viserys replied with a tired smile. “And so do I.”

At that moment, Laena Velaryon came skipping across the deck. The wind tugged at her silver curls as she grinned and reached Rhaenyra, clasping her hand. The girls giggled together, pointing at the dragons and whispering in that way children did when sharing secrets only they understood.

They had grown even more inseparable since Laena came to Dragonstone. He hoped that even after both were married, Rhaenyra would keep her friendship with the girl.

Soon, they passed below the cliffs of the Red Keep. The ship’s bell rang twice, and the sails shifted. The crew began final preparations for docking.

“Hold on!” called the first mate, and the vessel began to slow as it approached the long stone docks of King’s Landing.

The crimson three-headed dragon on black billowed in the wind. Beneath it flew many others: the white tower on grey of House Hightower, the three yellow beehives on a field paly of black and yellow for House Beesbury, even House Velaryon’s seahorse banner. And more, banners raised in honor of the Old King, and, Viserys hoped, in support of his own accession.

On the quay, a small party waited under the midday sun.

Viserys spotted him first: Ser Ryam Redwyne, tall and broad, his white hair gleaming alongside his cloak. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard stood beside Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, whose face wore a mask of measured patience.

At Otto’s side stood Lady Alicent, clad in green silk, her auburn hair pinned in elegant coils beneath a fine veil. She wore a small smile that did not quite reach her eyes, her hands folded in careful poise. The girl had grown in the time they had been away, grown into a woman, Viserys noted.

The ship docked with a final groan of timber and rope.

Viserys straightened his cloak, heart pounding in his chest, and turned to his family. “Come,” he said, offering his hand to Aemma, who took it with a gentle nod. He saw Rhaenyra clutched Laena’s hand tightly, and the excitement still bubbling beneath her composed little face.

As the gangplank lowered and the dragons circled overhead, the royal party descended to meet the waiting court.

Otto bowed. “Your Grace,” he said with solemn deference. “The realm grieves with you. King Jaehaerys will be deeply missed.”

Viserys inclined his head. “Indeed. I will do my best to fill the hole he left in the realm, and continue to uphold the peace he forged.”

Alicent dipped into a curtsy, her eyes flickering briefly to Aemma, Rhaenyra, and Laena. “Welcome home, Your Grace.”

Viserys gave a faint smile but said nothing.

Ser Ryam stepped forward and bowed deeply. “Your Grace. The Kingsguard awaits your command.”

“Thank you for your loyal service, ser. You served my grandfather well, and I have no doubt you will do the same for me.” Viserys glanced toward the hill where the Red Keep rose.

“Let’s go. I want to settle in and have a small council meeting as soon as possible, to speak of the funeral and my coronation.”

From above, Goynogar’s roar echoed faintly, followed by Syrax’s reply.

The Small Council Chamber – Red Keep

Viserys entered the chamber slowly, his steps heavy with the weight of his first day as King. The painted table gleamed beneath the golden light streaming in from the high windows, but his eyes first went to the men who stood waiting.

Some faces he recognized immediately, Lord Beesbury, aged but sharp-eyed, still holding his ledgers and scrolls with the reverence of a septon handling scripture. Corlys stood tall in black and sea-green, his expression one of reluctant acceptance. That man will need time before he comes around to me being King.

Beside them stood two others.

One he knew, Maester Runciter, his lined face like old parchment. But the last man... his tabard bore a burning orange tree against smoky grey. House Marbrand.

Ah. That must be the new Master of Laws. Viserys squinted slightly, trying to recall the man’s name.

“Lord Carlton Marbrand,” the man said with a bow, sensing the King’s hesitation. “An honor, Your Grace. It is good to finally meet you.”

Viserys returned the nod, studying him. The man looked competent enough, well-groomed, in his middle years, with a lawyer’s narrow eyes and a soldier’s posture. Still, Viserys had never heard of him before.

“I’m sure you will serve me well, my lord,” Viserys said, offering his hand briefly before moving to the table.

He picked up the seal of the King, the crown-marked rod of authority, its weight both familiar and strange in his hand. He drew a breath and seated himself at the head of the council for the first time as King.

“Let us begin. How are the preparations for the funeral?” he asked, his eyes drifting toward Otto Hightower, who stood nearest.

Otto bowed his head. “Your Grace. After King Jaehaerys’s passing, his body was prepared by the Silent Sisters with the utmost care. He rests now in the Grand Sept, where the people may pay their respects.”

Viserys exhaled softly. “Good. The people deserve to mourn him. As do I.”

“I had hoped to visit him tomorrow, in private,” he added.

“That can be arranged at your will, Your Grace,” Otto replied. “The Grand Sept is guarded day and night.”

“And the funeral itself?” Viserys asked.

“The procession is set for the end of this week. In two days’ time,” Otto confirmed. “The body will be carried through the streets of King’s Landing, then brought to the Dragonpit for the burning, by dragonfire, as is tradition. His ashes will then be laid to rest in the Dragonstone crypt beside Queen Alysanne, as per His Grace’s will.”

Viserys nodded solemnly. “Good. He loved the Queen very much. As for the will, let’s discuss that after the coronation and funeral preparations are settled.”

Then looked to Runciter. “Have we heard from my brothers and sisters?”

“Some, Your Grace,” Runciter answered, his voice dry and methodical. “Prince Daemon arrived in the city yesterday. His location is currently unknown. Rumors place him at the Street of Silk last evening, but nothing confirmed.”

Viserys frowned, unsurprised. “My brother has always marched to the beat of his own drum. I’ll speak with him soon enough.”

He shifted. “What of the North? My kin there?”

“We’ve sent ravens to Winterfell and Seadragon Point, but replies have yet to come. The distance is far, and the weather... unpredictable,” Runciter explained. “If they do respond, it’s unlikely they’ll arrive before the coronation unless they come flying on Balerion.” That earned a soft chuckle from Corlys.

Runciter continued, “However, we’ve had word from Seadragon Point. Sailors and traders speak of marvels. Seadragon Holt, they call it. Prince Aemon also sent a letter a few moons past. In it, he said he had bought a number of slaves from Myr, freed them, and hired them on as glassmakers. As for the progress of the keep, it seems swift.”

Viserys leaned back, folding his hands. “My brother always had a gift for vision, but sometimes he can be too bold. I’ve seen some of his designs for Seadragon Holt. It reminds me of the scrolls I have read about Old Valyria, yet also mixed with Northern architecture. If he can succeed, it will be brilliant. I wonder if that castle's growth is coming along this quickly.”

He glanced toward Corlys, who was smiling with quiet approval. If someone knew even more, it would be him. Corlys and Aemon had always had a good relationship. “Lord Corlys?”

“I’ve heard the same, Your Grace,” the Lord of the Tides said. “I sent ten of my finest shipbuilders there a few moons past. They report the same marvels. Your brother has ambition, even at such a young age, and now it seems he has the means to match it. Seadragon Point may one day rival Oldtown or Lannisport as the most prominent port on the Sunset Sea.” Corlys noted and glaced at Hand.

“And what of my sisters, and stepmother?” Viserys asked.

“The last news from Winterfell came when we received word that Princess Visenya had bonded with Vhagar, on your brother’s tenth nameday,” Ruciter replied.

Viserys considered that with a hum, then straightened. “Yes... that was marvelous news indeed. Another Visenya riding the mighty Vhagar.”

He glanced at Otto once more. “Now, the coronation. What word from the Faith?”

“The High Septon is expected to arrive in two weeks’ time, Your Grace,” Otto replied. “He will preside over the coronation ceremony personally.”

Viserys nodded. “Good. As for the location, let it be in the Dragonpit. My grandfather married there, to symbolize our family’s might.”

“Very well, Your Grace. It will show the realm that the royal family is still strong,” Otto stated with a small smile.

“Indeed, Jaehearys his days have passed, but that isn’t to say the crowns strongest days are behind it.” He added. 

Two days later - The Dragonpit – King’s Landing

He waited in the Great Doom, the hall that represented his family’s might. Its great dome stood whole, the vaulted ceiling soaring overhead like the ribcage of some vast beast. Shafts of filtered sunlight poured through high slits, casting golden light upon the scorched floor below.

All was quiet, even the smallfolk seated upon the higher benches made no sound, out of respect for the man who had brought the realm peace.

To many’s surprise, Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, had emerged from his lair first. His claws scraped against the stone as he settled beside the massive pyre built at the heart of the pit. His wings remained tucked close to his body.

Behind him stood his mate, Silverwing, her silvery-white scales still catching the sun with brightness. The great she-dragon stood still, watching.

Viserys stood on one side of the pyre, with Daemon and Aemma, who held Rhaenyra’s hand tightly. The little girl was silent, her violet eyes darting between the dragons and the great bier of wood and oil.

Across the pyre stood Princess Rhaenys, regal in her mourning blacks, flanked by Corlys Velaryon and their children. Laena clutched her mother’s hand, saddened with grief like all of them. Laenor was just as still.

Then the wailing began. From beyond the pit, as the procession came up the hill toward the Doom, the cries of the people rose like wind. Raw, heartfelt grief made into sound. Jaehaerys had ruled for over fifty years. He was the only King many had ever known.

Viserys listened, and in his heart, a question whispered: Will they cry for me like that, when my time comes?

A hush fell over the Doom as the carriage carrying his grandfather rode through the gates. The gathered people began to sob.

At the front walked Ser Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, flanked by his brother Ser Addam Tarth. Their cloaks of white hung heavy in the still air. Behind them rolled the carriage, drawn by six shadow-black horses, its frame carved with dragons and crowned with golden torches.

As the carriage passed into the sacred hall, Vermithor rumbled.

The sound rolled through the stone like thunder, deep and mournful. The Bronze Fury had known the Old King. The beast bowed his head low, and Silverwing followed.

The carriage halted, and six silent sisters of the Faith stepped forward. With practiced reverence, they undid the straps that held the body of his grandfather.

His body had been prepared in the old way, wrapped in layers of black and red silk, with golden embroidery of dragons, the crown, and the seven-pointed star. His face was hidden, but Viserys did not need to see it to remember. He knew the lines of wisdom, the eyes filled with regret, yet also with love for his family, even if it was private. Sorrow, now fixed in his memory.

The silent sisters laid the body on the pyre.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Viserys took a deep breath and stepped forward.

“My grandfather, your King,” he said, voice ringing clear beneath the dome, “was the greatest King this realm has known. He gave us peace, order, and dignity. He forged bonds between houses, faiths, and kingdoms. His reign was not marked by conquest, but by reconciliation and unity.”

He paused. “If I can rule with even half his grace, I will count myself fortunate. Let him now rest with his beloved wife and the children who were taken from him too soon. Let him find peace. And let us all honor his legacy.”

His voice echoed through the hall.

Then the Crown began to speak, “Bless King Jaehaerys. Long live King Viserys. May he rest. Bless the Conciliator.”

A brief silence followed. Then, Viserys turned toward his grandfather’s dragon.

He lifted his hand. He wondered if the dragon would do as he asked. “Vermithor… Dracarys.”

The ancient dragon opened his jaws. A blast of fire orange and bronze shot forth and engulfed the pyre. The flames leapt skyward, licking the dome, casting flickering shadows across the mourners.

Beside him, Silverwing let out a powerful roar, as if giving a final note of mourning and farewell.

The fire blazed high. Rhaenyra pressed her face into her mother’s gown, and Aemma gently stroked her daughter’s hair. Viserys did not look away.

His grandfather had returned to fire. Soon, he would rest beside his family on Dragonstone.

As the flames burned, Vermithor turned, slowly, heavily, and began walking toward the gates of the Doom. People stepped aside as the great dragon passed. Silverwing followed.

With a mighty beat of his wings, Vermithor strode forward. With a few more great flaps, the dragons took to the air. Silverwing followed. The dome trembled slightly as they rose into the sky.

Viserys glimpsed them soaring eastward, toward Dragonstone, where both dragons had been born.

Aemon Targaryen (103 A.C. Fifth moon)

Seadragon Point – Outside the city walls.

Two days passed, the raven had come.
His grandfather was dead.

When the letter was placed into his hands, he had not spoken. He had walked alone to the cliffs above the sea and wept where no one could see him. Then, he wrote a reply. Few had touched his life like King Jaehaerys had. Not just as a King, but as a teacher, a grandfather, a man whose wisdom had shaped his own ideals. He had thought him unshakable. Eternal. But all men must die.

All save him, perhaps. The undead. The thrice-revived. He thought as he stared toward the pyre.  Four shapes waited upon it: three living, bound in chains, and one unhatched, nestled in the embers of fate.

Aemon’s eyes lingered on the egg, one of the eggs of Vhagar’s clutch. One of them had turned to stone, yet even if turned to stone, he felt the small form of lingering heat in the egg. The other two, Balerion had assured him, would hatch in time. But this one, this stubborn stone egg, would need fire and blood. That was the truth of their house. Fire and Blood. Words not just spoken, but lived. That was the price of birthing dragons from stone.

That, and judgment.

The man bound before the pyre had been a master stonemason. Respected. Trusted. Until his treachery was laid bare, caught selling the secrets of weldfire to outsiders. Worse still, he had taken the sacred oaths, one written in blood and said in front of the weirdwood. He had broken them for the promise of gold. Sadly they the buyer didn’t know his employer. So that tail, for now, was cold.

Aemon had wrestled with the decision for days. The mason had a wife. A son, barely nine, the same age as Olly had been, once. And they had begged. Gods, how they begged.

“Spare the boy, spare my wife, take only me,” the man had pleaded, on his knees, his cheeks streaked with tears.

But Aemon had made a vow of his own. He vowed that if this sacred oath was broken, the traitor’s line must be ended. If he didn’t do it, his words and his oaths would mean nothing. Then people wouldn’t trust his word, wouldn’t respect him.

And so they were sentenced. Together. And the promise he had made was fulfilled, even if it made his stomach turn. He walked to them now, solemn and slow, and stood before the pyre.

“If you have words to say to one another,” Aemon said, voice low, with as much authority as an eleven-year-old voice could muster, “speak them now.”

The boy whimpered, clinging to his mother. The man whispered to them both, soft words of love and comfort, and of regret. Aemon’s chest ached as he heard them. The child’s crying was quiet. The woman held him close. The man kissed them both and closed his eyes.

Aemon turned away.

He walked a few steps away and turned, looking toward Balerion, waiting behind the pyre, eyes glowing like molten gold in the dimming dusk. Around them, hundreds had gathered: smiths and sailors, farmers, stonecutters, and many more of Seadragon Point’s people had come to see him dispense justice. Ser Harrold stood among them, face pale, jaw clenched. Ser Jeffery and his uncle stood beside him. They all knew. The mason’s guilt was not in question.

But this judgment would still leave a scar. He would be killing a boy and a wife for the father’s actions. Something he would have been killed for himself, had it not been for his uncle.

“They watch you,” Balerion whispered in his mind, the voice deep and low as thunder. “Be like the kings of winter. Be like the dragons of Valyria. Be resolved in your actions.”

Aemon nodded. He looked out over the sea, where the wind tugged at his cloak, then back to the pyre. His voice was steady when he spoke. “Dracarys.”

Balerion opened his jaws. The roar was deafening. A torrent of black fire, streaked with gold, erupted and engulfed the pyre. The screams were brief. Dragonfire burned hotter than any forge, merciful in its swiftness. Flesh melted in moments. The stone egg, nestled at the pyre’s heart, began to glow.

And Aemon stepped forward.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Cries of alarm rose from his uncle, his guards, and the people. “No! Prince Aemon!”

Some knew of his invulnerability to fire, others didn’t. Yet this was a blazing pyre, ignited by dragonflame. Still, he knew he would be fine. His faith in Balerion did, and something in his heart did. So he walked on, eyes locked on the fire.

The heat hit him like a wall. It licked at his clothes, seared the hairs off his skin and head. His boots smoked. So he was in flames, yet still he walked. Into the flames.

Screams echoed behind him.

Inside, the world was heat and light, yet no pain. The fire roared like a living thing. He knelt on his knees beside the egg. The bodies of the family were still chained to the post, but iron waste starting to melt the bodies themselves, where blackened husks. But there, amid the ash and embers, something moved.

A crack split across the egg’s surface. A shimmer of red light poured out.

A tiny claw emerged. Then wings.

The hatchling let out a broken, rasping cry as it slipped free of the crumbling shell. Its scales were deep blood-red, laced with vibrant purple striping. Smoke curled from its nostrils. Its eyes opened, slitted, gleaming, violet.

It saw him.
And it crawled to him.

Aemon reached out, trembling, and gathered the dragon into his arms. Its tiny claws pricked his chest. Its heat was immense, but he held it close. He rose, legs unsteady, flames curling about him.

When he stepped from the pyre, silence met him.

Then a cry.

“He lives!” someone shouted.

The crowd surged forward, half in awe, half in fear. Ser Harrold was the first to reach him, tearing off his cloak and wrapping it around Aemon’s scorched frame. The small dragon hissed at the touch, but did not bite.

“My prince,” Harrold whispered hoarsely, “never do that again.”

“I’m sorry,” Aemon said, voice raw. “But sometimes… sometimes we must risk the a burn to earn a fire.” Harrold and his uncle came up close, just sighed in relief, and he chuckled.

He turned to the gathered crowd, the infant dragon clinging to his shoulder.

“Seadragon Point,” he said, “meet Jaefyre. In honor of our departed King.”

And the dragon lifted its head and cried, a shrill, high-pitched sound like a song of birth and death all at once.

Chapter Text

Chapter 29: Lord of the Seven Kingdoms

Daemon Targaryen (103 A.C., Sixth Moon)
King’s Landing – The Dragonpit

Daemon waited outside the Dragonpit with his kin, watching for Viserys, Aemma, and Rhaenyra to arrive. Today, his eldest brother would be crowned in the eyes of the realm, though in truth, Viserys had already been acting as King for some time.

Daemon allowed himself a quiet satisfaction as he watched the people waiting for their new King. The great plot had worked, he was now the heir. His brother would soon have to annul that wretched marriage, something the old King would never have permitted. If his plans played out as he intended, he would sire a son on his niece, giving birth to a true Valyrian heir. He would have to wait until the girl was of age, of course, but he was almost certain Viserys would agree, they were the blood of Old Valyria, after all. Once confirmed as heir, perhaps he would even take another wife, as the Conqueror had done.

His gaze shifted to his cousin, Daenerys Celtigar, eldest daughter of Gael and Bartimos Celtigar. She was still only five namedays, far too young, but in time she might prove a useful match. The girl favored her mother’s looks, though she bore the unfortunate, dull light blue eyes of the Celtigars. A sign of their many marriages with the peoples of Westeros. If the gods were kind, Lady Laena Velaryon might also become an option, but for now, she was wasted on his younger half-brother. Daemon’s lip curled at the thought. That boy rode Balerion, and his halfbreed sisters rode dragons too. The blood of his father was pure once, but had been tainted, all because of the whore who had crept into his father’s bed. Everywhere he looked, there were those seeking to dilute or destroy the might of House Targaryen.

His eyes landed on Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, a position his father should have held. Ser Otto, nine-and-thirty, had risen to the position through being a lickspittle and the charms of his comely daughter. He wondered what the girl had whispered to old King when she tended him.

The Hightowers had always been persistent in their climb toward the throne. They had once aligned with Maegor the Cruel, even after he had set Lady Selyse Hightower aside for a second wife. Daemon suspected, had even tried to use the Faith to bring down the Targaryens as the center of both the Faith of the Seven and knowledge in the realm both where in Old Town, they would always strive to keep their fingers near the seat of power.

When the Hand’s daughter began to seek his company, Daemon had been more than willing to entertain her advances. At four-and-ten namedays, she was young but comely. Without a true wife, the thought of bedding her, and perhaps siring a bastard, was tempting. If played well, it might even serve to put a leash on Otto himself. The thought brought a smirk to Daemon’s lips.

His musings were broken by the roars of Goynogar and Syrax. Viserys and his good-sister had arrived for their coronation. The brown, dragon spect with green, circled twice around the keep, with Syrax following the dragon gracefully. The dragons landed in the center of the pit, and Daemon watched as Viserys dismounted and helped Aemma down.

Then his eyes fell on his young niece, dismounting from her yellow-golden mount. At nine namedays, she was already growing into a pretty girl, he thought as she petted her dragon.

All around them, the people knelt as Viserys and his queen stepped forward.

“Rise,” Viserys commanded, his voice unusually stern. Daemon smirked at his brother’s serious tone, finding it ill-fitted to the occasion.

“Brother,” Viserys said, embracing him briefly before moving on toward the podium. The Targaryen family followed in his wake, a path cleared by the household guard. Along the way, shouts rang out from the crowd:

“Long live the King!”
“Bless his reign!”
“Bless House Targaryen!”

The family mounted the podium, the ceremony about to begin, when a roar shook the very foundations of the Dragonpit. The sound was answered by two more, and Daemon turned toward the entrance. Goynogar and Syrax gave submissive replies. The two dragons departed from the entrance.

Balerion.

There was only one meaning in that. His halfbreed brother had come. Soon enough, the massive black shape of the Conqueror’s dragon blocked the entrance, the ground trembling as the beast landed. Wind and the smell of dragon filled the great dome. Balerion was as colossal as Daemon remembered, too large for the main gate, but the side passage had been built to accommodate him, Rogar and Maegor had designed the pit for the pride of House Targaryen itself.

Even as Daemon might have admired the dragon’s power, his mood soured. The knowledge that Balerion obeyed Aemon made his blood boil. Whatever satisfaction he’d felt earlier was gone, replaced by a simmering fury, now that the halfbreed was here.

Flashback – four days earlier

Arya Stark/Targaryen (103 A.C. Sixth Moon)

Winterfell - a week after Aemon hatched Jaefyre

Arya walked along the battlements of Winterfell, her gaze drifting over the familiar stone walls. Some parts of the castle looked different from when she had last seen it, yet it felt more like home now than it had when she first returned. This time, she had a sister, someone she could truly relate to.

She loved Sansa, but Sansa had changed so much, and before that, their interests clashed. She had grown cold and, in the end, even broke sacred oaths. Arya could still see the look in her sister’s eyes, the pride she felt when the Northern lords wanted to choose her over Jon.

Visenya was more than just kin; she was a true companion. Someone Arya could speak to without weighing her words, someone who shared her love of the skies, swords, and archery, even if she could yet draw a bow to her own irritation, yet who also helped her with more ladylike things. She would always love her other siblings, but apart from Aemon, none had ever felt so close to her.

And then there was Lyanna, now her mother. In some ways, Lyanna was like an older, tempered version of Visenya, then again, a mother-like daughter, and a glimpse of what her sister might become in later years. Visenya still carried a spark of mischief and untamed joy; Lyanna carried wisdom and steadiness, yet within her still lived the she-wolf of the North. With Lyanna, Arya had found something she had never known from her own mother: an acceptance of who she was, even of the things she loved that Catelyn had never understood.

The realization was strange, and at times it felt almost like betrayal. Catelyn had raised her, and yet… Lyanna felt like the mother she had been meant to have. The longer they spent together, the deeper that thought took root in her heart, no matter how she tried to pull it free.

In these past years, she had also reclaimed something she thought was gone forever, her childhood. She had lost it the day her father’s head was struck from his shoulders.

Yet soon, the days of spending time with her sister would be over. She knew it was likely Visenya would stay in the South once they went there. Why return North only to be sent South again five moons later? Still, she would endure. She knew Lyanna planned to join Aemon after they returned to Winterfell, after they helped Laenor settle in. Laenor would become a ward at Benjen’s side until the day came for him to join Aemon, a year later.

A sudden roar split the air, deep and thunderous. Arya’s head snapped up just in time to see a dark shape burst through the cloud, a great black dragon whose shadow swept almost the entirety of Winterfell at that height.

Aemon, she thought, smiling.

Balerion descended with slow, deliberate wingbeats, landing in the eastern field outside the walls. From her perch atop the battlements, Arya leaned forward to watch as Aemon swung down from the saddle. Something small shifted on his shoulder, then it hopped down onto the grass the moment Aemon’s boots touched earth. Behind him, two knights dismounted: Ser Harrold in his white cloak, and Ser Jeffery Trueleaf with the leaf-and-acorn sigil on his cloak. The pair began unfastening straps and unloading Balerion’s harness, while the Black Dread himself stood motionless, tail curled loosely along the ground.

Balerion always unnerved her, yet there was something in the way he watched the men, calm, calculating, that made her think he was wiser than most of them. Then again, Aemon could talk to the damn dragon.

“The prince has returned,” Edric said beside her, still staring at the dragon in awe.

“Indeed,” Arya replied, her voice bright with excitement. “Come, let’s meet my brother.”

Edric grinned and dipped his head. “Lead on, Princess.”

As they descended the steps, Arya saw others moving toward the nearest gatehouse. Her uncle Benjen was already waiting there.

“Uncle!” she called, running to him. He smiled, ruffling her hair.

“There you are, Arya. We were looking for you! We wanted to go flying one last time before we leave,” Visenya exclaimed, appearing with Rickon at her side.

“Sorry, I was walking the battlements,” Arya answered.

“Then it’s for the best,” Visenya said with a grin. “Aemon’s back. We can fly together now.”

Arya’s smile widened at the thought. She was the second-youngest dragonrider in history—only Aemon had flown earlier, at four years old. To her, flying was freedom, wildness, and joy, and she could not imagine giving it up for anything.

“Of course we’ll go flying,” she said.

“Come, let us greet our prince,” Benjen said, formal now. The gathered company followed him through the Hunter’s Gate and into the eastern fields, freshly harvested, the first grass with sporting up, with the dark edge of the Wolfswood beyond. Both Grey Ghost and Vhagar had claimed caves there, emerging only when called.

Aemon stood waiting. He looked taller than when she had last seen him, but what made Arya pause was his hair. Or rather, the lack of it. His head was almost bare, save for a thin line of silver-blond hair.

“My Prince, welcome to Winterfell,” Benjen said. “Your eagle reached us yesterday. But tell me, did you shave your hair?”

“Thank you, thank you, Lord Uncle. No fire did that,” Aemon replied evenly. From behind him, a small dragon scrambled up his shoulder.

The crowd murmured. The hatchling was blood-red, with silver striping along its neck and tail.

“One of Vhagar’s eggs,” Aemon explained. “It had turned to stone. I hatched it with fire and blood. My hair was burned away in the process.” He grinned, stroking the hatchling’s chin until it chirped contentedly.

Benjen’s eyes lingered on the dragon. “It seems your House words still mean something, like ours,” he said with a faint smile. “As for your eagle, what you asked is prepared. Your sisters and mother are able to depart for King’s Landing on the morrow. But I have a request: take my eldest with you. He can swear his oath to the crown in my stead, and it is time my heir saw the South. With one guard, of course.”

“I’d be glad to bring my favorite cousin,” Aemon said with a smirk toward Rickon, who was grinning. “Balerion can carry them easily. I plan to fly to Moat Cailin first, rest there, then on to Harrenhal, and finally King’s Landing. I could fly faster, but I doubt Grey Ghost could keep pace.”

 “Thank you, Nephew. Now,” Benjen began, but Aemon had already moved forward.

Without a word, he embraced Visenya first, holding her tightly, his cheek brushing the crown of her head. She clung to him, her purple eyes bright, as though she’d been holding in her excitement until this very moment. Then he turned to Arya.

She felt his arms wrap around her and was suddenly aware of the warmth in them—the same warmth she remembered from her earliest days with him at Winterfell, before dragons and crowns had changed their lives. For a moment, she pressed her face against his shoulder, breathing in the faint scent of leather and the scent of dragons.

“I’ve missed you, little wolf,” he murmured so only she could hear. “I missed you, too.” She said.

When he pulled away, it was Rickon’s turn. Aemon clasped his cousin by the shoulders, smiling. “You’ve grown,” he said, before drawing him into a firm embrace. Rickon returned it with the same wolfish grin he always wore before mischief.

Only then did Aemon turn back with a grin. Benjen just shook his head. “Now, Uncle, I’m ready to come inside and tell you the tale of this hatching,” he said, his voice light with pride.

Benjen clapped him on the back. “Then let’s hear it. I’ll see your baggage brought into the keep.”

Rhaenyra Targaryen (103 A.C., Sixth Moon)
Dragonpit – Coronation

Rhaenyra stared in surprise as Aemon strode into the great hall. He had grown taller; it would not be long before he stood eye to eye with her father. But what caught her attention first was his hair. The familiar silver-gold still shone at the top, even if it was just a tine line of stubble. Sadly, those bright curling locks she adored were gone.

What truly startled her, and the crowd, was the small dragon perched on his shoulder: a blood-red creature streaked with silver.

Behind him came his sworn shield, Ser Harrold, followed by Visenya and Arya, each holding one of Lyanna’s hands. A boy she did not recognize came next, along with Ser Clement Crabb and two more guards unfamiliar to her.

The household troops parted, clearing a path for Aemon and his company. He walked toward the podium, and when he reached her father, he knelt. The rest of his party followed suit.

“Your Grace,” Aemon said, his voice deeper than she remembered. Yet, seeing him up close, she still recognized the boy she had known.

“Rise, and thank you all for coming, if a bit dramatically,” her father replied, drawing chuckles from those nearby, including her.

“Sorry,” Aemon said with a small nod, “but traveling here, even on dragonback, on such short notice is difficult.”

They all moved to join the rest of the Targaryen family. Aemon, however, came straight to her and Laena, embracing them both. When he held her, Rhaenyra’s heart swelled, and she realized just how much she had missed him, the scent of him, the warmth of his presence.

A hush fell over the hall as the High Septon stepped forward, his white-and-gold robes glinting under the incoming sunlight. “We gather here today to crown a new King, to begin a new day for the realm. Prince Viserys, please step forward.”

Her father obeyed.

“Please kneel, my son,” the High Septon said. Viserys knelt, and the Septon recited the sacred words of the Faith, anointing him with holy oils.

“May the Warrior grant him courage. May the Smith lend strength to his sword and shield. May the Father defend him in his need. May the Crone lift her shining lamp to light his path to wisdom. May the Mother hold him in her heart and protect him from all ill. May the Maiden guide him to virtue.”

Rhaenyra’s heart swelled with pride.

When the High Septon stepped back, her father glanced toward her and her mother. She met his eyes with a bright smile and a nod.

Daemon then stepped forward, lifting the crown of the old King—a golden circlet adorned with the sigils of all the great houses of the Seven Kingdoms, even House Martell, though Dorne was not truly under their rule.

Daemon placed the crown upon Viserys’s head and turned to the crowd.

“All hail His Grace Viserys Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Rhoynar, the Andals, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!”

The hall erupted in cheers. Rhaenyra clapped loudly, adding her voice to the chorus.

“Long live the King!” Aemon called proudly.

Viserys turned to face the crowd, drawing Blackfyre and lifting it high, prompting another wave of cheers.

“As your King, I will strive to serve you well. Long live the Seven Kingdoms!” he proclaimed. Then he turned toward the family.

“My dear wife, please step forward.”

Another crown bearer emerged, holding a silver crown inlaid with red and blue gemstones, a falcon and a dragon entwined at its crest. It was a work of wonder, and Rhaenyra wondered if her father had commissioned it before her grandfather had passed.

Her mother obeyed, her eyes alight with happiness and surprise. Viserys took the crown and bade her kneel.

“I, King Viserys, First of His Name, crown you Queen consort Aemma of the Seven Kingdoms,” he declared.

The crowd cheered again as her mother rose. Rhaenyra could not help herself, she stepped forward and embraced them both.

At that, Aemon’s voice rang out, loud and clear:

“Long may he reign! Bless Queen Aemma and Princess Rhaenyra!”

Alicent Hightower (103 A.C., Sixth Moon)
King’s Landing – Great Hall, Celebratory Feast

It had been quite the day—a king was crowned, and Aemon had returned.

When she saw Balerion descend upon the Dragonpit earlier, she had gaped as had many others. The sight of the Black Dread was overwhelming enough, but then there was Aemon himself. At first glance, he still looked much the same, yet his once-long, silver-golden curls were gone. In their place was a short, extremely-cropped hairline, as though he had shaved his head entirely. She couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to those wonderful locks.

Now, she sat at one of the lower tables with her siblings, while her parents occupied seats of honor on the dais with the royal family, behind the Iron Throne. Attendants from across the realm filled the hall, lords and ladies in their finest attire. Even a Dornish party had made the journey, perhaps to pay respect to the new King… or perhaps to quietly measure the standing of his court.

The feast was lavish, dish after dish paraded forth by sweating servants. Roasted game birds, platters of venison, fragrant bowls of spiced fruit, all of it filling the air with rich aromas. They were already on the fifth course of ten, and Alicent was beginning to feel full.

Then the King rose from his seat, and instinctively the entire hall followed suit.

“My lords, my ladies, and my beloved family,” Viserys began, his voice carrying to every corner of the great chamber. “I thank you all for being here today, and hope you have enjoyed the feast so far. For more than fifty years, my grandfather reigned as King. Today, I take up that mantle, entrusted to me by many of you. But I will not choose sides. I am King, Lord, and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, and I will protect and serve all the people of the realm.”

Applause rippled through the hall. Alicent clapped politely, watching as Viserys turned to his queen, took her hand, and led her to the center of the floor.

The King and Queen danced with grace, though Alicent noticed it was Aemma guiding the steps. When they finished, other couples began to join, the music swelling in pace and brightness.

She leaned toward her brother. “Brother, come dance with me.”

Martyn smiled, rose, and took her hand. As they moved across the floor, Alicent’s eyes were drawn to another couple, Aemon and his betrothed. Martyn caught her glance and leaned closer.

“He’s betrothed, dear sister, but perhaps you might ask him for a dance anyway,” he murmured.

She smiled faintly at that, dancing two more songs with Martyn before finally making her way toward Aemon. He was no longer with his betrothed but dancing instead with a lively girl of about six, Princess Arya.

“I do this for Mother and you,” the girl muttered to him, making Alicent hide a smile. Arya spotted her then. “It seems you have a more willing partner, brother,” she said with an impish grin.

Aemon turned, and Alicent was taken aback to find that he now stood a little taller than her, despite him being only eleven. She remembered that Prince Baelon had been a tall man, and clearly Aemon had inherited that trait above all his brothers.

“Lady Alicent,” he greeted her, the formality in his tone not quite matching the twinkle in his eye. His voice was different too, harsher now, with a northern edge she did not remember.

“My prince,” she said, “may I have this dance, if the princess does not mind?”

“Please,” Arya answered at once, smirking. “He dragged me from my seat.” And with that, the girl skipped away.

“Forgive Arya,” Aemon said, chuckling. “It’s been a long day for her, and she’ll want to leave soon. Though I doubt Mother will take her to bed just yet.”

“I remember her being wild even as a toddler,” Alicent replied with a smile.

“Well,” Aemon said, a small smile tugging at his lips, “may I have this dance, my lady?”

“You may,” She said, smiling. Alicent placed her hand in his, his grip firm but not overly so, polished, practiced, the way a young prince ought to carry himself. The music shifted into a slower, lilting melody, the kind meant as much for conversation as for steps.

They moved together into the flow of the other couples, weaving between swaying silks and embroidered doublets. As they turned, she noticed that Aemon’s posture was perfectly straight, his movements measured and precise.

“You dance better than I remember, my prince,” she said lightly.

“I had good teachers in the North,” he replied. “My aunt made us practice at least once a week. After that, I kept it up in Seadragon Point. And… I had a need to make a respectable impression when I arrived. Not be the savage prince from the North.”

Her lips curved faintly. “You are far from savage and quite respectable. Though your entrance on Balerion was something else entirely.”

He smirked, and for a heartbeat, the formality between them thinned. “If one must make an arrival, one might as well do it properly.” He held her gaze, his eyes glinting. “As for being a savage… I can be one in other ways.”

Her heart skipped, heat blooming in her cheeks. She wondered what he meant, but did not ask. Instead, she tilted her head slightly. “Tell me something. Why is your hair so short? I always thought the longer hair suited you.”

Aemon’s smile deepened. “Fire, it burned my hair from head to toes.”

She gaped slightly. “It burned away? But I see no burns on you.”

“Fire cannot kill some dragons,” he said, grinning in a way that made her pulse quicken.

They turned again, and Alicent became aware of the eyes on them. Lords and ladies at nearby tables pretended to watch other dancers, but their glances kept returning to her and the young prince. Aemon was the talk of the day—even on the King’s coronation night. She knew how the court’s mind worked: every dance, every smile was weighed and measured, stored away for whispered talk later.

“I believe,” Aemon murmured, “you’ve been watching me this evening.”

Her cheeks warmed, but she did not falter in her step. “And I believe, my prince, you’ve been well aware of it.”

He didn’t deny it. A glint of amusement flickered in his dark violet eyes. “Well, I’ve been watching you, too. You’ve always been a good friend… and one who has grown into quite the beauty. Any man who captures your heart will be fortunate indeed.”

Her blush deepened. If only you knew.

The song ended, and they stepped apart. “It was a wonderful dance. If time permits, let’s speak again, my lady,” Aemon said with a nod.

She returned it with a curtsy. “We should. Thank you, my prince.”

He leaned just close enough for only her to hear. “Perhaps next time, I’ll ask you first.”

She smiled as he moved away toward the queen, likely to ask her for a dance. But before she could take two steps, a voice came from behind. “My lady.”

She knew that voice. Turning, she found herself face-to-face with Prince Daemon Targaryen.

“My prince,” she said, curtsying.

“May I have this dance? We haven’t spoken much since our last meeting,” he noted with a smile, though it did not reach his eyes. “Of course, my prince. I would be honored.”

His hands, unlike Aemon’s, gripped her firmly… and lower than she liked. As they began to move, an unease crept through her.

“Tell me,” Daemon said smoothly, “why did you dance with my brother? I thought you and I were getting to know one another.” His hand brushed against her rear.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to keep dancing. She could not make a scene. “The prince is an old friend, my prince. I wished to speak with him after more than a year apart.”

They passed close to the dais, and she caught her father’s gaze. Her fathers eyes were sharp, assessing, calculating. She knew that look. He saw an opportunity. He always did. He had been the one to suggest she speak more with Daemon. Now, she regretted listening.

“Hmm. Best to stay away from him, my lady,” Daemon said with a smirk. “My brother is a Northerner, and he worships trees.”

She already knew this; that Aemon followed the old gods, he had told her himself. “I’ll take that under advisement,” she said evenly.

Thankfully, the song ended soon after. “Thank you for the dance, my prince,” she said quickly. Daemon gave her a nod and walked off. She felt dizzy and returned to her table.

Gwayne was still at his seat, finishing another course, while Martyn danced with Lady Camila Risley.

“Sister,” Gwayne said between bites, “I saw you dancing with the prince. Did you enjoy it? And how did Aemon lose his hair?”

“It was… good,” she replied, trying to calm her dizziness. “As for his hair, he said he had an accident with fire. Burned it off.”

Gwayne’s eyes widened. “Then he’s lucky he didn’t receive burns.” He paused, glancing toward the floor where Aemon now danced with his other sister, Princess Visenya. “I’m curious how good he’s gotten with a blade. Before he left, he was already better than most in the yard. Although he lost to grown men because of the strength difference. I could never best him, no matter how hard I tried.”

“Then you should ask him, brother. You know what Father says, keep close to the royal family. I’m sure you’ll have time, you consider him a friend, don’t you?” She replied, smiling. As she watched Aemon dance gracefully with his sister, whose black hair flowed like waves as they danced.

“I shall,” Gwayne said, before returning to his plate.

Alicent sipped some wine, grateful for the normalcy of the conversation. But even after that, the dizziness from her dance with Daemon lingered, and she decided it was time to leave the hall.

Chapter Text

Chapter 30: Oaths of fealty

Aemon Targaryen (103 Sixth Moon)

King’s Landing – Maegor’s Holdfast

Aemon awoke croaky and sore, the wine and ale of the previous night still lingering in his head. The long ride from Harrenhal to King’s Landing before that had not helped. His body ached, yet he was here at last, and today he, and many others, would swear their oaths of fealty.

He rose, relieved himself in the chamber pot, then splashed cold water across his face at the basin. When he glanced into the polished steel mirror, he found the sight of himself still strange. His hair was shortest, it had ever been, at least it was growing back, and for that he was glad for it.

A knock came at the door. Likely his temporary page, Gerrin, or one of the servants. He left his servants behind and brought only four guards with him, two not even his own. Ser Clement had been tasked with keeping his mother and sisters safe in Winterfell, while Edwin served as swordshield to their cousin. It mattered little. His stay in King’s Landing would be brief, ending with of this moon.

“Come in,” he called.

A boy around his age stepped inside and bowed. “Good morning, my Prince. I trust you slept well?”

“I did,” Aemon replied, his voice still rough. “Though a bit croaky. I would dress and join my family for breakfast.”

The boy helped him into his chosen attire: a northern-styled Targaryen tunic, the familiar blend of wolf and dragon altered to suit the heat of the south.

Outside his chamber, Ser Jeffery awaited, armored and alert. Aemon gave him a nod. “Good morning, Jeffery. I see you’ve taken Ser Harrold’s duty today.”

The knight inclined his head in confirmation. Beside him stood another guard: an older man with a greying mustache, broad shoulders, and near Jeffery’s height, clad in the surcoat of House Targaryen.

“And you, good ser,” Aemon said. “What is your name?”

“Tommard, my prince. At your service,” the man answered with a small bow.

“Well met, Ser Tommard. I’ve no doubt you’ll do your duties well.” With that, Aemon walked on, and made his way toward the dining hall.

The closer he came, the richer the scents grew: warm bread, smoked bacon, fried eggs, and honeyed fruit. His stomach gave a growl. Passing through the open doors, he found his mother and little sisters already seated. Rhaenyra sat with her hair neatly braided, while Aemma laughed softly at something his mother had said.

“Good morning, everyone,” Aemon greeted them with a grin.

“Good morning, Aemon,” came their chorus in reply.

“I see my brothers have not graced us with their presence,” he said as he walked to his seat.

“Do not speak too soon, brother,” came a voice from behind. Aemon turned to see Viserys stride in, dressed and ready for the day, flanked by Ser Addam Tarth and Ser Ryam Redwyne.

“Morning, husband,” Aemma said warmly as Viserys bent to kiss her cheek before taking his place at the head of the table.

Aemon smirked as he sat down. “I’m starving, must be the journey from yesterday.” He reached for a trencher of bread and tore off a piece.

“Indeed,” both his sisters said at once.

Before another word could be spoken, the doors opened again. Rickon entered with long strides, hair still damp from the morning wash. “Good morning to you all. Your Graces,” he added with a small bow toward Aemma and Viserys.

“We bid you welcome, Lord Rickon. I trust your chambers were comfortable?” Aemma asked kindly.

“Indeed. I thank you for agreeing to have me stay in Maegor’s Hold. It is an honor,” Rickon replied.

He then turned and took a seat beside Aemon.

“Here you go, some southern bacon,” Aemon said with a grin, passing him the platter.

“Thank you. I wonder if it tastes as good as our northern meats. Yesterday’s feast was different from what I’m used to, but good nonetheless,” Rickon said to the room.

“I know, nephew. Just wait until you experience a tourney or wedding. Then you are in for quite a show.” His mother stated, and Rickon looked up hopefully. It was one of the things he had come around in the time he spent in the south. Attending tournaments was a way to enjoy live events, and it seemed to bring enjoyment to the common folk, while also inspiring trade. When managed well, the area where the tournament was held also generated income. His mother had told him that during the last time his father won a tourney. The crown made quite a lot of gold.

“Hopefully, in the future, I will be able to attend one,” Rickon said, looking toward Viserys.

“It would be an honor to host the heir to Winterfell,” Viserys replied. “Mayhaps, if the gods bless us, we may hold one in honor of our future child.” He smiled broadly at the table, though Aemma looked more apprehensive.

“I said yesterday, brother, goodsister, congratulations. May the gods grant you a healthy child,” Aemon said warmly, smiling at them both. Those who didn’t know gave their congratulations. While Rhaenyra smiled hopefully at her parents.

When the meal ended, Aemon lingered a moment to exchange a quiet word with Viserys before returning to his chambers. There, he clothed himself in finer garments suited for the ceremony and draped over his shoulders the cloak he had been gifted on his tenth birthday: the white dragonwolf stitched across its back with blazing red eyes. He ran a hand across the embroidery, a pang tugging at his heart as he thought of Ghost, and of the rest of his friends he made along the way. Gone but not forgotten.

Ghost had been wounded during the battle against the Night King, protecting Sansa in the crypt, and when he had marched south, the direwolf had remained behind. He had asked Tormund to watch over him until his return, though that day had never come to pass. The thought brought a sad smile to his lips.

Closing the chamber door behind him. Looked and saw that Ser Harrold had joined Jeffery. “Ah, Harrold, I hope you were able to get some rest.” He asked.

“Indeed, My Prince. It was a comfort sleeping in the white tower again. Was able to break my fast with the Lord Commander, and he spoke of all the security measures he has implemented for the upcoming ceremony.” Harrold replied, smiling.  

“That’s good to hear.” He replied, giving the man a smile. “Well, let’s move, sers. It’s time to make our oaths to our new King. It would be rather rude to arrive late for it.” He said while grinning.

The Throneroom

Aemon arrived at the great doors, where many nobles were already gathering. As they caught sight of him, the crowd parted to let him pass. Even after eleven years, he still was not used to it, people stepping aside for him, their eyes following him with fear, awe, envy, or reluctant respect. The last he had only earned in the later years of his life.

He recognized familiar faces among the lords. Lord Lyonel of Harrenhal stood with Ser Harwin beside him. No wonder Larys felt little warmth toward them, or at least his father; they had left him behind at Harrenhal while they traveled to King’s Landing. They had not seen his worth. Yet Aemon had. During their stop at Harrenhal, he had discovered Larys’s gift for warging. They had spoken before at the Great Council, where Aemon found him shy but well-learned, a boy who reminded him of himself at that age, always on the outside looking in.

Larys was two years older than Aemon, his talent for warging still raw and untrained. Aemon had already spoken with the lad about coming to Seadragon Point and intended to speak further with Lord Lyonel. If things played out well, he and Arya might become his informers. Another candidate lingered in his mind, Mysaria. She was still only a whore, not yet the infamous woman she would one day become, but even now, he knew the potential in her.

Still, bringing the Lord of Harrenhal to his side was something he intended, and perhaps taking Larys under his wing would be the first step. He remembered the visions of what Harren had done to the weirwoods and swore he would see that mistake undone. Harrenhal, for all its might, was a broken castle, meant for kings, yet cursed. Every house that held it had fallen into decline. If the Old Gods punished those who dared sit in its seat. If he could gain enough influence and gold, perhaps he could argue for the destruction of the ruin and build new castles and a sacred grove to be rebuilt, in it’s place.

For now, it was a distant dream. He would work toward it in time, when his word carried more weight. Even Viserys had begun to listen to him more, had even heeded his advice to wait before lying with Aemma again. That alone was proof enough of his growing influence.

He walked on toward the raised platform where the small council stood and where the Iron Throne loomed above them. He had already spoken with Lord Beesbury and Corlys, but the new Master of Laws had greeted him with thinly veiled disdain. The man was a Westerlander, a creature of the Hand. Aemon disliked him on sight. Even though he liked Gywane and Alicent, he didn’t like Otto, the man who had always been too ambitious. He knew what the Hand planned, and he wondered whether this Westerlander was another piece of Otto’s game. A missing piece of the history books, as he knew in time Lyonel Strong would replace the man.

“My prince, welcome,” Lord Beesbury said warmly as Aemon approached the throne. Aemon gave him a smile and went to join his family. He saw Rhaenys already seated with Laena and Laenor, while Gael sat with her two young children beside her husband, Lord Bartimos Celtigar. Daemon was there as well, though they had yet to speak a word. Aemon had half-hoped his brother would join them for breakfast, but it seemed Daemon had other plans.

More nobles and courtiers poured in until at last the hall was filled. Then Ser Ryam entered the throne room. That meant his brother would soon follow, and Aemon suspected Aemma and Rhaenyra would be at his side.

“All hail His Grace, King Viserys Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. His wife, Queen Aemma Targaryen, and their daughter, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen,” Ser Ryam declared.

The heralds opened the doors, and in walked Ser Addam Tarth, followed by Viserys himself, with Aemma and Rhaenyra beside him.

Viserys looked every inch a king in his black, red, and gold, wearing the crown of Jaehaerys and a heavy chain linking together the sigils of the great houses of Westeros, all bound by the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. At his side, Aemma was radiant, her gown styled in the fashion of House Targaryen but with Aryn blue tints worked into its design. Upon her head rested the crown she had been given at the coronation. And Rhaenyra, Aemon could not help but think she was becoming a beauty, the Realm’s Delight indeed.

Behind them followed the remainder of the Kingsguard: Ser Simon Derry, Ser Rickard Thorne, and Ser Steffon Darklyn.

As they passed the onlookers, all bowed their heads in deference. Soon enough, Viserys reached the Iron Throne. All of them did the same and bowed their heads, and then Aemma and Rhaenyra took their places beside him. Viserys took his place upon the Iron Throne. His steps were deliberate, for one mistake could slice him open. One King had died upon its spikes already.

He turned and seated himself, and then there was applause as his brother sat on the throne for the very first time. After the hall quieted, his brother spoke. “Let us begin. Today I will accept oaths of fealty from my loyal bannermen, councillors, lords paramount, any vassals who have traveled to be here today, and those I hold close to my heart.” He looked toward his family.

Ser Otto gave a nod to the herald, who unrolled a long list. Aemon knew it would be a long day.

Soon enough, the first to pledge their fealty were the bannermen of the Crownlands and those sworn to Dragonstone. Even the lords of Crackclaw Point had arrived, speaking and acting in a manner similar to what he was used to in the North. Even their oaths were similar. The first great lord of the Crownlands to make his oath was Gael’s husband. Lord Bartimos looked Valyrian, regal in red and white, with a silver crab chain around his neck. He knelt and began to speak. “I, Lord Bartimos Celtigar, Lord of Claw Isle and Claw Keep, promise to be faithful to His Grace, King Viserys. I pledge fealty to him and shall defend him and his against all enemies, in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the Old Gods and the New.”

Aemon smiled at the lord and glanced toward Gael, and saw her smiling just as much. She looked happy. It seemed Claw Isle was the perfect place for her.

Then the vassals of other lords paramount stepped forward. Among them were Lord Desmond Manderly, the new lord of the New Castle, Lord Allard Reyne, Lord Gellard Darry, brother to Ser Simon Darry, Lord Yobart Royce, the current Regent of the Vale and father of Rhea Royce, Lord Lyonel Strong, the now still‑young lord, Rodry Dustin, and one of the final lords, and perhaps one of the strongest vassals under any lord paramount, Lord Hobert Hightower.

Aemon understood why Aegon had made no powerful vassal Lord Paramount of the Reach. It was probably the most strategic area in the Kingdoms because of its food. Leaving it in the hands of powerful vassals would cause problems. As for the Tyrells, they would always be looked down on, as they had only been stewards before Aegon raised them to Lords of Highgarden and Lords of the Reach. Yet it came with a side problem for the Tyrells and the Crown, for houses like the Hightowers, Tarlys, and Rowans wanted more. They could not be easily controlled, especially the Hightowers with their seat at Oldtown. As was shown in all the years of Targaryen rule, only the Hightowers, besides the Velaryons, had placed two queens upon the throne, which gave them a prestige no other Reach house had. Power resides where men believe it resides, and many believed that House Hightower held most power in the Reach.

Still, as the man stepped forward in green and white, his demeanor and appearance made him more resemble a lord paramount than a mere vassal. “I, Lord Hobert Hightower, Lord of the Hightower, Beacon of the South, Defender of the Citadel, and Voice of Oldtown, promise to be faithful to His Grace, King Viserys. I pledge fealty to him and shall defend him and his against all enemies in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the Seven Who Are One.”

Aemon frowned at that, and when he looked to his mother and cousin, he saw them frowning as well. To renounce the Old Gods before the throne, pious fool. Hobert rose proudly and returned to his place.

Then came the lords paramount themselves. The last of them was his cousin. “I, Rickon Stark, son of Benjen Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North, in the name of my father, promise to be faithful to His Grace, King Viserys. I pledge fealty to him and shall defend him and his against all enemies, in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by iron, earth, bronze, and fire, and by the Old Gods. May they bear witness to this pledge.”  Rickon rose, his eyes cold as ice as he cast a glare toward the Lord of Oldtown.

Then it was the council giving Viserys their fealty. What was odd was that the Master of Laws ended his pledge as the Lord of the Hightower had done. Otto followed his brother’s example. The man rose far too proudly in Aemon’s opinion; he understood why the history books would call him imperious.

After that was done, the Targaryen family was called to swear their oaths. After his mother and sisters had said their fealty, Rhaenys and her children were in turn. Rhaenys held herself with duty and spoke the words of fealty to her cousin, who had been chosen by the realm.

Then the herald spoke Aemon’s name. He stepped forward, knelt, and declared, “I, Prince Aemon Targaryen, Lord of Seadragon Point and Seadragon Holt, promise to be faithful to His Grace, King Viserys. I pledge fealty to him and shall defend him and his against all enemies, in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by iron, earth, bronze, and fire, by the Old Gods, the New, and the gods of my ancestors. May they bear witness to this pledge.”

He lifted his gaze to the throne. Viserys gave him a grateful nod.

And at that moment, Balerion’s shadow passed over the Red Keep. The Black Dread let loose a roar that shook the hall. Gasps rose among the lords and ladies, but Aemon only smiled. Let them feel my power. Let them know the throne stands strong.

He rose and returned to his place among his kin.

Then came Daemon, last to kneel.

“I, Prince Daemon Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, promise to be faithful to His Grace, King Viserys. I pledge fealty to him and shall defend him and his against all enemies, in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by fire and blood, and by the gods of my ancestors. May they bear witness to this pledge.”

He saw Viserys’s face tighten at that. Hmm, it seems that was not what had been agreed.

Aemon sighed as Daemon stepped aside, grinning as if nothing were amiss. He only hoped his brother would master his temper, for Viserys could be wrathful when provoked.

At last, Viserys rose from the throne. The scrape of steel rang out as the Kingsguard struck their swords against the stone in salute. The hall fell into silence, hundreds of eyes fixed on the new King.

“I thank you all for your pledges of fealty,” Viserys proclaimed, his voice carrying across the throne room. “ You have sworn to defend my house, my queen, and my heirs. In turn, I swear to defend the realm, to deliver justice when it is called for, and to rule with wisdom and strength.” At the hall, appalled, Viserys’ reign would truly begin.

Viserys Targaryen (103 A.C.)

A day later

King’s Landing – The King’s Solar

Viserys sat alone in his solar, the last murmurs of the coronation still echoing in his mind. The oaths of fealty had been spoken, yet it was his youngest brother’s that lingered most.

Aemon had knelt before him and sworn by iron, earth, bronze, fire, the Old Gods, the New, and the gods of Valyria. It was unlike any other pledge that day.

Still, he wished Aemon were staying longer in the capital. His brother’s presence had steadied him more than he cared to admit. But duty called him back to Seadragon Point, and Viserys understood well enough the burden of a lord, and now a King.

His thoughts were broken by a knock. Ser Ryam entered, bowed, and said, “Your Grace, Prince Daemon is here to see you. Shall I let him in?”

“Yes. Send him in.”

Daemon strode inside, clad in black and red, the dragon sigil bold upon his chest. He did not bow, only smirked.

“Brother,” Viserys said, forcing calm into his voice. “I trust you are not yet bored since your return. I hope your time in the Vale was useful.”

“Not bored at all, and I’m grateful for finally leaving that fucking place,” Daemon replied as he dropped into the chair opposite, “As of now, I’m merely restless. The realm may be at peace, but peace can be dull. Speaking of something that wasn’t dull, our wolf-brother with his entrance. And today he impressed the court again. The Black Dread roaring over had just after he swore his oath, and a strange oath at that, like the Stark boy did. He knows how to play to the crowd.” Daemon noted with grudging respect.

Viserys narrowed his eyes. “He is dutiful. More dutiful than most. And he has given me no trouble, unlike some. What were you thinking of styling yourself as Prince of Dragonstone?”

“It’s my right, is it not, as your heir?” Daemon replied.

“Well, I haven’t officially named you as one. As my predecessor set a precedent that a King can choose his heir.” Visery stated.

“I’m your heir brother, I’m your eldest male relative, and we all know the realm prefers a male. So far, you only have a daughter.” Daemon stated that his voice was colder than before.

Viserys grinned his teeth for a moment. “Indeed, you are. Yet my wife is currently with child, and as of now, I have plenty of time until I can have a son. Which is something that I will have. So until then, I will not name an heir. Yet I know this isn’t why you came here, so what is it that you want?”

 Daemon’s eyes darkened before he leaned back into his seat and looked at him seriously. “I want you to annul my marriage to that bronze bitch. The match was forced on me by the old King, and it has never been consummated. Now that you are King, you can free me of it. I should wed a true Valyrian, not a First Man woman or a Vale Bitch or whatever you want to call her.”

Viserys felt his jaw tighten. Days after the coronation, and already this. He shook his head. “No. Not now. The realm is watching. We cannot afford a scandal so soon after my crowning. What does it say, when one of my first acts is to annul a match made by the old King?”

Daemon’s smirk twisted into a scowl. “No? After all I’ve done to secure you the throne? I was your sword when others doubted. I spoke with lords, I gathered arms, I showed strength. And you deny me this? You even just stated I’m not your heir.”

“Daemon.” Viserys’s voice dropped low. “Go to your wife. Summon her here if you must, but make something of your marriage. If you will not do that, then take your place on my council. Serve me as the temporary Master of Coin. Beesbury plans to visit his lordship, and if you fulfill your duty admirably, you can stay in the position. But I will not break your vows for you.”

For a heartbeat, silence. Then Daemon rose, his grin returning, though his eyes burned. “This isn’t over, brother. But very well. If you command it, I will serve as Master of Coin.” He gave a mocking bow and left the solar, his cloak trailing behind him.

Viserys let out a long breath once the door shut. He prayed the new duties of office might temper his brother’s fire. Yet in his heart, he doubted it.

Two days later.

Coryls Velaryon (103 A.C.)

King’s Landing - Small Council

Returning to the council chamber after the Great Council was not easy. His wife, the beautiful Rhaenys Targaryen, would now be known as the Queen That Never Was. The monarch’s seat that should have been hers was now occupied by King Viserys. He thought as he ground his teeth. He snapped out of his musing when the princess filled his cup.

He couldn’t help but glance at Rhaenyra, the King’s cupbearer. She possessed the Valyrian looks and was beginning to blossom into a beauty, despite being only nine namedays old. Any future husband would be fortunate to wed a daughter of a king. While his own son would make a suitable match, for now, he had to be content with Aemon, the Northern Prince. He took pride in the fact that the man marrying his daughter showed promise as a great leader and held himself well at court. He found himself feeling proud because of it as both a father and a future father-in-law.

“Your Grace, it’s perhaps time to reduce the funding for Seadragon Point,” Grand Maester Ruciter suggested. “The keep has been built, as rumors say, yet the cost of that rumor, for example, the city’s harbor, has already cost a fortune. As for the rest of the construction, there is yet no city wall, no true buildings of note, not even a sept. From what I know, there is only a moat, a wooden palisade, and a wooden keep in the center of the town.”

This statement made him scoff. He could not fathom why the Grand Maester would propose such a thing.

“Why? That would be a slight to the Starks. And as for the lordship, the letters exchanged between my daughter and Aemon speak clearly, the town and keep have already been built, with farmlands, fishing villages, and lumberyards thriving. Seadragon Point hasn’t been this bustling in a hundred years,” he retorted, his voice unwavering.

“What say you, my King?” Ruciter asked.

“There is no need for concern. I have spoken with my brother, and he told me the project is coming along splendidly. Even better than I had hoped,” Viserys stated.

“To interject, Your Grace,” the Hand said. “Reports have emerged that the Prince has been using his dragon to melt stone, causing injury to several stonemasons. He personally labors at the construction sites, including a smithy at the center where Seadragon Holt is built. He was reportedly learning smithing in Winterfell; these are hardly worthy behaviors for a Prince of the realm to labor away like a common smith. I would suggest summoning the Prince to explain these matters before the King and council.”

“I can tell you, my brother has the best intentions, and he also always has his hobbies. He even told me he had been informed of an incident where he had to suppress justice brutally. Ordering the death of the entire family, by dragon flame.”  Viserys stated, and it seemed Otto was about to say more, but the King held his hand up.  

“Before you say something, they were attainted for treason and executed in kind. As for the method,  dragonflame burns hot, my lords. It would bring almost instant death,” Viserys replied.

“My brother has the blood of the dragon in him, after all,” Daemon said with a smirk.

“If there are issues, I’m sure Lord Stark and the Northern lords will voice their concerns directly to me, their King. This discussion ends here. My brother will marry Lady Laena after they both turn five-and-ten, and after that moment, we may discuss the matter again. Until then, Seadragon Point will continue to receive funding from the crown. If it continues after that, it will be discussed then.” Viserys proclaimed, his voice rising with authority.

“As you wish, Your Grace. We only wish to inform you. The Prince has control of the Black Dread and has even arrived on another dragon. We cannot ignore this,” the Hand conceded, bowing his head.

Viserys’s patience snapped. “Enough. You will not lecture me on the dangers of my own blood. I know Aemon better than any of you. He acts with purpose, not recklessness. His strength is the strength of House Targaryen. And while I sit on the Iron Throne, he will have the crown’s full support. Speak against it again, and you speak against me.”

The chamber fell silent at his words.

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Chapter Text

Chapter 31: Last days in King's Landing

Laena Velaryon (103 A.C. Sixth Moon)

King’s Landing – Laena’s Chambers

Laena had risen bright and early. Normally, she would join Rhaenyra, help her pick out her clothing, and spend the day with her. Yet today, she was going flying with Aemon, something she had wanted to do ever since his arrival at the coronation, even after they had danced together during the celebratory feast.

The early rising was no trouble, for she enjoyed watching the sun climb over the horizon. On Dragonstone and Driftmark, the rising sun was magnificent, glittering upon the waters of her home. She often wondered how her new home would look when she would watch the sun set over the Sunset Sea.

Soon enough, she asked her maids to clothe her in her best riding leathers, trimmed with fox fur at the top. Autumn was arriving, and she had seen the trees turning orange. It was one of the few signs that winter was coming, and soon the Citadel would send out its white ravens to announce it. She prayed it would be a short one.

As she stepped out of her door, she was escorted by her guard to the stables, where Aemon was waiting for her. Behind him stood three horses, one already mounted by his sworn sword, Ser Harrold Westerling.

“Lady Laena, good morning,” Aemon called out with a wide grin, his tone laced with the kind of sarcasm only friends could share without offense. His dark eyes glimmered with amusement as he watched her approach.

“Prince Aemon, good morning to you, too,” Laena replied with mock formality, lifting her chin as though she were some great lady of court, though the corners of her lips betrayed her playfulness.

“Laena, I’m sorry we couldn’t do this earlier. I missed you, just as much as the rest,” Aemon said. She wanted to dispute it, to let him know she understood, but he pressed on. “But I hope I can give you something to make up for the lost time.”

“Oh, is that so, Aemon?” she said with a grin. “What will this something be?” she asked playfully.

“That is something you’ll have to wait for until we arrive at the Dragonpit,” Aemon noted with a mischievous smile. “May I help you mount your horse, my lady?”

“You may, my prince.” She placed her hand in his. His grip was firm and rough, just as it had been when they danced. She remembered the feel of that same hand at her waist, steadying her as they had moved across the hall, and heat rose to her cheeks. She flushed as he placed a hand on her hip and helped her into the saddle.

For a heartbeat, their eyes met, grey on violet, and she wondered if he felt the same spark she did, or if it was only her foolish fancy.

Aemon did the same, and together with their guards, they rode off into the city.

On the way, Laena asked countless questions, many of which she had already written in her letters, and Aemon had written replies, but hearing them from his own tongue was different. The tale of how he came to the dragon he had carried on his shoulder during the coronation brought both fascination and sorrow, for Aemon had been the one to carry out the execution.

He was her age, yet had already killed men. It was a thought she could not shake. Yet again, it was the way of the North: the man who passed the sentence should swing the sword. Aemon had bound them and given the command to burn them.

Soon enough, they arrived at the pit. The familiar scents of dragons greeted her, sulfur, burnt meat, and stone, along with the less fortunate stench of rotting flesh and dung.

The head dragonkeeper, in ceremonial armor, greeted them with a respectful bow, deeper to Aemon and smaller to her. Aemon was an awe-inspiring figure to them, the youngest rider in history, commanding his dragon as no one before, or so the texts said.

“At ease, Master Beric,” Aemon said, dismounting. He walked over and helped Laena down. Yet when she tried to stand, she misstepped and stumbled into Aemon’s arms. She flushed again as she looked into his grey eyes.

“Don’t hurt yourself, my lady. We don’t want to halt the fun here,” Aemon said with a grin as he helped her up.

“No, we don’t,” she replied softly.

“Beric, is the present for Lady Laena ready?” he asked.

“Indeed, my prince,” the man replied with a nod.

“Good. Laena, wait here.”

She watched, intrigued, as Aemon walked toward a small cage near the back gate of the pit. When he opened it, her heart quickened. A dragon emerged, its scales a deep blood-red, laced with vibrant purple striping, its eyes gleaming violet.

The small creature hopped onto Aemon’s arm like a falcon on a huntsman’s wrist. Aemon approached with a hopeful smile.

“I know you wanted to take a chance at claiming Vhagar, you told me once. Yet it seems a new Visenya was what the she-dragon wanted. Vhagar laid three eggs, and one turned to stone, which I was able to hatch with fire and blood,” he said, stroking the dragon’s chin. “I couldn’t think of anyone better to care for Jaefyre than you. If you want it, of course. Dreamfyre is still unclaimed, as are the dragons of our grandparents.”

She barely heard him after she connected with the violet eyes of the little dragon.

Jaefyre tilted its head and gave a small cry before flapping its wings and hopping down to the ground. Aemon chuckled. “Hmm, it seems Jaefyre has chosen. Have you?”

Laena crouched down and let the dragon sniff her hand. Before she knew it, the little beast pressed against her palm, purring softly. In her heart, she felt it, a bond, strong and undeniable, unlike any she had ever known.

“I have,” she finally replied, pulling the dragon into her arms as it purred against her neck. She had a dragon. Its coloring reminded her of her mother’s dragon, Meleys.

“Will you rename Jaefyre?” Aemon asked with a wide smile.

“No. It’s the dragon you birthed, more or less, and you gave it a good name, for our grandfather. Even if I do not agree with all he did, he was loved, and he was a good king,” she said, smiling as she stepped forward and hugged Aemon.

Jaefyre let out a cry at being slightly crushed, and they both laughed.

“Well, let’s take to the skies, then. It’s been far too long.”

At that moment, a roar trembled through the Dragonpit.

Laena looked at Aemon, puzzled. How had he done that? He hadn’t even summoned a dragonkeeper to rouse Balerion.

“A bond between dragon and rider can be quite special,” Aemon replied with a smile, as the ground shook and Balerion appeared. The Great Black Dragon cast a shadow over them all.

Jaefyre cried toward him, and Balerion rumbled, the sound echoing through the dragonpit. His massive head lowered, filling the air with the stench of sulfur and scorched rock as he sniffed at them.

“He remembers you. Dragons have long memories,” Aemon said as he patted Balerion’s chin a comical sight, for some of the dragon’s teeth were as long as Aemon himself.

The beast purred and lowered himself, spreading his vast wings.

Laena smiled. Balerion was the only dragon that allowed this. At Driftmark, Dragonstone, and King’s Landing, every other dragon required ropes, or a raised platform to mount onces dragon, but not Balerion. His saddle sat nearly ten meters high, so they mounted him by climbing the great beast’s right wing, which was fitted with iron rings and ropes for grip for one’s footing. At last seated upon the great dragon’s back, Aemon in front, Laena behind.

“Soves, my friend,” Aemon commanded in their mother tongue.

The ground shook as Balerion launched forward. With a few great beats of his wings, he leapt from the cliff’s edge. His wings clapped against the sky like thunder, and soon they were aloft. Then, like a bird of prey, the Black Dread began to glide, carrying them higher and higher into the sky.

Jaefyre chirped happily, and Laena giggled in reply. She pressed herself against Aemon’s back, warmth blooming in her chest at the joy of being reunited with him and sharing this moment.

Laena drank in the sky, a sight she had shared with her mother, and even with Aemon before. Yet now, knowing what it meant to be betrothed to him, it felt different. It made her feel warm and safe, and she imagined the future, one where she would take to the skies on her own dragon, flying beside her friends and, perhaps by then, her husband.

Her heart fluttered at the thought, filling her with anticipation for what was yet to come.

Their flight carried them all the way to Dragonstone, where Balerion let out an echoing cry that shook the isle as they soared above the towers of the ancient fortress. The Dumm Tower, shaped in the form of a dragon, was a sight to behold, its black shadow passing over the walls.

Then, with a mighty turn, Balerion banked back toward King’s Landing. Aemon twisted in his saddle, so he was staring back at her. She gasped at the sudden movement, which made him chuckle.

“I should be fine, unless Balerion decides on a crazy maneuver,” he teased.

“Did you see how the stone of Dragonstone fuses together?” he asked after a moment. She nodded in reply.

“Well, that’s how Seadragon Point now looks. It’s truly magnificent, an art that was thought lost. I’m excited for you to see it.”

“Me too,” she said softly, sighing. “It will be our future home.” She reached for his hand.

Aemon leaned in closer, and before she could think, his lips brushed against hers.

Her heart fluttered wildly with excitement, and a blush crept up her cheeks, though she could blame it on the wind. Jaefyre gave an excited cry, as if sharing her joy.

“I hope you liked that,” Aemon murmured as he drew back.

My first kiss, she thought, giddy with delight.

“I did,” she whispered back, and, with a shy boldness, leaned forward to kiss him again. They both blushed and laughed softly, the sound carried away by the rushing wind.

Soon, Driftmark came into view. Laena looked at the isle with contentment. It would always be her home, yet her future one would be the place she and Aemon built together. She took his hand once more, smiling as they gazed down.

In time, King’s Landing came into sight again. Balerion began his descent, the city’s familiar smells rising to meet them. With a few heavy wingbeats, he landed, the ground trembling under his vast weight.

Aemon helped her down, and together they walked along the dragon’s wing to the square. Before their escorts reached them, Aemon stole another quick peck on her lips.

“My Prince, my Lady, I trust you both had a good flight?” Ser Harrold asked as he brought up the horses.

“We did, Ser. Quite the wonderful flight indeed,” Aemon replied with a cheeky grin that made Laena blush.

“Yes, Ser, we did,” Laena added with a smile. “I’m sure you can agree that a flight on a dragon is something wondrous.”

“It certainly puts things in perspective,” Ser Harrold answered. “Though I feel far more comfortable on the ground. Then again, I am not of the blood.”

“My Prince, my Lady. I assume everything went well?” Ser Tagar asked, his Velaryon-style armor flashing in the midday sun.

“Indeed, Ser. Prince Aemon is a wonderful rider, and Balerion is a magnificent dragon.”

At that, Balerion rumbled and released a puff of smoke.

Aemon chuckled and walked over to the dragon, patting his massive snout. Soon enough, the dragonkeepers arrived to guide the Black Dread back inside.

“Bring him two cows, he’s earned it,” Aemon ordered, and the keepers nodded.

Once Balerion disappeared into the pit, Harrold brought forward their horses. As before, Aemon helped her mount.

They rode back through the city streets, and Laena’s thoughts returned again and again to what had happened, to her first kiss. The memory made her smile, and when at last she parted from Aemon and found Rhaenyra again, she could not hold it in. Soon, the two were chattering excitedly about every detail.

Alicent Hightower (103 A.C. Sixth Moon)

King’s Landing, the Red Keep’s trainingyard

Alicent sat beside the other ladies of the court, Princess Rhaenyra and Lady Laena, watching her brother Ser Gwayne cross swords with Prince Aemon.

The clash had already gone on for some time, yet Alicent could see plainly that Aemon was holding back. He moved with measured restraint, careful not to humiliate her brother before so many onlookers. Still, even in play, his skill was unmistakable. He wielded two blades instead of one, and there was a grace to his movements, sharp and fluid, like a dance, just as he had been when he led Laena across the hall at the coronation feast.

Steel rang against steel, the sound echoing across the yard. Gwayne pressed forward with a grunt, sweat beading along his brow, yet Aemon deflected each strike with effortless ease. Then, in a sudden shift, the young dragon turned the tide. His grey eyes narrowed with focus, his twin blades darting in a flurry of blows that forced Gwayne back, step by step.

Aemon feinted high, then swept low, his foot hooking behind Gwayne’s ankle. Disoriented, Gwayne stumbled, and with a swift twist, Aemon’s second blade knocked him off balance. He fell with a thud onto the hard ground, the breath leaving him in a sharp gasp.

Before Gwayne could recover, Aemon leveled the edge of his blunted training sword against his throat.

“Yield,” the prince said calmly, his tone neither cruel nor mocking.

“I yield my prince,” Gwayne replied, and as the prince helped him up. The gathered crowd clapped; she gave her brother a nod. How gave a small smile.  

“You both fought well, a true showing of future knights of the realm,” Ser Harrold said, patting Aemon and Gwayne on the shoulders.

Before the moment could settle, another voice cut through the air.

“Ah, the wolf pup, putting down a Hightower,” Prince Daemon sneered as he strode forward. He was dressed in a black gambeson clasped with gold, the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen emblazoned across his chest.

“Brother,” Aemon said stiffly, giving the older prince the barest of nods.

“Care for a spar, little brother? It has been too long since I crossed swords with dragon’s blood, diluted as yours may be,” Daemon said with a crooked grin.

“As you wish, brother. I have never sparred with a rogue before,” Aemon replied, a coldness to his voice she hadn’t heard before. She felt herself shiver a little.

The words rippled through the gathered crowd, and Alicent felt her cheeks warm at the brazenness.

Harrold Westerling frowned, but Aemon ignored him. “A bastard sword, Ser Harrold.”

Gasps broke out as the weapon was fetched. Aemon had just demonstrated his skill with dual-wielding, but would switch in the upcoming match. She knew Aemon was skillful, yet to see him face the Rogue Prince with such steel made Alicent’s stomach knot. Aemon is still a boy, if tall for age, Prince Daemon twelve years his senior.

Daemon armed himself with a longsword and shield. “Come then, pup. Show me your dragon’s fire.”

The clash began swiftly. Daemon pressed the attack, shield high, his sword cutting hard and fast. Aemon met him, the bastard sword ringing with every blow. The younger boy gave ground, step by step, yet his footing never faltered. His grey eyes never left Daemon, calm in a way that unsettled Alicent.

The crowd expected Daemon to finish it soon,  but then, in a blur, Aemon shifted. He darted low, his blade crashing against Daemon’s shin, just like Aemon had done against her brother.

The Rogue Prince stumbled, his stance broken.

Before he could recover, Aemon swung and crashed the bastard sword into Daemon’s stomach with a heavy crack. Daemon doubled over, gasping for breath, his shield arm sagging.

In that instant, Aemon struck again, sending his boot against Daemon’s other leg, which sent Daemon falling on his back, and when he looked up from his daze, the bastard sword’s point hovered at his throat.

“Yield,” Aemon said, his young voice cold and steady.

The training yard went silent. Alicent felt her pulse hammer, her breath catch in disbelief. Her brother’s face was bright with delight, Laena leaned forward with pride, and Rhaenyra smirked with satisfaction. Arya and Visenya both cheered, their young voices carrying across the yard.

For a moment, Daemon’s violet eyes blazed with fury. Then, with a harsh, mirthless laugh, he let his sword fall to the dirt.

“Yield,” he spat, as he swallowed bitter poison.

The crowd erupted in cheers and whispers, the sound swelling like a wave.

Aemon lowered his blade and stepped back, his face calm, almost cold. “Not bad for diluted blood, hmm?” he asked evenly as Daemon pushed himself up from the ground.

Daemon’s jaw clenched. “Fire in your blood, it is,” he muttered darkly, before turning on his heel and striding from the yard, fury stiffening every step.

Visenya Targaryen (103 A.C. Sixth Moon)

King’s Landing - Dragonpit

End of the Moon

Balerion, the Black Dread, loomed like a piece of the pit so large the dragon was, each breath stirring a storm of sparks from the torches below. Beside him lingered Grey Ghost, pale as mist, smaller but restless, his tail lashing as he stretched his wings.

She clutched her skirts tight in both hands, her palms damp. The Dragonpit was familiar to her, yet tonight it felt strange, as though the stones themselves sensed her dread. Her closest family would leave. Aemon, Arya, Rickon, and even her mother. They would fly north to Winterfell and Seadragon Point, while she remained behind in King’s Landing. To become one of Rhaenyra’s ladies in waiting. She knew the day would come; now that she was here, it felt wrong. 

Aemon came first.

He wore dark travel leathers; his silver-golden hair had started to return since it was burned off, the hilt of his sword catching the light. Harrold Westerling, sworn shield and shadow, lingered a step behind him with helm beneath his arm, steel polished until it gleamed red in the morning sunlight.

Aemon crouched before her, lowering himself so that his violet eyes met her own. His hands, calloused from training, cupped her face. “This isn’t forever, little sister.”

Visenya’s throat burned. “But who will I train, now. You’ll be so far.”

A smile, faint but sure, touched his lips. “I’m sure Laena and Rhaenyra will indulge you; you three are all dragonriders and should learn how to be proficient in combat. Also, I’ll be close, in your dreams, and you’ll be in mine. Take care of our older brother; he has a lot on his plate now that he is king.” Aemon noted with a chuckle.

Something inside her broke. She threw her arms around his neck, clinging as though her grip could anchor him to the ground. He held her tightly, pressing his face into her hair, breathing her in as if memorizing her scent. When at last he drew back, he kissed her brow, a lingering press of warmth.

“Be strong,” he whispered. Aemon gently sifted her into another set of arms.

As she looked up, she saw her mother’s looking grey at her. She had been in a similar position to her own. She had been a Stark before she was a Targaryen, and had come south alone when she married their father. By all accounts, she had carried it with the quiet dignity of the North. Her grey eyes softened now as she brushed tears from her daughter’s cheeks.

“You are a Stark as much as a Targaryen. I know you will hold yourself well in our absence. Also, I sent, Wind down as soon as we arrive back in Winterfell, as well as the rest of your things,” she murmured. Visenya’s heart swelled a little to be reunited with Wind, the horse she raised as it grew from a filly.

Visenya blinked up at her, fighting the ache in her throat. “Promise? You sent Wind.”

“I swear it, my little pup. I’m proud of you.” Lyanna bent and kissed her brow, holding her a moment longer before easing her back.

Then Arya came.

At six, she was all wild dark stark hair with grey eyes, her small hands sticky from the sweet she had clutched earlier. She tugged fiercely at Visenya’s sleeve. “I’ll write to you,” she declared, her voice solemn with the weight of her promise. “About all I do, and what I learn about swordplay. You do too okay?”

Visenya laughed through her tears, the sound wobbling in her chest. She hugged her little sister close, breathing in the scent of milk and lavender, and kissed her cheek. “I shall, little sister, I will miss you.”

Arya smiled and wriggled free, scampering back to Lyanna’s side.

Rickon Stark was last. “I’ll keep them safe, Winterfell will not be the same without you,” he said, with a small smile.

Visenya nodded fiercely, her lips pressed tight. “I know. I’ll miss you too, Rickon.” At that, they embraced, holding each other tightly. “I’ll miss you, Vis,” Rickon whispered into her ear before stepping back.

Visenya watched as Aemon turned to Viserys. The brothers embraced, speaking a few quiet words that only they could hear before parting. Then Aemon stepped to Queen Aemma, who drew him briefly into her arms, pressing a kiss to his cheek. With that, he climbed onto Balerion’s back, the Black Dread shifting restlessly beneath him.

“Gods keep you,” Viserys called, his voice carrying through the cavern. But beneath the weight of command was something softer, almost pleading. “Fly swift and safe.” He stated as everyone had mounted Balerion.

Lyanna inclined her head, while Aemon returned the nod, pride burning behind his eyes. Arya waved furiously from her mother’s lap, her little hand flashing in the firelight.

Harrold Westerling swung into place behind the group, steadfast and silent. Clement Crabb followed, as did Ser Jeffery, and later Rickon’s personal guard.

As they all had chained themselves. Balerion spread his wings. Shadows drowned the torches. His roar erupted, a sound so deep it seemed to split the very bones of the world. Balerion took a few steps, and The Black Dread launched. The impact of his talons cracked stone, the gale of his wings scattered sparks and sand. The ground shook, dust raining from the dome above. Grey Ghost answered with a keening shriek, pale wings spreading as he leapt to follow.

“Goodbye!” Visenya cried, her voice breaking but proud.

Viserys raised his hand once more, though the dragons were already swallowed by the morning sun.

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Chapter Text

Chapter 32: Change in the air

Laenor Velaryon (103 A.C., Twelfth moon)

Skies above the North.

He had thought the autumn winds in the Narrow Sea were cold, but no. This was true cold, the kind that came only with Winter in the North. In the South, winter was harsh by all accounts, especially when it was a long one. Yet this freeze he felt now, flying beside his mother on dragonback, was something else entirely. The cold winds struck him as he looked out over the snow-covered landscape.

He hoped this winter would be a short one, for if it lasted long, he might spend his entire wardship in its grip. His father had warned him of this, saying, “The North is a cold son. I have made many voyages, but once I took a ship to see if one could travel by sea to the far west, in the North. It was the hardest of journeys, the cold, the great pieces of ice that floated through the seas, and the endless freeze once you pass the Wall. Beyond, the cold never ends. The farther you go, the colder it becomes, and so too does the darkness. Where you are going, the men are hard, for a hard life breeds hard men. If this winter is cruel, the old ones will walk into the snow for one final hunt. Be brave, be strong, and be true to our house words. The Strong, the Brave, and the True.”

“The Strong, the Brave, and the True,” Laenor repeated, though his teeth chattered in the Northern wind.

The trip to Winterfell had taken them eight days. His mother had made the journey once before with her father, during a royal progress north. Yet that was in the time of a different King and a different Lord of Winterfell. He had already met the current Lord, Benjen Stark, a gruff and broad-built man who spoke directly and meant every word.

His mother held a fondness for the North, for they had voted for her during the Great Council. Part of it, Laenor knew, was because Aemon was betrothed to Laena. Someday, Aemon would become King-Consort, and Stark blood would sit upon the Iron Throne. Yet another reason was that many in the North had been displeased with the granting of the New Gift to Watch, which stripped lands from many lords. Those lands, it was said, were already being vacated as the Watch declined. Though not spoken of openly, the revocation of the right of the First Night had also left many Northern lords grumbling.

So some had chosen to stand with his mother against Jaehaerys. Laenor also knew that the North viewed women leading men differently. The Mormonts were the prime example, having no shortage of female warriors or ladies ruling in their own right. Aemon had even told him he had two of them in his employ at Seadragon Point, serving in his own guard.

Still, the journey north was long and hard. When they stayed at Moat Cailin, he had thought they were almost there, but they were not. With everything white, much of the King’s Road disappeared beneath the snow, and they had drifted west. They ended up at Barrowton, hosted generously by Lord Rodrik Dustin, who later sent them on their way with fresh directions. From there, they arrived at Castle Cerwyn as the sun was sinking in the west. The Cerwyns proved as generous as the Dustins, giving them shelter for the night.

Now at last, he knew they were close. Yet the gods toyed with them this day, for the winds rose and a storm of snow swept down on the land. They flew low, keeping to the King’s Road, which was barely visible beneath the drifts.

Then, at last, he saw it: Winterfell. The twenty-four-meter-high outer granite walls loomed gray against the white landscape, just as he had read about and seen in drawings. Behind them rose the taller inner walls, thirty meters high. In front of Winterfell sprawled the Winter Town, its roofs heavy with snow, smoke curling from chimneys into the sky. Beyond the walls, he glimpsed the First Keep’s tall crown, and more towers, one every fifty meters. The front gatehouse alone was as large as some keeps in the South.

He wondered how it would feel when he saw the godswood and the hot pools Aemon had spoken of. At that moment came a cry, as a small pale-grey dragon slightly larger than Seasmoke darted out of the sky, and darted past them toward Winterfell. Grey Ghost, Arya’s dragon, Laenor thought with a grin. He remembered his cousin, still young but quick of mind, and full of mischief.

Melelys and Seasmoke echoed the dragon’s cry and carried him to the courtyard of Winterfell. He watched as the courtyard was larger than any he had been in before. Even then, at the Red Keep, what surprised him yet was that, as he landed, he already saw a crowd gathering.

As they descended into the courtyard, Laenor saw Princess Lyanna waiting with Arya at her side. To their left stood the Lord of Winterfell, with his son Rickon beside him.

Laenor slid down from his dragon’s back, followed by his mother. Together, they crossed the yard toward Benjen Stark, who offered Rhaenys a respectful bow.
“Princess Rhaenys, Lord Laenor, welcome to Winterfell. I fear winter has given you a harsher greeting than I would have wished. I trust the journey was not too cruel?” he said.

“Thank you, my Lord. The road was hard, yet we saw much of your land along the way. It feels different now than when I last came with my father, back when your own still ruled these halls,” Rhaenys replied.

Benjen’s mouth curved into a sad smile. “Yes, I remember when the Blood Wyrm landed in this very courtyard. I thought him immense then, until I saw my nephews’ dragons. May the gods be thanked, I need never face such beasts in battle. Some still claim Torhen erred in bending the knee, but when I beheld Balerion above Harrenhal, I knew the truth.” His voice carried the weight of iron.

“I know. I felt the same before I first mounted my Red Queen. Dragons are a power that has truly no rival in the world.” Rhaenys said fondly, as Meleys gave an echoing roar that rolled across the yard.

“Maybe Winter your grace, as doubt even a dragon can survive one if it lasts a century, as they say the long night did,” Benjen stated. “Perhaps that is so.” His mother replied, smiling.

Laenor drew a steady breath and stepped forward. “My lord, I thank you for your welcome and for the chance to serve as your ward.”

“There is no need for thanks, Lord Laenor. My kin have spoken warmly of you and yours. I trust your time here will prove worthwhile, and that the bond between our houses will be strengthened.” Benjen smiled as he clapped Laenor firmly on the back.

As they parted, Laenor saw his mother embracing Lyanna and Arya, while Rickon stepped forward to greet him. Pulling Laenor into a rough hug, he said, “It is good to see you again, Laenor. How have Visenya and the others fared since our parting?”

“It was difficult at first,” Laenor admitted, returning the embrace. “But Visenya’s spirits rose once her horse arrived. Still… she misses you all.”

“As do I. I miss my cousin. It has been quieter without her,” Rickon said.

“Laenor!” a small voice cried out as something collided with his waist.

“Arya,” he laughed, bending slightly as she clung to him. He loved that little fireball, so quick to leap from place to place. In her restless energy, he often saw a reflection of himself, for he too had never been able to sit still. Around them, the gathered crowd chuckled at her enthusiasm.

“Arya,” Lyanna chided gently, though not without fondness. “Perhaps next time, approach with a touch more grace. You are a princess.”

Arya’s face fell for a heartbeat before she gave a solemn nod. “Yes, Mother.”

Benjen’s voice carried across the courtyard. “Come, the cold grows no kinder. The fires are lit, food shall be served, and I shall order a feast tonight to honor your arrival.”

Laenor and his mother both turned their gaze briefly toward the dragons. “The dragonkeepers will see to the unsaddling and unpacking of your luggage, and no doubt they will soon find Grey Ghost lairing in the Wolfswood,” Benjen stated.

“As you say, my Lord. I would also wish to meet the Lady of Winterfell. I have heard wonderful things about her from Lyanna,” Rhaenys replied.

Benjen’s expression warmed. “She is inside with Bennard, my mother, and my daughter. A raven was sent south with the news, but it seems the winds carried it astray.”

“Truly? Then my congratulations, my Lord, I hope she gives you much happiness.” Rhaenys said.

“Thank you. Lyarra is a beauty,” Benjen answered fondly.

They walked on, passing beneath Winterfell’s looming gates. As they crossed into the keep, Rickon and Arya pressed close to Laenor, their voices tumbling over one another with questions about King’s Landing, about Visenya, and about their cousins. Their eagerness made the distance between their homes feel smaller.

It wasn’t long before they reached the Great Hall. The Winter Throne stood at its far end, carved from ancient stone, dark and solemn. The walls were hung with heavy tapestries and great pelts of wolf, bear, and beasts Laenor did not recognize. His gaze lingered on one in particular, a massive, white, painted pelt, rough yet still tough-looking, with the grey direwolf of House Stark painted upon it. It hung directly behind the Winter Throne, a stark guardian watching over the hall.

Seeing his stare, Rickon’s eyes swelled with pride. “A mammoth fur. My grandfather, Rickard, hunted it beyond the Wall once. He carried it with him everywhere until he returned home. Then he had it dyed, and our cousin Edric hung it here, behind the throne.”

Laenor’s brows lifted. “He hunted a mammoth beyond the Wall? My father once told me he saw a herd on his voyage north, though he was never able to bring a pelt down south.”

“Mayhaps in the future your father will receive one,” Rickon replied with a grin.

Laenor gave him an odd look, half amused, half wondering if Rickon was serious, but said no more as they walked on. Soon they were seated, and steaming pots of stew were set before them, along with bread and salt. Guest right was sacred in the North, and the offering was made with solemn care.

“Princess Rhaenys, Lord Laenor,” Benjen said proudly, gesturing to the bowls, “please enjoy. This stew is made from an elk taken in the hunt last week. The cooks added other ingredients as well, though I confess I cannot recall them all. Still, it is most savory.”

He urged them to taste it. Laenor took a spoonful, the warmth chasing away the chill that had clung to him since they landed. At that first mouthful, rich and hearty, he knew he would enjoy his time here in the North.

Aemon Targaryen (104 A.C. First Moon)
Solar of Seadragon Point

He was grateful that the pipes had been installed before the winter. Now, with the pumps pumping heated water through the stones, the castle was warm. As well as part of it. Sadly, only two buildings in the town had been ready in time to receive the heat as well. This winter reminded him of the last three years of his former life, when even the North had broken beneath the wars that followed Robert’s death.

He looked out the window as the cold sea crashed against the rocky shore. Smoke curled from the chimneys of the town below, while his men trained in the biting wind, in the oathmen’s barracks as well as those of the oathguards. These were his own forces, sworn and paid, professional soldiers meant for two things: war and maintaining order. He had the wealth to keep them, and when the world came to know what he was building, the gold would flow.

Yet for now, the city still grew. Even in these bitter moons of winter, new settlers arrived by sea and land, eager to trade in the port or work the soil.

“Winter I thought knew in King’s Landing, and again in Oldtown. I thought I knew cold, but these Northern winters make the ones in the south look like child’s play,” Vaegon said.

“I agree, uncle. The chill of King’s Landing is but a breeze compared to this,” Aemon replied, his gaze falling to the rising foundations of his Citadel. “Tell me then, what do you think of my plan?”

“It shall rouse the ire of many,” Vaegon admitted. “The Citadel has long claimed dominion over knowledge. I learned much there, and when I rose to Archmaester, I was treated with courtesy enough, yet I always felt there were doors barred to me. The higher mysteries in particular, those they scorn, for they fear what they cannot master nor understand.”

“I thought much on that as well,” Aemon said. “I remember when I pressed my lessons in King’s Landing. Mellos and Ruciter would wave me off, saying only that magic was once a part of the world, that dragons were creatures of fire, and that the lands we knew had passed from the earth.

But Maester Dussard told me other things. That we are no different than common men or the lords of Westeros. That dragons are abominations of Valyria, as are we,” he spat. “That Daenys did not dream of the Doom, but that our house fled when our power waned in the Freehold. They say of the North, too. Yet here I stand in the Drumtower, raised by my will, my blood, and dragonflame.”

“Indeed. At times, I forget how young you are, not yet twelve, though near it. What you have in mind with this new Citadel will shape the world to come. Whether for good or for ill, time will tell,” Vaegon replied.

“Well, I have thought the same. Yet even without the gifts I hold, this western port would be of great worth. Already, it brings food and trade, and if we strengthen our fleet in time, this harbor will stand as a bulwark against the Ironborn. It was folly our forebears did not scour them out, or at least break their strength. Even now, their reavers raid our shores and harry our ships.” Aemon’s voice had hardened.

“True. Even without the Valyrian craft, you would hold a powerful position,” Vaegon said.

Aemon studied his uncle. At forty namedays, Vaegon looked older than his years. His build was scrawny, his hair more white than silver, and his eyes a pale purple.

“Uncle, I will need a master for this new citadel, a head to govern its order.”

Vaegon narrowed his eyes. “I could take the charge, Aemon. Yet I would be no more than a headless fowl following your lead. Still, my loyalty would never waver.”

Aemon smiled. “I ask for no less. Without pushback, there is no growth. If you only ever hear what you would hear, you learn nothing.”

“From what I understand, this new Citadel will be similar in its structure and setup. People can join to learn and become part of this new order. Yet there will be someone at the top, strictly loyal to our house, and not afraid to explore things that we do not truly understand,” Vaegon said.

“Indeed. But its vows will not be the same. I would have women admitted, and its members free to wed if they wish. Too many bright bloodlines have withered because their gifts were never given leave to flourish.”

At that, Vaegon’s eyes widened.

“To marry, and to allow women to join it?” Vaegon asked.

“Indeed. Tell me, uncle, was your mother not learned, well-versed in politics, and a dragonrider like your father? Or Visenya and Rhaenys, for example? I do not judge someone by what lies between their legs. My own mother was as capable a rider as I am, and she is proficient with a blade. So tell me, why should women not be allowed to join?” Aemon asked.

“It is against the norm… but then again, what you plan to do with this Citadel is against the norm as well. Yet marriage? The idea of the maesters has always been that they serve only the castle they are sent to, not their family,” Vaegon noted.

“That may be, yet here you are, serving our family, not this place, nor the Citadel itself. Blood, on many occasions, wins out over duty.”

The words caught in his throat. He had seen the coin spin both ways. He had died for Sansa once, when he learned she was to be wed and held by Ramsey, and he would have protected her with his life. Blood had won out then. But with Daenerys… with Dany, it had been the opposite. Then duty had risen above blood, and he had slain her with his own hand.

At his reasoning, Vaegon sighed.

“Also, uncle, tell me honestly: do we know as much of a woman’s body as they do themselves? Across the realm, it is midwives who deliver babes, and herb-women, not maesters. I believe more knowledge could be uncovered there. The Citadel seeks to destroy magic rather than study it, for true study would mean surrendering control. But if I invite women into this new Citadel, it will grant me more power instead, as well as loyalty.”

“Very well. I hope you are right. I can see some of your reasoning,” Vaegon admitted. “What else do you plan for its future?”

“Well, I wish for a guard to watch over the Citadel, around two hundred strong. It will be a place of knowledge, but also a place for our house to command and to keep secure. Another matter we must slowly seek to draw other maesters into our orbit. I know the current maester of Winterfell is loyal, and so too is Dragonstone’s maester, Gerardys, a young man. In many cases, those who study the higher mysteries are more inclined to follow our lead, or those raised in the North. Look at Dussard, he did not take much convincing,” Aemon said.

“I understand. I still have contacts at court and at the Citadel who might be like-minded. But I would need to travel, meet them, and speak with them,” Vaegon replied. “There is something I wish to add. You plant hereb mayhaps, if it proves a success, we could raise another upon the western shore. It would be wise to reach across the sea. In Westeros, we forget that across the waters, there are learned men too. A different insight might be of use.”

“I agree. Just look at the glassblowers. They are masters of their craft, and though they are still learning the language, they have already settled among our people.” Aemon grinned. His uncle seemed brighter now, as more of the plan came into the open.

“Then there are the names. They shall not keep the title of maester; it would be too confusing. Of course, those we recruit from the Citadel must keep their title to preserve appearances. But for our own order, they will be known as scribtors. At the summit will stand the Master of the Citadel, the Master-Scribtor.”

Vaegon chuckled when he heard the name. “That could work. The Citadel already does much work in script and copying.”

“Tell me, Vaegon, how does the Citadel truly work? I know some. That one enters as a novice and may rise to acolyte, then to maester or Archmaester. But the steps between remain unclear to me.” Aemon asked. Sam had told him some, but had returned north early, as the Citadel didn’t take the threat of the Others seriously.

“You begin as a novice, little more than a servant, set to clean and assist the maesters in their work. After that, you are raised to acolyte and begin training in the fifteen subjects, each marked by a different metal. Few gain a full chain; it is nearly impossible, as each link represents mastery of a discipline. I myself forged ten of fifteen. Many novices also serve as scribes at first, copying works. It is both practice and study, for by copying, you learn the subject matter,” Vaegon explained.

“That does sound extensive,” Aemon noted, before Vaegon continued.

“There is more, and some of it was barred to me, as I told you before. The vows, for one, always troubled me. When an acolyte completes his chain, he must spend a vigil in a vault with only a black glass candle for light. If he cannot light it, he spends the night in darkness. Then, when he takes his vows and dons his chain, he casts aside his House name. He swears to hold no lands or lordships, and to remain celibate,” Vaegon ended.

Aemon chuckled. “Celibate, you say? Mmm. I doubt that holds true. The Night’s Watch swears the same, yet it is well known many of their brothers visit the whores of Mole’s Town.”

“I have heard as much. Some vows are wise to keep, others less so. But I think it would be wise to create two paths. One for teachers and advisors, as the maesters serve now. The other to mirror the Archmaesters, men who specialize in certain masteries. It will help to gain knowledge as vast as men specialists and will have extra inside,” Vaegon suggested.

“I see the benefit in that.” Aemon nodded before adding. “As for novice duties, I think we can hire staff for the menial work. Too many good recruits might turn away if forced to mop floors and carry slop. Tell me, uncle, were you made to do such work?” Aemon asked, with a grin. Enjoying the image of Vaegon mopping floors and carrying shit.

“No, I was a prince. Yet I was still given other labors,” Vaegon replied. “The privileges of being a royal,” Aemon noted.

“So then, what shall be done with those who fail? Those who cannot master the studies? Shall they return home as scribes? They may, or they may be sent away. But this Citadel will be ours to shape. Especially if you begin to teach them things you yourself have learned,” Vaegon noted.

“Well, if they fail, they can become Watchers of the Truth or join the ranks of the Oathmen. As for the women, they may marry within the Citadel or wed men of the Oath ranks. I suppose in time we can also enlist them in other jobs.” Aemon said firmly.

“Watchers of the Truth?” Vaegon asked with a frown.

“The name for the guard,” Aemon explained. “I thought it fitting. We want the world to know magic is real, not myth. It is part of our truth, not a lie. Magic is of this world, even if septons and maesters deny its existence.”

That made his uncle chuckle. “A fair point.”

“There is also another branch I wish to begin. One that includes warging, and may in time be expanded into a spy network, or scouts for our armies,” Aemon went on.

“A shrewd move indeed. I have seen its worth already. Without it, we would never have learned the truth of Dussard,” Vaegon admitted.

“As for the wargs themselves, they are rare. I know I am one, as is my sister Arya. I do not know if my mother or Visenya shares the gift. It is why I invited Larys Strong here, the boy has the sight, and if I can train it, it will prove useful. I plan to make him part of that network, and in time, as well as Arya. She has a keen sense for mischief and for slipping where she should not be. Still, I mean to keep this hidden as long as I may. I have no doubt the South would call me and mine abominations if it were known.” He explained.

“Well, I do not disagree. It will take time to set all this in order, but the more I hear, the better I feel. For far too long the Citadel has hoarded the knowledge of Westeros. It is time we changed that,” Vaegon said, lifting his wine cup and toasting him.

“On that, we are agreed, uncle. Now come, let us refine these plans,” Aemon replied with a grin.

As their cups touched, he felt the watered-down wine run down his throat.

Outside, the sea crashed hard against the rocks, and winter winds battered the walls of Seadragon Point.

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Chapter Text

Chapter 33: Arrival of Family

Lyanna Targaryen Stark (105 A.C. First Moon)

Seadragon Point

She rode beside her daughter, with Laenor on her other side as they entered the outskirts of Seadragon Point. Behind them followed her good-sister, her nephew, and her mother.

Lyanna had already noticed the changes when they first rode into her son’s lands. Even in winter, there was activity, lumber camps and stonemasons at work, and a number of holdfasts showing signs of life. Another odd thing was the roads: some were cleared of snow entirely, while others bore strange scorch marks. She mused that her son had likely used Balerion to melt the snows away. A single blast from the Black Dread was likely enough to keep them free of frost. Until snows would fall again.

Then, as they passed through another tree line, Seadragon Point came into sight. Her mouth fell slightly open as she beheld the dark fortress upon the hill, Seadragon Holt, as her son had named it. She had seen the drawings he sketched and the stone projects of Viserys, yet seeing the fortress with her own eyes was breathtaking.

It looked like a mixture of Winterfell and Dragonstone: high-peaked roofs, a great drum tower in the center, and black walls that loomed with an imposing strength. Before the fortress stretched what Aemon called “the old city,” already surrounded by a similar black wall, smoke curling from houses that reminded her both of Winterfell and White Harbor. She had known winters in King’s Landing, but those were mild by comparison. There, the roofs were never buried under such thick piles of snow.

Closer to where they rode, she saw a dire moat and a small palisade enclosing the new city.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Arya laughed, her grey eyes bright with excitement.
Lyanna smiled. “Indeed, it is.”

At that moment, Seasmoke and Grey Ghost soared overhead, crying out in delight. The dragons, too, seemed to find the place inviting. Then came an answering roar. From behind the fort, Balerion appeared, his bulk so vast that he seemed nearly a fifth the size of the fortress itself. The Black Dread joined the smaller dragons in the sky, a joyful display, yet beside him, Seasmoke and Grey Ghost looked like playful pups.

“I know my family will be pleased when they see this, a worthy home for my sister,” Laenor said, grinning. His clear blue eyes, a Baratheon trait from his mother, even if she had the purple of her father himself, contrasted with the silver curls he shared with his father and sister.

When she turned her gaze to the sea, Lyanna spied a Velaryon ship sailing southward, the proud seahorse displayed upon its sails. “Well, look there, Laenor.” She pointed.

“Indeed,” he replied. “Likely for the coal or gemstones. I saw some in Winterfell, in your father’s solar, Rickon. He told me that he and my father had bought a lot from them, especially the gemstones. Though the coal is more precious now, with the winter here.”

Lyanna smiled. Her nephew and Rickon had forged a strong friendship, and her brother seemed to enjoy teaching the boy. Laenor was an energetic child, always busy with swordplay, studies, or mischief with Rickon and Arya.

“Indeed, my sword even has one of the stones in the pommel,” Rickon said proudly. Lyanna glanced back and saw her nephew pat his blade. It had been her brother’s nameday gift for Rickon’s two and ten nameday, and the boy carried it everywhere, proud as any young wolf. She had no doubt her son would one day gift him a Valyrian steel blade worthy of an heir to Winterfell.

Though she had yet to see them with her own eyes, Aemon had written of the weapons and armor he had forged. He had rediscovered, truly, the Valyrian art of stonesinging. Whether Corlys or her stepson knew of it, she could not say, though Viserys certainly did.

Her thoughts broke when the small palisade door opened. Riders in strange armor rode forth, bearing four banners: the Velaryon seahorse, the Stark direwolf, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, and a fourth she had never seen before. At its center was a laughing weirwood, its heart making hers ache with recognition. To the right was a black dragon with golden eyes on a field of white; to the left, a white direwolf with red eyes on a field of black. The banner’s rim was traced in gold.

Soon enough, the riders reached them. Each wore lamellar armor over mail and a padded gambeson, with thick furs draped across their shoulders. Some helms were spangenhelms of the old North, others barbutes with hinged faceplates, not unlike those of the Kingsguard. As they came closer, she noted the etchings upon their steel: runes and glyphs, dragons and wolves twined together. Their legs were sheathed in plate, their boots capped with steel, and chains of mail guarded the joints.

“Princess Lyanna, Princess Arya, Lord Laenor, Lord Rickon, and your company,” one of the riders declared. “I am Walton Snow, Oathguard to Prince Aemon. In his name, I welcome you to Seadragon Point. We are commanded to escort you to Seadragon Holt.”

Oathguard. Her son had written of forming an army, and it seemed “Oathguard” was a rank within it.

“What of the dragons?” Arya asked.

Walton smiled. “The Prince’s dragon will see them guided where they must go.”

“If you say so, ser,” she replied.

“I am no ser, Princess. I am one of five hundred Oathguards sworn to the Prince. If you must address me, call me Serjeant.” Walton struck his fist to his chest, and the other riders, not bearing banners, did the same, a gesture of loyalty.

“If you say so, Serjeant Walton.” Lyanna offered a small smile.

“Then please, follow us. The Prince awaits you in the courtyard.”

She rode beside Walton, curiosity pressing her to ask about the Oathguard.

“It is the second rank,” he explained. “We command groups of fifty men in battle. Those under us are either levies, drawn from the lands, or Oathmen, sworn to the Prince, and pay for their service as are all the men under the Prince his command. The Prince has the levies come in to drill every three moons, although those would be delayed if harvest season were upon them. During this winter, the drills are every six months. He has also distributed spears and bows to the levies and commanded them to practice with them daily, if possible. He means every man to have some skill.”

They passed through the palisade and onto the road leading to the city’s gatehouse. A river ran beside the black walls. Walton gestured toward the stonework. “Fused stone roads, like those in Essos. The Prince built three main roads thus. A few houses had to be cleared, which caused complaints, but now the people are glad of it.”

“The more I see, the more amazed I become,” Lyanna said.

“You are not the first. Merchants, lords, and travelers say the same, Princess,” Walton answered with pride.

They reached the gatehouse, a formidable structure of double gates. Any lesser lord would have been content with such for a seat. The fused stone matched the castle walls, which were carved with gargoyles in the shapes of direwolves and dragons.

Inside the streets, more guards flanked them, cloaks striped in red, black, and white. Some bore mail, others gambesons, with nasal or kettle helms. They kept the people pressed aside as the party rode up.

The streets bustled with life. Lyanna noticed something else: a warmth, as though the very stones gave off heat.

“The city grows each moon,” Walton said. “Some are invited north and given tools and homes, which they pay off with craft and labor. Others come from the South seeking work and bread. The old city is not yet filled; much of the northwest remains uninhabited, though houses rise there as we speak.”

“I saw the same in Winterfell,” Lyanna replied. “Fewer stop at Wintertown now, and more press on to Seadragon Point. And with the winter, food wagons arrive from the west instead of the east.”

At the town center, she saw market stalls, and beyond them the outline of a weirwood.

“The old keep and its godswood,” she noted.

“Indeed, Princess. The keep now serves as barracks for the Oathmen, with a training yard beside it—one of three in the city. As for the godswood, many pray there, though a small sept has been raised nearby for those who follow the Seven. Yet most, even Southerners, turn to the Old Gods. Within Seadragon Holt itself, the Prince has raised a temple to the Fourteen Flames of Valyria, and there too stands a godswood.”

Lyanna nodded, her gaze catching on two statues in the square, one of a direwolf, the other of a dragon breathing flame.

“It is truly marvelous. In so short a time, Seadragon Point has become prosperous. Tell me, how many souls live here now? The last I heard was twenty thousand.”

“Closer to thirty thousand, Princess, thirty-five, if you count those outside the walls.”

“A large number indeed. And how many swords does my son command?”

“I cannot say, Princess, not even to his mother. That is a matter of Seadragon Point’s security, and only the Prince may speak of it.”

She heard the conviction in his voice and smiled faintly. “I understand, and I appreciate the loyalty you show my son.”

The ride took another few minutes. As they neared Seadragon Holt, its towering bulk grew ever more imposing. To her left rose another structure, half-finished, perhaps the institution her son had spoken of, one to rival the maesters. She longed to ask Walton, but doubted he would answer.

The gatehouse loomed ahead, which let to a causeway that let up the hill. Towers shaped like dragons and wolves rose above the walls. Her heart swelled with pride. Her boy had done this, not alone, but his hand and vision had shaped it all.

“I knew Aemon would do something special with what he knew, but this place, I hadn’t thought this was possible,” Arya said, eyes wide with wonder.

“Indeed,” Lyanna replied softly. “It will be the pride of both the Starks and the Targaryens.”

Then they rode into the gatekeep of Seadragon Holt, even more imposing than she had imagined, and she understood what her son desired from this place, to reflect strength. Knowing her stepson, they would need it.

They passed beneath the arch and into the keep, where she noticed that the Oathguard were more numerous here than in the city itself. At last, the final gate opened, and they entered the outer courtyard of Seadragon Holt, where a welcome party waited.

She saw her son, almost three and a half, standing tall; his hair had finally grown back to what it was before it had burned in the fire. His white-and-black cloak flapped in the wind. He wore an expensive embroidered gambeson, bearing both a white dragon-wolf and the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. His grey eyes looked upon them with happiness.

Behind him stood his two loyal guardsmen, Ser Harrold and Ser Jeffery. Her eyes lit with delight when she recognized Ser Wylard Manderly, standing to her son’s right, a companion from her childhood and brother to the current Lord of White Harbor. She had been the one to recommend him as castellan. To Aemon’s left stood her good-brother, Vaegon, clad in his grey maester’s robes, his pale purple eyes filled with curiosity. Yet when she searched for a resemblance to her late husband, she found none. Vaegon and Baelon were like water and fire, so different that only their names and titles revealed their kinship. She also noticed the second son of the Lord of Harrenhal standing in the background, along with others she did not recall.

Stablehands came forward to take their mounts as she dismounted and walked to her son. He embraced her.
“Mother, I missed you.”

After the brief embrace, he stepped back, his bearing shifting into that of a lord.
“Mother, little sister, cousin, future good-brother, aunt, grandmother, and the rest of your party. I, Prince Aemon Targaryen, Lord of Seadragon Point and Prince of the Realm, welcome you to my domain,” Aemon proclaimed happily.

Arya rushed forward and embraced her brother. His deep chuckle rang out, and soon enough, everyone was welcomed in turn.

“Aemon, you’ve done wonderfully. Although I have read and heard your own words about what had been built, it doesn’t do the real thing justice,” she said after holding him once more.

“Indeed, Aemon. You are remarkable, what you have done here,” her mother added with a smile. Yet Lyanna saw the weariness in her mother’s eyes. Barbrey Dustin was still strong for her age, but riding through such weather on horseback had taken its toll.

“Thank you both,” Aemon replied with a grin. “Although it was not all me. Balerion gave me the power to do it. Vaegon, Edward, has been a great help with the organization, and Wylard began the process of settling this place with people when I was still but a boy.”

“Your uncle is proud of you as well. The plans for the port of Seadragon Point have increased trade in the North. He is petitioning the King to build a road from here to Winterfell. And if not, perhaps the North may build it themselves if the profits continue,” Lysa said.

“Very well, I hope so. I have built hardened roads in my domain, but I lack the time and resources to build such a road myself. It would greatly aid trade. I suspect House Glover would be more than open to it. But we shall speak more on this later. First, let me show you my keep. I trust Walton has been a good escort?” He smiled at Walton, who returned the smile.

“Indeed, he has, and told me much. But I suspect we all require a tour from you through the city,” she replied.

“I would not dream of denying you, Mother.”

She laughed and kissed his brow once more.

Aemon led them toward another imposing building ahead, surrounded by a small dry moat. It was also black, built in the same style of architecture, and when she first glimpsed it upon entering the land where Seadragon Point was built. She noted the great drum tower that reminded her of Storm’s End.

The drawbridge was already lowered, and more people waited within.
“This is where I mostly train,” Aemon explained, “though I often go down into the city to train with the Oathmen as well.” She noticed steam rising from the keep before them.

“Pipes, Mother. One of the things I brought from Winterfell. Hot water runs through them. Building walls with those in mind cost me much of my strength. I think I was in bed for four days.”

“You were out for that long?” she asked in surprise.

“Longer, he could not walk for two days more after that. Your son has a habit of being overzealous in his pursuits,” Vaegon said, shaking his head.

Aemon shot his uncle a look, then laughed it off. “I will be fine.”

She sighed. In this, he was both his fathers, Baelon, fierce in all he did; Rhaegar, who once set his mind to something and never yielded; and even Eddard, stubborn in his convictions, which had led to his doom.

Soon enough, her son showed her around the castle. It was truly magnificent, vast, and layered with lower levels for storage, and a tunnel that led to the dragon caves where the beasts nested. When they arrived at the great hall, she found it a near copy of Dragonstone’s, with great glass windows worked in dragon and wolf patterns. At its center was a throne, the seat of the Lord, or Prince, of the castle. Like Dragonstone’s, but here one side bore wolves, the other dragons. The duality echoed throughout the keep: Aemon was Targaryen, but he was also Stark.

After touring the inner parts of the keep, they came at last to the massive drum tower. Aemon halted and turned to them.
“I suspect you are all quite tired. I suggest we continue the tour on the morrow, and we travel into the city also.”

“I think that is wise, my boy. I loved seeing your home, but I must admit, my old bones are weary,” her mother said, patting Aemon’s shoulder.

“I thought so, Grandmother. Please, all of you, freshen up in your chambers. My castellan, Wylard, and my steward Edward will see you to them.” Aemon turned to the two men, and the two nodded.

“My lords, ladies, and Princess, it is an honor to have you here at last,” Edward Poole said with a bow. “I am steward to Prince Aemon, and I trust the accommodations will be acceptable.”

“As my friend says, I too hope your stay is most welcome,” Wylard added.

“Wylard, how long has it been? I haven’t seen you since the tourney at Harrenhal. You look well,” she said with delight.

“I have been well, Princess. Serving as castellan to your son has been a great honor. Seeing this place rise, with its harbor, reminds me of White Harbor,” Wylard replied with a smile as he kissed her hand.

“Please, tell me of the mischief my son has given you. He would never confess to me himself,” she said teasingly.

Aemon shook his head at her, laughing.

“Oh, I could not, in good conscience, betray my lord. I swore an oath,” Wylard said with a chuckle.

“Indeed, good ser,” Aemon echoed with a smile. “Wylard, Edward, I trust my guests will be well in your care. I leave them to you. Larys, let us see the animals. I see you all during our evening meal.” With that, Aemon departed, followed by Larys and Ser Harrold.

Soon enough, they were all given chambers, and she and Arya had been placed together. When they were alone, Arya looked contentedly out the window.

“I knew the gods had given him a gift to speak with Balerion and let him live. Yet none of this would have been possible without him.”

“Indeed,” Lyanna noted softly. “I sometimes forget that both of you are already adults, with lives lived, even if those lives were harsh.”

Arya smiled, walked over to her, and took her hands in hers. “It has been a change. I love you as an aunt, but also as a mother. As Aemon did, as he did with father, even if he was his uncle. I loved my mother, but you are my mother too.”

Lyanna sobbed a little and embraced the girl. Their bond had been built over time. She had loved Arya since the moment she stirred within her womb, since those first kicks beneath her ribs. Yet after the revelation, it had been a struggle, to act as mother while remembering that her little girl was in truth her brother’s daughter.

“I love you too, Arya,” Lyanna whispered. “I loved you from the moment you came into the world, and even before, when I knew you only as my niece. I will be whatever you want me to be. Just know that I love you.”

She pressed a kiss to Arya’s brow, then smiled through her tears. “Do you remember Winterfell, when we sparred in the yard three moons ago?”

Arya’s lips curved into a grin. “You kept knocking the blade from my hand. You reminded me of Syrio. I got so frustrated, I scooped up snow instead and hurled it at you.”

Lyanna laughed softly at the memory. “And I chased you across the yard, swearing vengeance, until you pelted me again. I remember thinking, you were exactly as I was when I was young.”

Arya’s eyes shone bright with remembrance. “I remember too. I thought then of what my father once told me in the Red Keep, that I looked like you, and acted like you. Knowing you now warms my heart with that memory. It was one of the few times he spoke of you. I wonder if he feared I might end up like you?”

Lyanna cupped her cheek, her voice thick. “That’s likely that he did. Yet in the end, you made your own way, but you are as stubborn as I once was. Yet it cost me, and I learned my lessons as you did. Mayhaps if I had andled things differently, I would have fared better. Instead of running off and leaving only a letter, I should have spoken with my father and brothers.”

“I know. I did the same,” Arya admitted. “After the battle against the Others, I ran off, wanting to complete my list. I left without thinking, left the pack. Jon, Aemon told me he wasn’t my brother, and I told him he always would be. Yet I still left. I doubt it helped. And my sister… she acted foolishly too, telling Tyrion a secret sworn she would never tell, and worse, it was a heartree. Perhaps if I had stopped her, Daenerys and Aemon could have ended the Night King.”

“That is the price we pay for rash actions,” Lyanna said quietly. “Sometimes we pay it ourselves, other times those we love suffer for it. When I was reborn, I knew I would see my son again, though I did not know how or when. Only that I would. So I waited, did my duty as a daughter of Winterfell, and then at another tourney at Harrenhal, my eyes fell upon Baelon Targaryen. Not long after, my little boy was born, and the great Black Dragon took to the skies once more.” She gave a soft, wistful laugh.

“What I know, Arya, is that we make mistakes. But if the gods are kind, we are given the chance to learn from them.”

“I know that too now,” Arya said. “I’ve learned I cannot always be the wild wolf. I can be, but not always. Especially not now, with who I am. Looking back, I never thought of it before I knew what before I had to flee King’s Landing, how good I had it as the daughter of a great house. Better than many others. My father gave me even more freedom than most lords would allow their daughters.”

“Indeed,” Lyanna said softly. “And so did my own. Thinking on it now, this Rickard perhaps even willing to give me freedom.”

Arya tilted her head, curious. “Do you miss them?”

Lyanna was silent for a long moment, her gaze drifting to the window where snowflakes still fell against the glass. “Every day,” she admitted at last. “They were both hard men, each in their own way, but they loved their children fiercely. They gave me freedoms many highborn girls would never know, let me ride, let me wield a blade, let me speak my mind. This Rickard even let me choose my match, perhaps because he had once been allowed it himself. My other father was more stern, and sadly, Maester Walys spoke too much of binding the North to the South through matches. Likely, he also whispered of bringing down the Targaryens, as the maesters and the Faith schemed back then, likely even now feigning loyalty to the crown.”

Arya smiled faintly. “That sounds much like Father. He never tried to make me into Sansa. He let me be me.”

Lyanna chuckled, a wistful sound. “Stubborn, headstrong wolves, we all are, even if not the same in manner or act.”

Arya’s eyes softened, and she leaned her head against Lyanna’s shoulder. “I’m glad. I think… I think Father would be glad too, if he could see us now.”

Lyanna kissed the top of her dark hair, her arms tightening around her. “Aye. I think they all would, even if not the outcome some of them would have wished for. But so far, the pack endures.”

At last, Lyanna drew back and cupped Arya’s cheek. “Whatever comes, Arya, remember this: you are loved by many, in this time and the last. No secret, no lie, no past mistake can change that.”

“I know. And so are you,” Arya whispered back.

At that, Lyanna embraced her once more, tighter than before, holding on not only to the girl but to the memory of all who had come before, her father, her brothers, her son.

Aemon Targaryen (105 A.C. First Moon)

Evening Meal

Aemon sat at the head of the table. On his right sat his mother, and to his left his little sister. Arya almost had the same look she’d worn when she left Winterfell with his uncle. Yet he noticed a difference, too. Arya looked more like his mother now, her features, perhaps a Targaryen trait, more defined and strikingly pretty.

After everyone had taken their seats, he rose and held up his glass.
“I welcome you all here to my hall and hearth. I hope you find it not only as guests, but also as family. Let our pack stand strong, our fires burn bright, and the winds carry us home.” He spoke with a smile.

“Well done, Aemon,” his mother said, giving him a kiss on the cheek. After he had sat down, Laenor rose.

“I’m grateful to be here, cousin. This place,” Laenor spread his arms wide, “has become something the world thought lost with the Doom. I’m looking forward to these six moons, to spend time with you, my future goodbrother, and to see all this place has to offer.” The ten-year-old ended with a smile. Aemon returned it. Laenor was trying, and for ten he did quite well.

“I hope so too, cousin. Our time together at Winterfell was sadly short. Let’s make the most of what is to come.” He replied, smiling.

“Tell me something, Aunt, how is my youngest niece and little Bennard? Is he still growing like wheat?”

At that, his aunt smiled. “It was hard leaving my little ones. Bennard wanted to come, but Benjen wanted him to stay, so he could take him under his wing for a time. As for Lyarra, she just turned one, and she has been a joy for sure, already crawling and trying to walk.”

“I hope to see them soon again. The last time was after we returned from King’s Landing. As for Bennard, perhaps when he turns ten, I could take him under my wing as a ward. By then, I will be five-and-ten. It will also be close to my marriage to Laena, and I will likely be traveling between here and the South often. It would allow him to see the South and the wider world as well.”

He voiced the thought, though it might change Bennard’s original path of wanting to usurp, or at least hold onto, power past Cregan’s adulthood, if he were even born. In the songs, they did not speak of Lyarra, so mayhaps no Cregan or Sara Snow either.

“I shall place the thought with Benjen. I think Bennard would be happy with the proposal,” Lysa noted.

As Aemon took a bite of sausage, he looked thoughtfully at his cousin, wondering if Benjen was teaching Rickon about food and the logistics of running the North.
“Rickon, with the port here at Seadragon Point, how are the food reserves?”

Rickon looked up, wide-eyed. “I know some of it. Due to the two ports, the cost of food imports appears lower, although the volume is higher. Father thinks it’s because White Harbor and Seadragon Point are splitting the burden. There are more options for transport, especially for those on the west coast, which was what both our grandfathers hoped for.”

He smiled at that. Rickon was a smart boy, if sometimes too eager to please, which caused him to act rashly. Yet his answer was well composed.

“Good, I hoped so. And, as Mother said earlier, I hope the proposal of a road from Winterfell to Seadragon Point goes through. It will ease the transport of goods even further.”

If everything went well once winter ended, he hoped to gain new lands, for wood, pelts, and other Northern goods. It was the project he wished to start: to have a base in the  Far North. But to support that, he wanted roads, so goods could more easily be exported into the wider North. Sadly, the shores around the Bay of Ice were dangerous and clogged with ice. The only small port he knew was New Deepport, a poor shadow of the harbor that had once stood before Brandon the Burner set Old Deepport aflame. Now it was used only as a ferry point for the folk of Bear Island to reach the mainland.

He had not yet told his mother of the plan, he would, in time, but for now it was only a thought for the future.

“Have your ships yet encountered Ironborn reavers?” Rickon asked.

“No. My ships, and those of the Velaryons, have yet to encounter attacks. But I have received reports and spoken with lords, merchants, and guilds whose ships have not returned. The numbers are small, but there has been an increase since winter began.”

Rickon nodded.

“I hope to start more patrols one day. Yet for now, I lack men and ships, even if the shipyards and imports are still ongoing.” Aemon then looked toward Laenor. “The help your father sent has been a blessing. Yet I plan to write messages to King’s Landing, Oldtown, the Arbor, Driftmark, and White Harbor, asking that if they have too many unemployed, they might be sent here.”

“I think my father would agree to that. Driftmark has its fair share of folk looking for work,” Laenor said.

“I hoped so. Even folk who tend the land are welcome. Many now working the fields are from Flea Bottom or from regions burdened with overpopulation. Most of that integration, though, I owe to Wylard and Edward.” He raised his cup to the two men.

“You honor us, Your Grace,” Wylard and Edward replied, smiling. He smiled back at them.

“I have been a loyal servant to the crown and North. The Prince has given me much, and I am glad to be part of building this place. I never expected it to become what it is now. I built the harbor, installed the shipyards, and saw to other small matters. But this hall in which we sit, that is the Prince’s doing.” Wylard’s voice held pride. He had been the backbone, with knowledge of the land, and his naval and trade experience proved invaluable. His skill at haggling, his keen sense of profit, had brought forth new ventures. It had been his idea to sell the gemstone-like stones unearthed during the excavation of Balerion’s lair.

“Thank you, Wylard,” Aemon said, smiling at the man.

The rest of the evening passed in warmth and easy talk. They reminisced on the past, exchanged tales of journeys and battles, of children born and loved ones lost. The hall rang with laughter more than once, even as the wind and snow howled against the walls.

Next morning the Valyrian Forge.

He had awoken early and prepared his presents for his sister and mother. Rickon’s and Laenor’s gifts, however, he would wait to give until the boys’ nameday came around. After setting the smithy in order, he returned, broke his fast with his family, and the invited his mother and Arya to join him.

“Here we are, the Valyrian Smithy, where I work most when I can,” he said, knocking on the door where two Watchers of the Truth stood guard.

“Who are those men, Aemon?” his mother asked.

“They are Watchers of the Truth, similar to the Kingsguard, but loyal to me and to what we do here. They guard this place so that no one can discover our secret. They will also serve as the future guardians of the new Citadel.” His tone was serious as they walked inside, where Maester Dussard greeted them.

“My Prince, welcome back. Princess Lyanna, Princess Arya, it is an honor to meet you at last. I am Maester Dussard,” the man said, bowing low as they entered.

Aemon had grown fond of Dussard after the man had gained his trust. The maester had become a valuable asset in helping to form the new Citadel, as well as recording his works. Yet he was surprised when his mother stepped forward, Arya beside her, both of them fixing the man with sharp, almost murderous stares.

“You have earned my son’s trust, so you shall have mine. But betray us, and you will wish you had never been born,” Lyanna said coldly. Dussard swallowed hard.

“Easy, Mother,” Aemon soothed. “Dussard has been loyal ever since he was tested. He is a man of knowledge and learning, the very thing the maesters of the Citadel should strive for. He is also a true Northerner and has sworn the same oaths as all the rest.” Aemon offered the man a reassuring smile. “Show them the mark.”

Dussard pulled back his sleeve to reveal a brand below his elbow, a dragon’s head with on the right old Norse runes and on the left side a Valyrian glyph. “I vowed to serve your son a long time ago, Princess,” he said, his voice steady and full of conviction. “Your son has been something this world and the maesters needed for some time. Bravery in the pursuit of knowledge. We have been discussing how to decrease the Citadel’s hold on the knowledge and ravenry of the realm. We have laid the foundations of the Citadel. Although the understanding of the Valyrian knowledge your son possesses, the city and the keep are our priorities,” Dussard said with a smile.

Lyanna studied him, then inclined her head. “My apologies. When it comes to my children, I am wolf before all else. Yet I saw conviction in your eyes, and eyes do not lie.” She smiled faintly. Arya, too, gave a nod, quietly employing her Faceless Men training to read him.

The tension eased. Dussard let out a breath and smiled. “I understand. I would protect him with my life if need be. But please, let me not keep you from seeing all this place has to offer.”

They walked deeper into the smithy, where two apprentices kept the fire lit and hammered away at steel.

“The building itself is marvelous. The design looks both Valyrian and Westerosi, a wondrous combination,” his mother observed, glancing up at the domed roof.

“I worked hard on it. It was one of my first designs, and it drained my strength, but it had to be strong, able to withstand Balerion’s constant flames.” He pointed to the great funnel above the forge. “It is part of how the steel is made.”

“Though this is where I work, your presents are kept elsewhere,” he said with a grin.

“Presents?” Arya asked, her smile widening. Her face reminded him of the day he had given her Needle, all those years ago.

“Indeed. Come, I’ll show you what I’ve been working on this winter.” He took Arya’s hand and led them toward the armory. Two more guards stood before an ironwood door, its surface decorated with bronze inlays of a dragon and a wolf. They nodded as Aemon unlocked it with one of the two keys. The other was locked in a vault in his room.

“Aemon, you didn’t say you already had all this,” Arya whispered in awe as they stepped inside.

The room was filled with his works: castle-forged steel swords, axes, warhammers, and armor. He had mastered common steel first, but he had also begun experimenting with jewelry, dragonglass, Balerion’s gemstones, and even Valyrian steel.

On one rack stood seven blades, meant for the Kingsguard. Ser Harrold’s sword hung among them, as did the great axe he had forged for Corlys. In his private chambers, he kept a chest containing his first seax and three identical daggers, meant for himself, Viserys, and Daemon. He had planned armor for himself, but since he was not yet fully grown, it would have wasted precious resources. Still, he had already forged twenty Valyrian ingots, awaiting them to be worked in weapons, and a final quenching before they would be true Valyrian steel.

“Yes, I have been busy. Winter has given me time. It has slowed much of the construction, but I can still raise buildings with will alone. The materials, though, must still be brought in. Otherwise, you would be entering a city with two walls by now.” He smiled proudly, moving to one of the pieces laid carefully on a stand.

Lifting it, he turned to his mother. “This was my fourth work. I modeled the blade after Dark Sister. Look closely at the guard and pommel, do you recognize them?”

She took the shortsword and marveled. “Amazing work, son. The blade glows red, and yes, I remember the wolf’s head pommel and the runes upon the guard. You made these in Winterfell.”

“Well, it is yours, Mother, if you would have it. It still needs a name. All the best swords have names.” He smirked.

Arya laughed and gave him a knowing look.

“Snowfyre,” Lyanna said, smiling as she embraced him. “I am wolf of winter, but also the bride of fire.” She kissed his brow, and his heart swelled with her love.

When the embrace ended, he turned to Arya. “And as I said, I have something for you as well.”

Arya’s eyes shone as he returned to the stand and picked up a second blade.

“I hope you like it.”

Arya eagerly took it. “Needle!” she squealed with joy. “Oh, it’s a little longer, but lighter. The pommel and guard are different, too.”

“Indeed. I shaped the guard like a dragon’s wings, with a wolf’s head for the pommel. You always loved the tales of Visenya when you were younger, and you are Stark, fierce wolf of the North.” He mussed her hair with a grin.

“Stop that!” Arya laughed. “But thank you, truly.” She embraced him, this time with care. He held her close, realizing how much the times had changed.

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